The “Tuner” receiving Ning Zhuo today was not Third Brother.
For once, he wasn’t here to stir up trouble. Enjoying the rare peace, Ning Zhuo casually asked, “Where’s Third Brother?”
The graceful woman held a long smoking pipe, answering amidst the curling smoke, “He has other business.”
Ning Zhuo didn’t find this odd.
He didn’t expect to see Third Brother every time he came.
“What do you need me for?” he asked.
The woman clamped the jade mouthpiece of the pipe between her lips and pushed a small square box, about half a foot wide, across the table.
Resting her slender, scallion-like fingernails on the lid, she tapped it lightly twice. “I’ve known you for so many years. Just so happens I have a piece of information here that you might need.”
Ning Zhuo frowned slightly. “No charge?”
The woman smiled. “A free gift.”
The “Tuners” had always been profit-driven—not philanthropists. They would never hand out information for free.
Ning Zhuo didn’t reach for the box. “Why?”
The woman answered seriously, “So we can keep working together long-term. Consider it an end-of-year reward for an old client.”
“What kind of information?” Ning Zhuo asked.
She smiled mysteriously behind the misty smoke. “Nothing you need right now. But maybe very soon you will.”
This meeting ended in such vague and cryptic words.
Stepping out onto the street, Ning Zhuo swung a leg over Abu, his motorcycle, and opened the box.
Cool drizzle swept over his exposed skin, gathering in a thin mist on his eyelashes.
Inside the box was a single sheet of paper.
On it were several place names written in ornate script—all locations in the lower city, places known to be home to the homeless and drifters.
Ning Zhuo closed the box.
He didn’t go to investigate what these places meant.
Because the “Tuner” had told him he didn’t need them yet.
And the “Tuners” had always been precise in judging the usefulness of their intel. Ning Zhuo chose to trust their professionalism.
The rain was steady. Ning Zhuo needed to go back.
Someone was waiting for him.
He started the motorcycle.
Abu asked, “Heading home?”
Ning Zhuo: “Drive first.”
The rain added a faint dampness to Silver Hammer City’s winter, giving the cold steel metropolis a rare touch of homely warmth.
Ning Zhuo kept the bike’s speed low, the rain pattering gently against the windshield.
The night was quiet, the wind soft.
Ning Zhuo rarely rode this slowly.
Because he knew someone was tailing him.
And he also knew—it was Lin Qin.
In Ning Zhuo’s original plan, the most difficult part was blowing up the Columbus Memorial Concert Hall.
That would be his final mission.
After completing it, he would let Lin Qin catch him. Then he would become an unrecognizable corpse—a trophy for Lin Qin to present to White Shield in exchange for merit.
Such undeniable credit would propel Lin Qin straight to the top, making him White Shield’s new hero, maybe even a future high-ranking officer with real power at the negotiation table.
Would Silver Hammer City be better with Lin Qin in such a position? Ning Zhuo wasn’t sure.
Perhaps by then, Lin Qin too would be helpless against the system, corrupted and compromised, even turning into another Charlemagne.
But Ning Zhuo was willing to bet on him.
Ning Zhuo knew—Lin Qin was smart enough to realize he had played a key role in the recent chaos.
He probably figured out every method Ning Zhuo had used.
But he didn’t know Ning Zhuo’s true goal.
That’s why Lin Qin followed him so openly, tailing him in silence, hoping this invisible pressure would make Ning Zhuo abandon any murderous plans.
But Ning Zhuo wasn’t concerned.
He glanced at the rearview mirror.
…Because Lin Qin wasn’t the only one tailing him.
Lin Qin noticed this too.
A sleek black car, fitted with high-grade bulletproof glass, was weaving through the rain behind Ning Zhuo.
Lin Qin used a portable scanner to secretly check the vehicle’s registration.
As expected—it was a black-market car, untraceable.
After following Ning Zhuo for this long, they clearly noticed Lin Qin too.
But they showed no reaction, slowing down and pulling behind Lin Qin’s car, driving side by side with him.
Realizing what this maneuver meant, Lin Qin almost laughed aloud.
…So they were using him as a human shield.
The car Lin Qin drove was from the Interest Corporation. If wrecked, he wouldn’t feel a thing.
So he decisively slammed the brakes.
The car behind couldn’t stop in time and, with the slippery rain-soaked road, rammed hard into Lin Qin’s car, pushing it a dozen meters forward.
Both cars were forced to stop.
Ning Zhuo didn’t even glance back.
He knew Lin Qin’s personality—knew that Lin Qin would definitely make a move out of concern for his safety.
And there was no need to look back.
This was the silent trust and friendship between them.
Seeing Ning Zhuo vanish into the rainy night, the men in the black car were furious at the failure of their tailing operation.
Three burly men stepped out of the car.
Lin Qin also got out of the driver’s seat, facing the three with calm dignity. “You didn’t maintain a safe following distance. The lead car braked sharply, you rear-ended—so you’re fully at fault. Shall we go through insurance or call White Shield’s traffic division?”
Off-duty, he wasn’t wearing his signature single-strap eye bandage.
But he’d been on plenty of shows lately.
Mr. Kainan had favored him by giving him his own crime-analysis program. The first episode decoded the magician-like bomb tricks that killed Xiao Lin and Jensen—boosting Lin Qin’s fame again.
Sure enough, one of the three men recognized him and sneered in surprise. “Hey, isn’t this White Shield’s little scarface?”
Lin Qin nodded. “That’s me.”
“Without that blindfold, you actually look decent.”
The man’s tone was far from complimentary—mocking and scornful instead. “So, Mr. Poster Boy, no interviews today? Busy running cases in the lower city? Or is this about that—that big bombing case you guys are working on… is it related to Stupid Rabbit Ning?”
The words “Stupid Rabbit Ning” pricked at Lin Qin’s nerves.
At the same time, he sensed something odd.
Because they called him “Mr. Spokesman.”
And they deliberately enunciated the word “Spokesman” with unusual clarity.
The insult in this title wasn’t particularly strong—but the sarcasm was unmistakable.
…As if they—or whoever was behind them—really cared about this identity of his as “the Spokesman.”
But this was only a hunch, a guess. Nothing concrete.
Lin Qin stared at them, quickly assessing their background based on their clothes and speech: “A mediocre mercenary group, low-tier, unheard of, desperate for any chance to climb the ladder. You think if you catch Ning Zhuo, you’ll make a name for yourselves?”
“If you want to learn from Shan Feibai, you’d better see if you’ve got the life to match him.”
“Who hired you to tail Ning Zhuo? …No need to answer. I’ll check when I get back. Small mercenary groups like yours have accounts as thin as paper—one look and they fall apart.”
Having said this, Lin Qin let out a small sigh.
He still wasn’t good at provoking people.
But judging from the bulging veins, clenched fists, and furious glares of the three men in front of him, his taunt had worked surprisingly well.
Lin Qin took a step back and rested his hand on the black copper baton at his waist.
He’d use lawful self-defense to make them spill everything they knew.
To uphold the dignity of the law, he must first be a good, law-abiding citizen.
Of course… there was always a little “gray area” in between.
…
While Lin Qin was legally roughing up the three mercenaries, Ning Zhuo found the person he was here for.
The fruit stall was manned by an old woman.
It was an illegal private stall, violating the Weiwei Corporation’s food monopoly regulations—White Shield could raid her any time.
And she was working alone on the roadside, unlike the food vendors of the lower city, who usually stuck together for protection, sharing information, and running at the first sign of trouble.
But after years on the run, the old woman had developed sharp eyes and ears, working like a seasoned scout—sorting the best fruit, taking money, and scanning her surroundings all at once.
The oranges looked good this time—not like the ones Ning Zhuo had seen before, but bright, clean, and plump.
Ning Zhuo squatted and began picking carefully.
The old woman, running a secret business, found him too tall and conspicuous. Impatient, she muttered, “They’re all good! Even the ugly ones are sweet inside!”
Ning Zhuo didn’t look up. “He won’t eat the ugly ones.”
The old woman glanced at him. “Buying for your wife?”
His hand paused. He neither confirmed nor denied it—only feeling an odd warmth spreading from his fingertips to his chest, softly and pleasantly.
He handed her the bag. “How much?”
…
Back at the garage, Min Min had just finished inspecting the rescue truck, topping off the equipment and fuel, working up quite a sweat.
Phoenix was helping her.
Wearing grimy work clothes, parched, she poked her head out as she saw Ning Zhuo walk by carrying a bag full of fine oranges. “Hey—hold-up. Gimme an orange.”
Ning Zhuo moved like the wind. “No.”
Min Min, rarely failing to steal food from him, blinked in surprise before craning her neck to shout after him: “Hey! Eating alone makes you fat, you know!”
Then she muttered to herself, “…But maybe that’s a good thing. He’s way too thin these days.”
…
Ning Zhuo walked straight to his floor before finally pausing to lean on the wall, steadying the dizziness in his head. The weight of the oranges had numbed his fingers.
He rested his forehead against the cold wall to cool down, only then remembering—the umbrella he’d brought had been useless.
But he was home now. No big deal.
Hopefully, the oranges would be enough to shut Shan Feibai up.
He grabbed the doorknob and pushed the door open.
Inside was pitch black—so dark he couldn’t see his hand before his face.
Ning Zhuo frowned. What little stunt was Shan Feibai pulling this time?
He shut the door, took off his coat, and tossed it onto the chair.
But the moment he took two steps inside, a strong, warm force suddenly wrapped around him from behind, pulling him straight into an embrace.
Ning Zhuo had half-expected this. He knew Shan Feibai must have left the lights off on purpose, waiting to pounce. So he neither dodged nor flinched, only clicking his tongue lightly when he was hugged.
A hand slipped under his slightly loosened collar, easily popping open the second and third buttons that weren’t fastened very tightly.
His chest was instantly exposed.
Ning Zhuo felt cold—but in Shan Feibai’s eyes, his body was hot, soft, radiating a fresh scent of rain and oranges, releasing sweet, tempting signals with every breath.
Fingers pressed lightly against Ning Zhuo’s chest, teasing in slow circles.
Ning Zhuo’s mind buzzed: “Shan Feibai, you—”
He instantly sensed something wrong and tried to lift his leg, but his weak body moved a beat too slow.
Shan Feibai felt his muscles tense and, in an instant, locked up all of Ning Zhuo’s possible moves with a perfect one-handed joint hold. The other hand slid to Ning Zhuo’s waist and belly, kneading impatiently.
Ning Zhuo realized—Shan Feibai’s strength was unnaturally high.
…This oddity wasn’t new.
Back in prison, when they’d both been hit by crush, Shan Feibai had carried him to the restroom.
He’d shown frightening arm strength even then.
But Shan Feibai always preferred tricks and traps, never direct combat. He rarely fought Ning Zhuo head-on.
Especially after changing this new spinal column.
What did Min Min install in this spine? Did it boost his strength?
…Ning Zhuo couldn’t quite remember—only that he’d told Min Min to give him “the best.”
As they struggled, the bag of oranges tore open, sending the carefully chosen fruit rolling across the floor.
One orange rolled to Shan Feibai’s foot and was crushed under his heel, releasing a burst of fragrant citrus scent into the room.
Even worse—whatever trick Shan Feibai had used, Ning Zhuo’s body, kneaded by his gun-calloused hands, was losing more and more strength.
Normally, Ning Zhuo ignored brutal or sly attacks—but this close, skin-to-skin teasing disarmed him completely, for the first time making him panic and feel helpless.
As Ning Zhuo reeled with shock and confusion, Shan Feibai seized the moment to flip him around and bit down hard on his lips.
Ning Zhuo struck back instantly.
In that moment, a faint taste of blood spread between their teeth.
Shan Feibai let out a low hiss—clearly in pain.
But instead of calming him, the pain only drove him deeper into madness.
He dared to bite back!
Ning Zhuo was shoved onto the bed, the bloody kiss making his mind spin in chaos.
What infuriated him most was—Shan Feibai was pinning him down again, just like that time when he’d stabbed his own shoulder with a knife!
Old memories of betrayal and pain came flooding back.
And this time, mixed with the shameful tension of being pinned, was a strange, soft current of warmth and teasing in the air.
The contrast made every inch of Ning Zhuo’s skin painfully sensitive.
His ears rang. His sick, weakened body disobeyed him—leaving him burning with rage and shame. “Shan Feibai! You dare ride me?! You f**king lunatic!”
Shan Feibai panted lowly, his voice hoarse and unsteady, but playful and strangely gentle: “Ning-ge, I’m not crazy. This… this is just me.”
“You can hit me, curse me, bind me—I’ll be good, I swear.”
“But when I want to f**k you… you have to be good too, alright?”
