The “Tuner” exhaled a long stream of smoke.
As a composite of personalities, she shared emotions with others. Rationally, she knew Ning Zhuo was their ally.
But business was business—no room for sentiment, as it hurt profits. Besides, Shan Feibai had no such bond with them.
Not only that, Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai were enemies.
Recently, Ning Zhuo had even hired them to pin a deadly frame-up on Shan Feibai.
Yet, they knew Shan Feibai was currently with Ning Zhuo.
If Headquarters Liang’s scheme was to use Shan Feibai to harm Ning Zhuo, should they help?
The “Tuner’s” freedom came from their unique AI nature, fostering a nest of self-interest.
Weighing Ning Zhuo’s ties was already a rare act for them.
Their loyalty, a service for sale, hadn’t been bought by Ning Zhuo.
It was too costly.
So, in a haze of smoke, the “Tuner” smiled at Headquarters Liang. “…How much can you pay?”
…
On the way home, Shan Feibai spotted a roadside stall selling fried tofu and got greedy, eyeing Ning Zhuo. “Ning-ge, you eat tofu?”
Ning Zhuo glanced at the stall, then at him, seeing through his craving, and teased, “Nope.”
Shan Feibai pouted pitifully. “But I’m hungry.”
Ning Zhuo, amused, ribbed the dapper young lord. “Street stalls aren’t worthy of you. Go home and nibble a flower.”
Shan Feibai, quick-witted and seeing Ning Zhuo’s resistance, shifted targets, calling a contact. “Sister Phoenix! Ning-ge and I are out. Want anything to eat?”
Phoenix was with Min Min.
Not one for late-night snacks, she set down her communicator and asked Min Min, “What do you want?”
Min Min rattled off a long list of snacks, covering everyone she knew.
Ning Zhuo: “…”
He’d been too kind.
Feeding him flowers was too generous; a mouthful of cactus would’ve been better.
The rain had stopped.
With plenty to buy, they parked and split up.
Ning Zhuo’s formal attire clashed with the chaotic night market, so he tied his jacket around his waist, sleeves knotted, accentuating his slim figure.
A punk with garishly dyed hair, squatting roadside, whistled at Ning Zhuo recklessly.
Dressed nicely and not in the mood to fight, Ning Zhuo gave him a brief glance and looked away.
The punk had seen both Ning Zhuo and Shan Feibai.
Shan Feibai’s dashing, noble look—sword-like brows, starry eyes, a princely air—made men compare themselves, feel like dirt, and grow jealous, thinking with better features or height, they’d match him.
Ning Zhuo was different.
In his rust-gray suit, his fair skin, red lips, and long lashes in calm eyes made him seem like a millennium-old, icy fox spirit.
Men didn’t see him as one of them; he inspired disdain and curiosity.
The punk, undeterred, approached, tugging at him. “Hey, beauty, don’t go. Let’s chat.”
Ning Zhuo’s patience snapped. He kicked the punk into a roadside trash bin.
The vendors, used to brawls, didn’t flinch, just moved their stalls back, sneaking glances for some excitement.
But Ning Zhuo’s kick ended it. The punk, headfirst in kitchen waste, whimpered, unable to muster bravado.
The sudden kick startled the mercenaries trailing them.
Shan Feibai’s glance back at the theater had already unnerved them.
Now, Ning Zhuo’s unprovoked street outburst made them wonder if he was sending a message. Exchanging looks, they decided to back off.
In a quiet spot, one dialed a number, reporting respectfully, “Sir, that’s the situation.”
Charlemagne, on the other end, let out a soft hum from his nose.
About a week ago, the old butler visited “Haina” and never returned.
He woke one day, missing breakfast, and vanished from Silver Hammer City.
His ID and savings were untouched.
At his age, with such wealth, absconding made no sense.
Since he disappeared after visiting “Haina,” Charlemagne, wary of being linked to mercenaries as a “White Shield” official, kept his suspicions quiet.
Besides, Ning Zhuo had a hand in Motobu Takeshi’s disappearance.
At the critical moment of the 930 case’s resolution, he couldn’t afford ties to “Haina” that might expose their dealings.
So, Charlemagne played dumb, swiftly hiring a young butler, as if the old one never existed.
The 930 case’s closure eased Charlemagne’s immediate concerns.
But reflecting, he couldn’t voice his bitterness.
His son was cleared of poisoning, but Charlemagne had killed him himself, smashing his face.
His media mishandling ensured “White Shield” wouldn’t reinstate him.
Today, he saw their new spokesperson on screen.
Charlemagne, a media darling for years, knew what they loved: striking looks, a tragic backstory, and excellence—qualities that drew eyes.
Charlemagne’s life and backstory were lackluster: a third dull, a third unspeakable, mostly spun by media and himself.
Lin Qin was different.
Charlemagne, digging into his record, grew envious.
Last year, Lin Qin handled 72% of solved cases in Chang’an District.
His journey—from an orphan in a dumpster to an exemplary student, then disfigured by his adoptive father, only to rise and join “White Shield”—was gripping and inspiring.
With real achievements, a compelling story, and a broken yet striking face, Lin Qin’s promotion, though rushed, was undeniable. Who cared about the details?
Charlemagne, fuming, sprouted a mouth full of blisters.
He ended the call with the mercenaries, sitting in his study, staring at the ceiling.
A click—the outer door stirred.
High heels tapped sharply, click, clack, like stepping on someone’s heart.
Lately, Charlemagne was consumed by his troubles.
He’d noticed his wife’s odd hours, flitting in and out like a ghost, her lips curled in a faint, eerie smile, grinning at nothing, giving him goosebumps.
Too overwhelmed before, he’d ignored it.
Now, Charlemagne decided to book a doctor for her mental state.
Mulling this, he stayed glued to his chair.
Having smashed his son’s face himself, he dreaded facing his wife—partly guilt, partly believing it wasn’t his fault.
He’d rather she recover and seek him out for reconciliation.
As he reached for the phone to call a doctor, an unexpected call interrupted.
His mouth dry with blisters, he answered with a lazy “Mm.”
A minute later, Charlemagne’s eyes widened. About to speak, he winced as his sores stung, his face twisting.
It was “White Shield,” reporting a damaged guardrail near a remote cliff in Lower City’s port, with tire tracks leading straight into the sea.
Cold weather made hiring salvage teams pricier, and with no missing vehicle or person reported, the local “White Shield” officers dawdled, taking days to negotiate costs.
The salvage team finally arrived, pulling up a luxury car.
Checking the plates, they were shocked—it was registered to a Mid-City resident.
This was tricky.
Digging deeper, they found a link to Charlemagne, former “White Shield” inspector.
Nervously, their supervisor called to inquire.
Charlemagne swallowed hard, voice thick with anger. “What about the driver!?”
The supervisor stammered, “No… no body. Window was open, seatbelt clipped with a buckle. Maybe they weren’t strapped in and got thrown out.”
Choosing words carefully, he added, “We checked surveillance. The car’s owner… was drinking heavily. Probably drunk driving, no braking before hitting the water…”
Charlemagne paled.
He recalled the old butler, a wine connoisseur in youth, but swore off alcohol after stomach issues, sticking to tea.
…A teetotaler, drunk, driving into the sea, and gone?
Sensing foul play, Charlemagne demanded, “Send me the footage. All of it. Now.”
He dove into action, oblivious to his wife lingering at the study door, her cheeks streaked with unwashed blood he didn’t see.
…
While Ning Zhuo bought hand-torn grilled rabbit at a stall, Shan Feibai returned with two servings of fried tofu.
His was slathered with vibrant spicy sauce; Ning Zhuo’s was plain, doused with ladles of hot broth, steaming and fragrant enough to make hearts flutter.
Without preamble, Shan Feibai dashed over, picked a piece of tofu, blew on it twice, and deftly popped it into Ning Zhuo’s mouth.
Having run, the tofu wasn’t scalding anymore.
Another half-minute, and the flavor would’ve dulled.
Ning Zhuo rarely ate properly, so Shan Feibai seized every chance to feed him, mastering the art over time.
The tofu melted in Ning Zhuo’s mouth, soft, warm, almost liquid.
He didn’t linger over food, but his taste buds worked fine.
Shan Feibai watched him intently, eyes drinking him in, insatiable. “Good?”
Ning Zhuo hummed, saying unthinkingly, “You eat too.”
Shan Feibai was fair—one bite for himself, one for Ning Zhuo. The rabbit vendor’s auntie smirked, amused by the pair’s cool-warm, still-lively dynamic.
After finishing the tofu, Shan Feibai played coy. “I want oranges. But I don’t have enough cash.”
Ning Zhuo followed his gaze, frowning.
The oranges looked awful, pockmarked by acid rain, utterly unappetizing.
He asked the vendor, “How much?”
Hearing the price, Ning Zhuo turned back, returning to the rabbit stall, declaring coldly, “Not buying.”
Shan Feibai sighed theatrically, then sneaked a hot egg tart into Ning Zhuo’s mouth.
They drove back, stopping early to haul their night market haul home.
The tail was gone, the surroundings quiet, their words carried only by the mountain breeze.
Shan Feibai turned, asking the day’s first serious question: “Ning-ge, to blow up the concert hall, we’ll need explosives.”
