Snow City lives up to its name. Despite the autumn sun burning hot south of the Tropic of Cancer, the northern winds bite deep here, freezing the rivers solid. When snow falls in Snow City, it doesn't drift down gently - it crashes down like someone upended a giant bucket overhead, instantly turning the landscape white.
I grew up here, and I've always loved the sting of cold wind on my face. Every winter sport involving ice or snow? I've mastered them all.
But I'm not an athlete - I'm a cop. Name's Peng Zhaolin. Becoming a police officer was my father's idea. As a kid, I was a handful - climbing walls, scaling trees, blocking chimneys, throwing dung at my enemies' doors. If three days passed without someone complaining about me, my mother would think the world had turned upside down. When college application time came around, my father pushed me toward the police academy, saying it was either that or I'd end up running with the wrong crowd. After graduation, I started at the bottom - community patrols, economic crimes, criminal investigations. Now I'm a detective with Snow City Public Security's Criminal Investigation Division.
Recently, we wrapped up a case involving farmers from the southwestern mountains who'd come to Snow City. These guys would scale twenty-story buildings from the outside, moving from window to window like it was nothing, to break in and steal. Getting to the twentieth floor was as casual for them as walking through a front door. After the theft, they'd climb right back down. Took us thirty-six days of stakeouts to crack it. During questioning, they told us their village chief had trained them to climb, saying the mountains were too poor and he had no other skills to teach them to make money.
After thirty-six days without a shower or change of clothes, my joints felt like rust. The day after closing the case, I organized a hockey game. The whole Criminal Investigation team suited up in skates and gear, split into two sides. I led one team, Yang Bo the other. Six players each, and we went at it hard on the ice. This wasn't just a game - it was pure release, twelve voices shouting until our ears rang.
Our skates cut clean lines across the ice with that sweet, sharp sound. The puck zipped around, dancing between our sticks.
"Line up! Watch your lines!" I yelled myself hoarse.
Gu Jing passed to my stick, and I wound up to shoot. Yang Bo made this beautiful save, catching the puck clean. Damn him - on the ice, he's always been my nemesis.
The crowd went wild, pounding the railings. Competition filled the rink as I led my team in from the corner, keeping everyone in formation.
The puck found my feet again, and I snapped it through the defender's legs into the goal. The crowd erupted in whistles and cheers, some throwing their water bottles onto the ice.
Yang Bo charged over and slammed me into the railing. I yanked off my helmet. "Want to go?"
"Hell yeah!" Yang Bo didn't hesitate.
We tossed our helmets, sticks, and gloves onto the ice. The crowd ate it up, banging the railings in rhythm. Yang Bo and I traded playful blows while our goalies lounged by their posts, enjoying the show. We ended up tumbling over the railing before players and spectators pulled us apart.
I clapped Yang Bo's shoulder. "You're getting better, brother!"
"Two more punches and I'd have had you," Yang Bo fired back.
"Big talk! Better watch that mouth before the wind blows it away!"
After leaving the rink, I headed for the sauna to get my blood flowing and wash off thirty-six days of grime. In the steam room, the guys lounged naked and dripping, still arguing about the game.
Gu Jing was giving Lin Hui grief: "Your guys were swinging high sticks and throwing knees. No class."
"Like your team was any better," Lin Hui shot back. "All elbows and stick work - not a clean hand among you."
Yang Bo cut in, "In our division, the real game is the fighting - hockey's just the warm-up."
The guys roared in agreement.
I leaned back against the wooden wall, steam rolling off my face and down my chest, staring at nothing.
"What's on your mind?" Yang Bo nudged me.
"Mind's empty as a dried-out gourd. That's what sitting in the cold for a month does to you."
Yang Bo didn't say anything, just grabbed some water and threw it on the hot stones. The sizzle sent a wave of heat my way as the thermometer climbed to fifty-five Celsius. I bolted out of there, his laughter following me out.
I ran straight to the courtyard and jumped into the cold pool. The seven-degree water made my muscles seize up, then slowly relax as my blood started flowing again. I floated on my back, watching snowflakes fall on my face. "God, that feels good!" I shouted at the sky.
My wife Cheng Guo calls me a fireman. Says I've got wheels of fire under my feet and a furnace in my heart. "Light a match behind you and you'd shoot up like a rocket."
Cheng Guo looks delicate, tiny even, but when she's mad - watch out. We've known each other since kindergarten, went through school together. She never hung out with other girls, always trailing after the boys instead. When we'd get into fights with kids from the next courtyard, she'd stand off to the side, passing me bricks. That's one of the reasons I fell for her.
She says she first fell for my hands. Says they're better looking than my face - strong, with long fingers. Look soft but know what they're doing. Back when I'd take her skiing in winter, her hands would freeze up. I'd pull off my gloves to warm them, and those ice-cold fingers would slowly thaw in my palms. Later she told me my hands were hot as liquor, warming her whole body. That's pretty much how I ended up marrying her.
Cheng Guo studied accounting at trade school. After graduating, she opened a fabric shop with some classmates - they make sofa covers, curtains, bedspreads. Business is good. We had our son a year after getting married. Named him Peng Cheng, mixing our names. As soon as he could walk, I had him outdoors. Can't let kids grow up soft! He plays hockey, speed skates, soccer - good at all of it.
Being a cop means standing between good and evil, facing society's dark side. I work with informants, know the underworld bosses. But like my mother always said, "Never let poison touch your lips." So I keep business strictly business with them. Xinqiao's my territory, the other side of that wall.
Everyone here knows me - street vendors, stall owners, breakfast sellers. They all call me Xinqiao Er Ge (Second Brother Xinqiao). Not because I'm a second child - it's after Guan Yu from the Three Brothers story. Means loyal, righteous, trustworthy. I'm straightforward, like going down one path. Not everyone's cup of tea. But hey, I'm not trying to be everyone's favorite.
I solved a lot of cases as detective, won awards. Then the B Shui Garden dismemberment case happened. That's where it all went wrong.
September 1, 2002: The toilet in Building 5, Unit 1 of B Shui Garden backed up, dirty water bubbling over. Old Pei was plunging away, cursing his wife for dumping food down there. When he couldn't fix it, she called a plumber. Guy sticks this long power tool down the toilet, switches it on. It starts churning up chunks of ground meat. Toilet's still overflowing.
"See? Not leftovers - someone upstairs dumped ground meat," his wife said, standing taller.
Old Pei squatted for a closer look. "We've barely had good times, and already you're talking crazy. Who dumps good meat down a toilet?"
"Fifteen, twenty pounds at least," the plumber guessed. "Hey, is that hair?"
He stopped, poking through the meat with a stick. Some pink bits fell out. "What's this? Doesn't look like regular garbage."
Mrs. Pei's voice dropped to a whisper. "Those look like fingernails. With pink polish."
The plumber dropped his tools and grabbed his phone, calling the police. Patrol showed up fast. One look told them this was serious - they called Criminal Investigation right away.
Four people lived on the top floor of Building 5. Deng Ligang was the leader - tall guy, about 1.85 meters, thick eyebrows, big eyes, dark complexion, built solid. Shi Bi was average height, wavy hair, light skin. Song Hongyu was short with a waist-length ponytail. Ji Dashun was short and stocky, balding.
They were at a nearby restaurant, working through spicy lamb spine hotpot and cold beer. Ji Dashun, always the fast eater, wiped his mouth with a napkin. "I'm gonna get some gas. You guys take a taxi back."
Song Hongyu shot him a look. "Taxi? You're coming back for us."
"Gas is too expensive here. Gotta drive further out."
Deng Ligang waved him off. "Don't disappear on us."
Ji Dashun nodded and left.
Shi Bi kept drinking quietly while Deng Ligang finished his lamb spine, frowning as he wiped his hands.
"Let's go," he said.
"There's still plenty left," Song Hongyu said, stirring the bubbling pot. "What's the rush?"
"Can't relax till the job's done."
They walked to B Shui Garden's entrance and stopped dead. Police tape blocked Building 5, Unit 1. Squad cars everywhere.
A crowd had gathered, whispering about meat, hair, and nails. Deng Ligang stayed cool, taking it all in. Two patrol officers were there - one guarding the scene, another in his car making calls. Deng Ligang told Shi Bi and Song Hongyu to wait behind Building 5 while he slipped upstairs in the chaos, taking the steps two at a time.
I pulled into B Shui Garden with Yang Bo and Ge Shoujia. The patrol officer filled us in as we headed inside.
Upstairs, Deng Ligang burst into Room 501. He stuffed everything important from the wardrobe and drawers into a big travel bag, checked under the bedding, made sure the wardrobe was empty. He took the bag to the back balcony, opened the window, and dropped it. Shi Bi and Song Hongyu grabbed it and took off.
I checked the scene and told the team to bag any evidence from the drain for forensics.
Heading upstairs, I ran into Deng Ligang at the second-floor landing. His hands were in his pockets as he passed me. Something made me stop. "Hey, you live in this unit?"
"Who's asking?" He frowned, irritated.
I showed him my badge. His face softened. "Third floor," he said casually.
"Which room?"
"301." He stretched his neck to look downstairs. "What's all the commotion about?"
I studied his face. He stared right back, steady. It hit me that 301 and 102 didn't share a drain pipe, but I didn't answer him. I kept going up. He kept going down.
Shi Bi and Song Hongyu circled Building 5, their travel bag swinging between them. A patrol officer stepped out of his vehicle, raising his hand to stop them.
"Are you residents here?" the officer asked, eyeing them carefully.
"No, we're from Building 3, in the back," Shi Bi answered smoothly, his face betraying nothing.
The officer's gaze lingered on their bag. "Where are you headed?"
"Guangxi. Five-day tour group," Shi Bi said.
"We're already late," Song Hongyu cut in, impatience edging her voice. "The tour guide's waiting for us."
Shi Bi stretched his neck toward Building 5's entrance. "What's going on here?"
Just then, Deng Ligang burst from the hallway with Ge Shoujia, in full police uniform, close behind. Song Hongyu's pulse quickened as she exchanged a glance with Shi Bi. His hand slipped into his pocket, fingers closing around his Swiss Army knife.
"Officer, a moment!" Ge Shoujia called out, waving. "I need to ask you something."
As the patrol officer turned away, Shi Bi and Song Hongyu seized their chance. They strode away from Building 5, maintaining their composure until they reached the community exit. Deng Ligang followed, matching their pace step for step.
Ji Dashun had just returned from refueling when he spotted the police vehicles at the entrance. Without hesitation, he reversed course, parking behind the community. He kept the engine idling, ears straining for any disturbance.
When he saw the three emerge from behind the buildings, he tapped his horn twice. They scrambled into the car, and Ji Dashun accelerated away from the scene.
"Your timing's getting better, Dashun," Deng Ligang said, clapping his shoulder.
"Did we leave anything?" Ji Dashun asked, eyes fixed on the road.
Shi Bi's stomach clenched as he remembered the item that had slipped between the wardrobe and bookshelf.
"One careless move can bring everything down," Deng Ligang warned. "Think hard. Did anyone leave anything behind?"
Song Hongyu kept her eyes on the passing scenery. "I cleared out my things ages ago."
"Everything about me is genuine except what isn't," Ji Dashun declared firmly. "Nothing left to worry about."
"Shi Bi's thorough," Deng Ligang remarked. "He doesn't need reminding."
Shi Bi changed the subject. "Think that officer on the stairs will be suspicious?"
"He didn't suspect anything then," Deng Ligang said, "but he'll think about it later."
When I reached the top floor, everything still felt normal. Then I caught it—a strange smell seeping through the crack under door 502. I knocked. No answer. I kicked the door in.
The stench hit me full force. Through the open bathroom door, I saw blood splattered across the walls. The floor was soaked in it. A lace bra and silk underwear lay scattered on the tiles. On the sink, someone had arranged human bones in neat segments, alongside a cleaver, kitchen knife, and large pliers. Near the tub sat a meat grinder, still packed with chunks of flesh. Two fresh organs hung from the bathroom's drying rack.
My whole body went rigid at the smell as I stepped into the kitchen. Gas hissed from the stove, heating a stainless steel pot over blue flames. The sickening odor was stronger here. When I lifted the lid, I found two human heads floating in a spice-laden broth—star anise, Sichuan pepper—the flesh already boiled away. I'd seen my share of murder scenes, but nothing like this.
While the detectives worked the scene, Ge Shoujia and I knocked on doors. A woman answered at 301. "Just my husband and me here," she said. "He's been paralyzed four years, bedridden."
In their bedroom, her husband lay there, nothing but skin and bones, staring at us with wide eyes.
"I do everything for him," the woman said flatly.
"Your children?" I asked.
"Two sons. One's in Russia doing business, the other sells furs in Hailar."
"That young man who just went downstairs to watch the commotion—who is he?"
She paused. "Just now?"
"Yes."
"Nobody from here went out. We're not even from Snow City. No relatives here."
Something inside me snapped. The weight of realization hit hard. I should have kicked myself—the suspect had walked right past me, and I'd missed it.
Ji Dashun's car was already at the toll station outside the city. Nobody spoke. They all knew if police acted fast enough to alert the checkpoints, they were trapped. Deng Ligang kept one hand in his bag, watching the toll collector, muscles tensed.
"Thirty," the female collector said, holding out a receipt.
Ji Dashun paid and took it. The barrier lifted. As they drove through, Deng Ligang settled back, pulling his hand from the bag. The cleaver gleamed.
He caught Shi Bi's eyes in the mirror and laughed. "That officer hasn't figured it out yet."
But I had—too late. Fury burned in my eyes and chest as I pressed ice cubes from the residents against my skin.
The bathroom walls held two male fingerprints. Nothing else useful. I refused to give up, checking the wardrobe again, compartment by compartment. Empty. I stared at the massive wardrobe, willing it to give up its secrets. When that failed, I pushed hard against it. The bookshelf beside it wobbled, and something small dropped into the gap. A driver's license. Inside was a phone number. The license belonged to Shi Bi, twenty-eight years old, with an educated look about him.
Deng Ligang was obsessive about destroying any documents that could expose their identities. But Shi Bi had grown attached to his driver's license - it hadn't been easy to obtain. Each time they relocated, he'd carefully hide it, intending to take it when they eventually left for good. He'd managed this successfully many times, but during their final hasty escape, he didn't have time to retrieve it. This oversight would prove crucial for the homicide investigators.
The apartment's owner was a gaunt middle-aged woman who looked weathered by life. "The rent is fifteen hundred yuan monthly, with a three-month lease that hasn't ended yet," she explained. When questioned about the rental documentation, she admitted the tenant had only provided a name - Li Jianfeng - and an ID number, but no actual identification.
"What's he like?" I asked Peng Zhaolin.
"Tall, around 1.8 meters. Strong build, thick eyebrows, large eyes. Speaks with a Snow City accent," the landlady recalled.
"Did anyone else live here?"
"He claimed he was alone."
Following the ID number's registration to Snow City's outskirts, I located Li Jianfeng's phone number and called. His response was hostile: "Who the hell are you?"
"Public Security Bureau," I stated.
He scoffed. "Public Security? Who are you trying to intimidate?"
"I'm a police officer," I pressed.
"So what if you're a cop?" he sneered.
Anger rising, I ended the call and drove straight to the outskirts.
I found Li Jianfeng, forty years old and wearing a worn autumn shirt, chopping wood outside his house. He looked up as my car pulled in front of his yard. I strode into his yard, badge displayed.
"I'm the police officer you were so eager to insult over the phone," I said.
Li Jianfeng's demeanor shifted instantly. "Look, I've got debt collectors hounding me. Life's rough. I thought you were another scammer and lost my temper."
"Your ID card," I demanded.
"Lost it years ago."
Rather than waste time arguing, I consulted the village committee head and local beat officer. Their investigation confirmed Li Jianfeng couldn't have committed the crime, clearing him as a suspect.
The crime scene had yielded two female internal organs. We canvassed local establishments - coffee shops, hotels, inns, massage parlors, internet cafes - searching for missing women. The response came swiftly: three women had vanished from the Green Island Hotel in Snow City - Liu Xinyuan, Huang Ying, and a woman surnamed Song. None carried identification, and their families were unknown.
At the Green Island Hotel, I reviewed security footage showing the three women leaving the lobby together, laughing. I froze the frame: Liu Xinyuan was curvaceous, the woman surnamed Song had waist-length hair, and Huang Ying was petite, wearing a distinctive silver bracelet with red agate on her left wrist.
The hotel security told us about a muscular man who'd been asking for Miss Song repeatedly. When I saw his profile on the surveillance footage, I recognized him instantly - the same man who'd brushed past me on the stairs at B Shui Garden.
After printing the video stills, I discovered something crucial: one fingerprint matched Deng Ligang, who had an assault record from five years ago. Looking at his photo, everything clicked into place. The landlord confirmed it - this was her tenant, "Li Jianfeng."
Liu Liang answered the phone number from the driver's license. He was Liu Xinyuan's father, working security at a factory in Jibei City. Three days earlier, his daughter had called him crying, saying she'd been beaten and needed help. Too scared to contact police, he'd frantically scraped together seventy thousand yuan over three days. After my call, he took an overnight train to Snow City, standing the whole way.
When I showed him the items from the scene, Liu Liang couldn't identify anything as his daughter's. I explained we needed a DNA test. "What for?" he asked.
"To confirm the relationship between the deceased and their relatives," I said.
The color drained from his face. His legs buckled, and he gripped the chair's armrests. "My daughter's dead?" His voice shook.
"We need the test to be certain," I said.
"I know my daughter," he choked out.
I stayed quiet, unable to tell him only internal organs remained.
"It's not Xinyuan," he kept mumbling, "It can't be her."
Two Green Island Hotel workers came to identify items from the dismemberment scene. One recognized Huang Ying's belongings - they'd shared a dorm. Another confirmed Liu Xinyuan's clothes. No one knew anything about the woman surnamed Song or her possessions.
When Liu Liang's DNA results arrived, Peng Zhaolin received the report.
"In 15 STR gene groups, there are no mismatched genotypes; therefore, the paternity relationship cannot be excluded." Liu Liang looked at Peng Zhaolin. "What does that mean?"
"One of the organ sets belongs to your daughter, Liu Xinyuan," Peng Zhaolin said gently.
Liu Liang swayed and collapsed. With no relatives to claim Huang Ying, Liu Liang said at least the two "sisters" would be together in death. He had both sets of organs cremated and placed in a white urn to take home. At the station, he gripped my hand tightly, the urn in his other arm.
"I swear," I told him, "as long as I'm breathing, I'll solve this case."
Three women had vanished - two confirmed dead, Song Hongyu still missing. Either she was alive and being held, or she was involved. The hotel staff mentioned her strong Huayuan accent. The Huayuan police reported back: Song Hongyu had been working in another province, motherless, with just her father and brother at home. No recent contact.
After ten straight days on the case, I finally went home. Cheng Guo hadn't called - she'd seen the dismemberment case on the news and knew I was swamped. I showered and collapsed onto the sofa. Peng Cheng scooted over slightly, absorbed in his game. I reached to ruffle his hair, but he ducked away.
Kitchen aromas made my stomach growl.
"Peng Zhaolin, set the table," Cheng Guo called from the kitchen.
Something struck me as odd - I hadn't made a sound since coming home, showering, and dropping onto the sofa. How did she know I was back? I dragged myself to the kitchen where Cheng Guo stood cooking in her apron. "I can hear you shuffling around like a zombie out there," she said.
She turned to look at me. "You look terrible. Haven't been sleeping?"
I grabbed a cucumber end from the cutting board and munched on it.
"Ten days without a single call from you," I said. "What's going through your head?"
"You're wrapped up in that B Shui Garden case. No room for us in there." She didn't even look up.
"Is that a complaint?"
"Am I not allowed?" She rolled her eyes.
"Sure, but does complaining make anything better?"
Cheng Guo thought for a moment. "You're right. If complaints won't get a man to listen, why bother?"
I pulled her close, grinning. "My wife always knows exactly what to say."
"Let go," she squirmed.
Let go? We were just getting started. I held her tighter until she squealed.
Our son burst into the kitchen, staring at us. I loosened my grip, feeling sheepish. Cheng Guo ladled some soup from the clay pot, blew on it, and held it out for me to taste.
"Needs salt," I said, smacking my lips. She added a pinch to the pot. I reached for my son's head. "Behind every cop like me, there's a woman like your mom holding everything together."
Peng Cheng swatted my hand away. "Yeah? You promised to help with my speed skating, but you never showed up."
"How'd the competition go?" I asked. He rolled his eyes and walked off.
Cheng Guo leaned in close. "He didn't make the finals."
Three dishes and soup sat on the table. While Cheng Guo finished up in the kitchen, my son and I waited. I grabbed two chopsticks and started explaining speed skating techniques. His eyes locked onto every movement.
"Building speed means serious physical training," I said. "Long-distance running for endurance, sprints for explosiveness. And the start is everything - it's all about technique. In the standard position, you squat down on one leg."
Talk wasn't enough. I stood to demonstrate, and Peng Cheng followed eagerly. Soon we were both practicing our form on the floor.
Cheng Guo walked in with braised pork. "What are you two doing down there? Food's ready!"
Now we had four dishes and soup, with that meat glistening in its bowl. My son grabbed a piece and chewed happily.
"Good?" Cheng Guo asked.
He reached for seconds. "It'd be perfect if it was a little sweeter, Mom."
The bloody scene from Room 502 at Bihui Garden invaded my thoughts without warning. My stomach lurched and I bolted to the bathroom, retching.
"Are you alright? Stomach giving you trouble?" Cheng Guo's voice was tinged with worry as he noticed my ashen face.
Through clenched teeth, I managed, "I think I need to give up meat."
The Bihui Garden dismemberment case became known as Case 1103. The driver's license proved crucial - it was genuine, belonging to Shi Bi from Xuecheng, a university graduate. He'd worked as an assistant engineer at a major factory until they fired him for stealing and selling cables. His main contact was Deng Ligang, another former worker from the same factory. The two did business together, frequently leaving Xuecheng. Deng was hard to pin down, rarely home. His brother Deng Liqun was serving time for robbery, leaving only their mentally unstable mother at home, unable to provide any useful information.
The second breakthrough came from Liu Liang's money transfer card, issued under Li Jianfeng's ID. It still held 100,000 yuan. Money drove this crime - they wouldn't abandon that sum easily. I laid a trap, setting up surveillance on the landlines of both Deng Ligang and Song Hongyu's families.
The bank's surveillance data arrived quickly - someone had used the card in Zhangjiakou. I jumped up and rushed to the door before reality hit me: it was Saturday. We'd have to wait until Monday for the bureaucratic process - leadership meetings, personnel approval, budget authorization, finance department signoffs. Every step was mandatory. My throat went dry with frustration.
Snow fell silently outside, the sky indifferent to my urgency. I went for a long run in the snow, trying to burn off my restlessness. Frost formed on my eyebrows, eyelashes, and woolen hat from my breathing. Even after ten kilometers, the fire inside hadn't dimmed. I ducked into a roadside convenience store. It was empty except for the owner, absorbed in watching "Black Hole" on TV.
"Got anything cold?"
"Ice cream, cold beer," he replied.
"My throat's dry. I need ice water."
"How about this - buy some mineral water and I'll throw in ice cubes?"
I placed two yuan on the counter. He handed over the water and a paper cup of ice. I left the water but took the ice. The owner started after me, but I waved him off. He understood and retreated. I crunched the ice as I walked, feeling the burning in my chest gradually ease.
Once the paperwork cleared, I led five officers from Xuecheng to Beijing, then on to Zhangjiakou. Four days had passed. The bank's ATM footage showed Shi Bi and an unknown man taking turns with the card at two machines. I carried their printed photos. The stranger was identified as Ji Dashun, another Xuecheng factory worker. We determined the group had at least three male members.
The card surfaced in Tianjin. I rushed there but came up empty. Deng Ligang, sharp as a fox, had sensed the danger and fled with the money. The balance kept dropping. The card appeared in Shanghai, then Zhenjiang, then Suzhou, dancing around the Yangtze River Delta. With only 3,000 yuan remaining, my team spent three sleepless nights watching ATMs. In a Suzhou basement, eating instant noodles, we discussed the case.
"Think they'll risk it for just 3,000?" I asked the team.
Gu Jing shook his head firmly. "I wouldn't."
"Yang Bo?"
"I'd take it," he said with certainty, "but not right away."
"Think they're still in Suzhou?"
"They pulled out 20,000 just three hours ago," Ge Shoujia said. "They won't leave that quickly."
We had no idea Deng Ligang's group was already gone, feasting at a restaurant in Wuxi, 50 kilometers away. They gorged themselves on local specialties - braised ribs, stuffed gluten, eel paste, Taihu's three whites, Wuxi dumplings, and shepherd's purse wontons. Deng Ligang, satisfied with their escape, picked at his teeth with a toothpick and asked the same question that had been on my mind.
"Should we grab that last 3,000 from the card?"
"Even a small grasshopper is still meat," Shi Bi said carefully.
Deng Ligang tapped Ji Dashun's shoulder, nodding toward the ATM by the restaurant entrance. Ji Dashun got the message, wiped his mouth, and walked out. He drained the card of its final 3,000 yuan.
Five minutes later, the bank called. I was livid. Twenty withdrawals of 5,000 yuan each to empty 100,000 - twenty chances to catch them, all wasted because we didn't have enough people. Another cross-province chase ended in failure.
Rage churned in my stomach, leaving my mouth full of sores. As the 2003 Spring Festival approached, Xiao Zhu, our surveillance tech, was reaching his limit. I brought him some food to keep him going.
When I walked in, he quickly dropped his feet from the desk where he'd been watching the equipment.
"Haven't eaten?"
"Just gonna grab some instant noodles later."
I pulled out my offerings - white wine, braised pork knuckle, pine nut sausage, and pickled cucumbers.
"Forget that instant stuff. My wife made all this. Give it a try."
His eyes lit up. He grabbed some pork knuckle, stuffing it in his mouth with obvious pleasure.
"This is amazing. Your wife work in a restaurant?"
"Nah. She just got good at cooking for me and our son."
"Mine can't even make porridge without burning it," he said with a sigh.
"What does she do?"
"Primary school teacher."
"At least you won't need a tutor for your kids."
"Kids? We just got married a month before this assignment. I've been stuck here for months now - feels like forever. My wife keeps calling to complain. I'm worn out, body and mind."
I poured him some wine. "Hang in there, brother."
"What's the point of hanging in there? Nothing's happening on surveillance. Let someone else take over."
"Your tech team's stretched thin. No one to spare."
Xiao Zhu went quiet, focusing on his pork knuckle. The room felt heavy with tension.
"Come on, have a drink," I offered.
We clinked glasses and drank.
I crunched into a pickled cucumber. "You're not from Xuecheng, are you?"
"Chifeng."
"Named after that red peak in the northeast of the city, right?"
"Yeah. You know your stuff, brother." His mood lightened at the mention of home.
"Been a cop longer than you, been married longer too. My wife and I go way back - same daycare. Still, marriage takes work," I said honestly.
"How's that working out?"
"Still figuring it out," I admitted.
"New Year's coming up," he sighed. "Wife keeps saying our first Spring Festival together can't be missed."
"Why so rigid about it? You're a grown man - why get hung up on first or second? Think about it - criminals want to go home for New Year's too. We need to be extra alert now. I'm staying here with you instead of going home. I'll talk to the bureau leaders about giving you extra days off later. Take your wife somewhere nice."
Xiao Zhu handled his drink better than me, but his face was getting pale. "You've got that kind of pull with the leaders?"
"Don't worry. I'll get you those days off even if I have to beg for them."
He laughed. "You're the second brother of Xinqiao - I trust you."
Xuecheng was buried under a foot of snow, but the New Year shoppers were undeterred. The streets buzzed with activity, people lugging bags in and out of stores. Cheng Guo's fabric shop was packed - newlyweds picking bed linens, new homeowners choosing curtains and upholstery. Cheng Guo and her clerk could barely keep up. With Peng Cheng on winter break and no one home, she had him doing homework behind the counter, taking him home after closing.
On the twenty-third day of the twelfth lunar month, Cheng Guo was in the kitchen cooking meat and steaming flower buns for New Year's. She put me on meat-chopping duty. I questioned why we couldn't just buy pre-ground meat.
"Because I trust meat we've cleaned ourselves," she said flatly.
As I diced the meat for the stuffing, I wrestled with how to broach the subject. After dumping the chopped pieces into a bowl, I glanced up.
"Anything else you need?"
"No, you're finished here."
"In that case, there's something I'd like to discuss."
"Don't tell me you're working New Year's Eve again," Cheng Guo cut straight to the point.
I could only stare back at her.
Setting aside what she was doing, Cheng Guo turned to face me. "I checked the schedule. You're not even on duty."
"You're right, I'm not," I admitted.
She held my gaze, silently prompting me to continue.
"I told Xiao Zhu from tech surveillance I'd keep him company while he monitors things on New Year's Eve," I explained.
"That's literally his job description. Why are you making excuses?" The anger crept into her voice.
"He just got married, and I've kept him away from home for months now."
"Listen to how gentle you are with him," Cheng Guo's smile dripped with bitterness.
"He's not part of the criminal division. I can't be as demanding."
"Oh? And what about your son and me? Are we part of your criminal division?" Her eyes bore into mine.
I remained silent, not daring to meet her gaze.
"I've held down this household and raised our son by myself. Is that demanding enough for you?"
"Do we have to go through this every single year?" I sighed.
"Have you ever given me a proper New Year's celebration?" she fired back.
Her words hit home, and whatever defense I'd prepared died in my throat.
Cheng Guo's anger hadn't subsided. "I've spoiled you too much, so I don't expect you to change anymore. Go ahead, fly wherever you want for New Year's. I'll take our son to my mother's."
"But isn't your mom at your sister's?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
She shot me a withering look. "Yes, I'm going to Weihai for New Year's. Got a problem with that?"
Without another word, she yanked off her apron, tossed it onto the counter, and stormed out.
Three thousand four hundred kilometers away in Yanhui City, winter rain created a different scene entirely. Water slicked the bluestone alley roads to a gleam. Despite the weather, New Year's spirit filled the air - doors stood open all along the streets, offering glimpses of families making wife cakes, sesame cakes, money cakes, and fried rice cakes.
Deng Ligang's group of four had just finished a kidnapping, each handling their part of the cleanup. Ji Dashun emerged from an alley carrying two stuffed black plastic bags. He threaded through the long alley with its maze of side streets and shops until he reached a bone restaurant. There, he dumped one bag's contents onto the bone pile outside, kicked it around to mix it in, and walked away. From the opposite end, Shi Bi appeared, one hand in his pocket, the other gripping a black plastic bag. Head down, he moved slowly before ducking into a side street.
Deep in the alley, a hair salon's red, white, and blue lights rotated outside its open door. Women sat on benches waiting their turn while the assistant swept cut hair into piles. Shi Bi casually hooked his black bag onto the broom by the door. No one paid him any attention. After walking a bit, he glanced back to see the hair collector greeting the shop owner. The collector swept up the hair, then noticed the black bag on the broom. Making sure the owner wasn't looking, he peeked inside to find a long black braid. Pleased with his find, he quickly closed the bag and left with his collection.
Deng Ligang returned to see Ji Dashun trailing a garbage truck, plastic bag in hand. Understanding clicked immediately, and he stopped to watch. When the truck halted and the driver got out to load roadside bins, Ji Dashun hurled his bag onto the truck's roof. It wobbled and fell. He snatched it up, chased the truck, and threw it again. Satisfied, he walked away like nothing had happened.
Cursing, Deng Ligang ran after the truck. With the vehicle between them, Ji Dashun never saw him. As the truck picked up speed, Deng kicked aside a bicycle, jumped on, and pedaled hard, keeping his eyes on the black bag. At a turn, the bag tumbled off, bouncing to the curb. Deng abandoned the bike, grabbed the bag, and walked away without looking back. Behind him, the bicycle's wheel slowly spun to a stop.
Shi Bi was finishing the final task, wearing rubber gloves and spraying disinfectant on the bathroom tiles. With tub and floor already clean, he lit a cigarette, took a deep drag, and left. In the kitchen, Song Hongyu chopped vegetables while Ji Dashun watched.
"I was just walking around," Ji Dashun said. "Found out the New Year's traditions here - they need rice cakes, red fermented chicken, fish balls, and meat swallows. First bite of New Year's Eve dinner has to be Emperor's vegetable - spinach. And they make 'peace noodles' with red fermented chicken soup and two eggs on top, for safety. Should we make some?"
Deng Ligang burst in, face dark with rage. He grabbed Ji Dashun's collar and dragged him from the kitchen. Song Hongyu followed, confused. A round, bulging black plastic bag sat in the living room. Ji Dashun's face fell as realization hit.
"You tried to dump a whole skull in a garbage truck," Deng Ligang hissed. "Are you trying to get me killed?"
"I thought-" Ji Dashun started.
The slap sent him crashing into the wall. Deng's kick followed. Ji Dashun crumpled, clutching his ribs.
Shi Bi stepped forward and picked up the bag. "I'll handle it."
"His mess, his cleanup!" Deng Ligang snapped.
Shi Bi glanced at Ji Dashun. "Think you broke his ribs."
"As long as he's breathing, he cleans his own mess."
Ji Dashun struggled up, one hand pressed to his ribs, the other taking the bag. Without a word, he limped to the bathroom.
Shi Bi muttered, “That kick was a bit much.”
Deng Ligang sneered, “Too light if you ask me. I’d rather crack his skull open and see if it’s brains or pig slop inside.”
New Year’s Eve came around before I knew it. I’d just gotten back from a business trip and headed straight to the tech surveillance office to spend the night with Xiao Zhu. A promise was a promise, even if things were icy between my wife and me.
Xiao Zhu sat flipping through some police magazine, looking bored out of his mind. When he spotted me walking in with a large canvas bag, his face lit up.
“Hey, you actually showed up!”
“Of course. I keep my promises,” I said with a grin.
Xiao Zhu chuckled. “My wife just smashed my phone.”
“I get it. Been there.”
I opened the bag, pulling out a few containers of braised dishes and a bottle of white wine.
“How’d you manage to slip out?” Xiao Zhu asked.
“Easy. She’s off in Weihai with our son.”
Xiao Zhu nodded knowingly. I found two paper cups and poured the wine.
“My wife’s pretty understanding, though. She doesn’t make a big deal about stuff like this.”
Xiao Zhu took a sip, waiting for me to go on.
I held up four fingers. “We’ve known each other since we were four. Used to share a bed back in daycare.”
“Living together that young?” he laughed.
“Now, that’s a bond,” I said, turning on the TV. The news droned on in the background.
A knock at the door interrupted us. Xiao Zhu went to open it, and standing there were Cheng Guo and Peng Cheng, each holding bags. Xiao Zhu froze, confused, his eyes darting between the two men.
I wasn’t much better. My mind went blank for a moment.
Cheng Guo leaned down and said to my son, “Peng Cheng, say hello to your uncle.”
“Happy New Year, Uncle!” my son said, bowing politely to Xiao Zhu.
Xiao Zhu stared at Cheng Guo, then at me, completely lost.
I snapped out of my daze, a burst of joy washing over me, and reached for the bags my wife was holding.
“My wife and son are here! What are you standing around for? Help out!” I said, puffing up with pride.
Xiao Zhu jumped to it, quickly helping to set the table.
I leaned toward Cheng Guo and whispered, “Did you return the tickets?”
Through gritted teeth, she whispered back, “I never bought them.”
I couldn’t help but chuckle, and Cheng Guo gave me a sharp pinch under the table.
“What’s in the dumplings?” I asked loudly, trying to mask the moment.
“Pork and sauerkraut, chive and shrimp, egg—fresh out of the pot. Eat while they’re hot,” Cheng Guo replied.
The table filled up with eight dishes: chicken, fish, and other dishes symbolizing prosperity. Xiao Zhu dug in happily, forgetting, at least for a while, the argument he’d had with his wife.
But my mind wasn’t really on the food. I kept glancing at the surveillance equipment, waiting for a sign—anything—but Deng Ligang’s phone stayed silent.
On the TV, Zhao Benshan and Gao Xiumin’s skit “Heart Disease” played, making my wife and son laugh uncontrollably. I glanced at Cheng Guo, catching her smiling along with them. Her tough exterior might’ve fooled others, but I knew the truth. She was sharp, wise, and kind when it mattered most. This was my wife, and I loved her—fully and without conditions.
After dinner, Xiao Zhu returned to the surveillance station, headphones on, scanning for any activity. I stood behind him, restless. The equipment stayed quiet.
Outside in Yanhui City, fireworks lit up the sky, their red glow reflecting off the faces of people celebrating in the streets. But somewhere else, Song Hongyu sat, staring at her untouched food, homesick for Huayuan.
“I want to call home,” she said quietly.
Without missing a beat, Deng Ligang pulled out his phone. “I’ll call for you.”
He dialed a number, putting the phone to his ear. “Hello, Dad, Happy New Year! How’s everyone at home?”
Before he could say more, Song Hongyu grabbed the phone eagerly. “Dad, have you and my brother eaten dumplings yet?”
There was no response.
“Hello? Hello?” she asked, her brow furrowing. She thought the call had dropped.
Deng Ligang calmly took the phone back and set it down on the table. Only then did it hit her—the call had never gone through.
“I’ve told you a thousand times,” Deng Ligang said firmly. “You can miss home, but you can’t make calls.”
“Boss, you’re way too paranoid,” Ji Dashun muttered.
Deng Ligang shot him a cold look. “If the cops aren’t tapping every phone we’ve got, I’ll eat my hat.”
He had this way of reading me like an old doctor feeling for a pulse—calm, measured, and infuriatingly accurate. He sat there, still as a rock, and made the entire New Year feel like a funeral.
I couldn’t stop thinking about him—day and night. His habits, his weaknesses, everything about him. He was a slippery bastard, but family was his one blind spot. His father had died young, his mother struggled with mental illness, and his only brother was set to be released from prison in April after serving four years.
I was sure he’d visit his brother when the time came. I staked out near the prison, near his house, waiting for a chance to catch him off guard. But the old fox always slipped away.
Secrets have two sides: either you control them, or they control you. I couldn’t get a grip on Deng Ligang, and he never gave me an opening.
I decided to outlast him. Cheng Guo asked me what I thought would happen in the end.
I told her, “A metal pestle can be ground into a needle. A wooden one? It’ll only turn into a toothpick. Let’s see what I’m made of.”
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