Zhuang Ningyu never expected that one day he would actually be harassed by emojis. Evidently, Yi Ke’s perfect grades were no bluff—the boy’s offensive power was terrifyingly high.
He climbed the fire escape to the rooftop. The white mist here was thicker than anywhere else, the sunset filtered down to a dim, sickly glow, cold and broken into dizzying fragments by the puddles on the ground.
Silent, oppressive, damp—an unnervingly strange atmosphere. Fortunately, the spirit-pollution index on his wristband still showed zero, so there was no need to raise his protection levels just yet.
Zhuang Ningyu asked, “Anything?”
“There.” Yi Ke pointed to the eastern corner. “A tall cement pile.”
A cement pillar itself was nothing strange—many residents liked to hang clothes out to dry, and they needed somewhere to tie clotheslines. What was strange was the placement—almost pressed against the corner railing. Yi Ke continued:
“Anyone with a working brain knows a cement pole should be kept some distance from the railing. That way, it’s easier to use. But here—even something like a long coat, the moment the wind blows, the hem would brush against that filthy railing.”
So its original purpose, most likely, wasn’t for drying laundry.
Zhuang Ningyu asked: “What about the rooftops of the other buildings?”
“I already checked. The other rooftops’ east and west sides have solid walls—you can nail things directly to hang ropes, so they don’t need poles. No comparison value.”
Zhuang Ningyu squatted down, tapped on the ground with his fingers. “Pry it open.”
Yi Ke put on his mechanical exoskeleton and easily cut through the rebar. Razor-sharp bone spurs pierced into the concrete—one sharp pull, and the final chunk of cement loosened. Neither of them expected that beneath the hollow cement column was yet another cemented structure, something like an octagonal well about ten centimeters in diameter. Inside were a few yellow talisman papers tightly wrapped in plastic, a child’s dirty clothes, and a lump of gold.
Ye Jiaoyue soon arrived with her teammates. The talismans had already been opened and spread out. Based on feedback from external analysts, this was a complete magical setup—for suppressing restless spirits.
The rules had mentioned the rooftop as dangerous, and now, with a “soul-suppressing well” appearing, it was almost certain that someone had indeed died here. Taoli Community was built twenty years ago. Judging from the weathering on the cement, this column was nearly as old as the building itself.
Ye Jiaoyue ordered: “Ningyu, Xiao Qian, Officer Song—you three, take some people and ask the old residents what they remember. Zhong Mu and I will check the property office. Mind the time— the creature will be back soon.”
As if on cue, the sunset vanished, rain fell once more, fine and steady. The dark, damp environment combined with that strange little well—if a ghost appeared in the next moment, no one would be surprised.
Qian Yue braced the door, rubbed the goosebumps on his arms, and turned: “Brother Zhuang, you two still not leaving?”
Yi Ke was leaning against the railing, most of his body sticking out.
“You think someone fell from here?” Zhuang Ningyu guessed.
“Two possibilities: died here, or fell from here.” Yi Ke stood straight, palms stained with damp rust. Zhuang Ningyu couldn’t find tissues in his own pockets, and absolutely refused to reach into Yi Ke’s. So he pretended not to notice and left. Stay dirty, brat. It’ll build character.
Yi Ke casually clapped his hands clean and followed.
The elevator fit the three of them easily, but Qian Yue still felt suffocated. Mainly because the other two were silent. Silent meant awkward. Awkward meant… Xiao Qian started wondering: the Dispute Resolution Department was always a cheerful team, so the boss couldn’t possibly be the problem. Which meant… was it that kid?
The elevator opened into the ground floor lobby. Qian Yue jogged at Zhuang Ningyu’s side and whispered, like a spy on a secret mission: “Brother Zhuang, did you two… quarrel?”
Zhuang Ningyu ignored him, wishing he could ship this chatterbox straight to Siberia to dig coal.
By now, the streetlamps had flickered on, casting a dim yellow glow. The trees in the flowerbeds looked all the more sinister under that murky light.
“If someone fell from the roof, they’d land right here, in this flowerbed area.” Yi Ke scanned the corners. “Pretty secluded.” Secluded enough that—fifteen years ago or today—there were still no surveillance cameras.
“Two walls, one bush, one dead-end road.” Qian Yue lifted his phone to take pictures. “Someone could lie here for a week until maybe—maybe—a janitor or lost passerby stumbled over them.”
Taoli Community was one of the most popular second-hand housing developments here, known as the “Scholars’ Home”—a good omen. Never once had its name been linked to a homicide. Since the monster first appeared in unit 1601, Ye Jiaoyue had already dug up the transaction history of that flat.
First owner: Ge Changcun, a retired accountant, lived abroad with his daughter—property only for rent. Over fifteen years, he’d rented to at least ten tenants. That era was hand-written leases—no official records.
He passed away three years ago. The flat went up through an agency, and was quickly bought by Zhang Hui.
On paper, nothing strange. But there were still long-time residents here who remembered things: Mr. and Mrs. Su, owners of the Spring Breeze Supermarket; Auntie and Uncle Zhang, travel-club regulars; and their many dancing friends.
“Who lived in 1601?”
The big living room of 503 fell silent. “At least ten years ago” as a filter made it harder. Who remembers old tenants of a rented flat from that long ago?
Auntie Zhang spread her hands: “You’ll need to give us some features, at least.”
Zhuang Ningyu hinted: “Maybe someone who… often bought instant noodles?”
“Ah—instant noodles.” Auntie Su snapped her fingers. “Yes, yes, I remember.”
Her recall was so immediate it left Auntie Zhang stunned. You can’t memorize even the simplest dance steps in three days—but you remember this?
But indeed, she could.
“That time there was a girl, an outsider, twenty or thirty, not into dressing up, barely spoke—always bought bucket noodles. If she could avoid speaking, she would.”
Zhuang Ningyu pressed: “Do you remember the year?”
“Seventeen, eighteen years ago. My grandson had just had his full-month celebration. She came for noodles, and I gave her two red eggs as a gift. That’s why I remember.”
Auntie Zhang was still baffled. “Since when’s your memory this good?”
“You don’t run a store, so you don’t understand.” Auntie Su said. “I remembered her because at that time, rumors were blowing up—instant noodles have preservatives, they stay in your stomach three months. People got scared, sales collapsed. I had piles of stock. But she kept coming, buying loads every time, mixing flavors, adding sausages, eggs, chicken legs. A real big customer. That’s why I never forgot.”
Her vivid description jogged Auntie Zhang’s memory, too. Yes—there had been such a woman. Quiet, plain, short hair like a schoolboy, back view could be mistaken for a man.
Silent, short-haired. Zhuang Ningyu suddenly asked: “Did she dress oddly? For example… always long sleeves and trousers, even in the hottest summer?”
Qian Yue realized what he was implying: domestic-abuse victims often covered up. But the old residents shook their heads. Jincheng’s summers were brutal—nobody wore long sleeves. They even dismissed the idea of abuse. Something that noisy… in these old flats? Walls like paper. We’d never miss the yelling, the smashing. Impossible.
“Alright, let’s set that aside. Any other details?”
A picture was forming—the outline of this mysterious tenant. A woman in her thirties, from outside, moved quietly, rarely went out, lived in Building 1, skilled at household chores. No recollection of a husband—maybe always lived alone.
“What about kids?” Yi Ke asked.
“Most likely not,” Auntie Zhang reasoned. “That age, if she had a kid, they’d be middle school at most—not cooped up inside. Our kids always played in groups. We’d remember another child.”
Zhuang Ningyu said, “Alright. That’s enough for now.” He checked the wall clock—almost the monster’s return time, and wrapped up the residents’ “interview.”
Back in 1603, Qing Gang still looked like the walking dead. Zhong Mu sighed, “Old Gang, you don’t even need to act—you are the tragic pregnant woman.”
“Don’t dramatize.” Zhuang Ningyu entered just in time. “It’s just pregnancy. Whether or not you feel ‘tragic’ is open to debate.”
Qing Gang felt bitter. Dramatize? I’d be grateful just to survive the role.
8:30. Right on cue, BANG BANG at the door—sounding angrier than before. Even though Qing Gang opened immediately, a briefcase flew at his head.
The monsters never recognized people. Whoever served them dinner at 8 PM was the “wife.”
Even the tidy dining table couldn’t pacify tonight’s monster. He looked furious, hefted his hammer. Qing Gang drew a deep breath and shouted, “I’m pregnant!”
The hammer froze midair.
The hardest step was the first. Now Qing Gang leaned into it, holding a hand to the wall like a fragile woman, adding: “I need rest.”
Everyone else: “…”
The monster, snorting, dropped the hammer but kept glaring at his “wife’s” belly. At last he sat and began his nightly eating routine.
Qing Gang watched in horrified solidarity. If I were really pregnant, stuck every day with this disgusting brute—I, too, would plan to get rid of him via that rooftop.
Monster scarfed food like he’d eat the plates too. Dishes crashed, food and porcelain everywhere.
Messy, filthy—probably deliberate. Auntie Zhang, watching through surveillance like the others, nearly fainted at the sight of the ruined carpet. She felt an impulse to call the police just for the mess.
A “husband” from the rules—surrounded by countless unwilling “wives” desperate for him to vanish.
When he’d finally eaten and gone into the master bedroom, Qing Gang mused: “So the rooftop ‘danger’… is it that the wife finally had enough, and pushed him off? Or that the husband killed the wife there?”
“Possible, but unlikely.” Zhuang Ningyu reasoned. “A body, more than a hundred jin—hard to dispose of. And an adult male, main breadwinner? Someone would notice. Friends, work contacts, police at least mark him missing. Adults don’t just disappear quietly.”
“Adults—maybe not. Children?” Yi Ke caught the key.
“Children, yes.” Zhuang Ningyu nodded. “A small kid, preschool age—much easier to cover up, if the parents wanted to. Maybe that tenant’s child never showed because they were fostered outside the city, which is why no neighbor ever saw him.”
“In the rules, the ‘mother’ leaves with a child on Bus 155, beginning a new life. In reality, the child likely fell from the roof.” Yi Ke pocketed his phone. “Line 155 ends at Metro Line 5—and Line 5 goes to the airport.”
In this story, the airport stands for ultimate freedom. Such a plan probably existed—but never came true.
Zhong Mu interjected: “Wait! The child never appeared in the rules—because the wife never got pregnant? But now that Old Gang is ‘pregnant’… doesn’t that mean…” Her voice dropped, nervous. “Brother Zhuang, I think the child is about to appear.”
A chill swept the team. Her horror-movie intonation didn’t help.
“Didn’t get to ask you yet.” Zhuang Ningyu turned to her. “Anything from the property management?”
“Nothing so far.” Zhong Mu sighed. “This management company only came eight years ago. They know nothing of before. Old files are gone. We’ll have to wait for external help—finding the original staff.”
For that, the Order Maintenance Department was efficient. Zhuang Ningyu wasn’t worried.
Night deepened. The thick fog rolled back in, the balcony bitterly cold—not fit for meetings.
Yi Ke leaned by the bedroom door. “You’re not going out to make calls today?”
“It’s three degrees outside.” Zhuang Ningyu indicated the thermostat. His legs were covered with the same cashmere blanket—kept warm, and spared him from Yi Ke’s fussing. Safety first.
Yi Ke prepared his medicine, brought over the water—blew on it, mist rising around his brows. Zhuang Ningyu didn’t look up, kept typing. “You don’t need to do this.”
Yi Ke crouched by the sofa, palm on his knee. “Why? Because I didn’t buy coffee for everyone yet?”
The absurd topic gave Zhuang Ningyu pause. Coffee?? But Yi Ke looked dead serious, already planning the post-mission coffee treat. Alarm bells started to ring in his mind. “Don’t you dare.”
Yi Ke pouted, resting his chin on his hand, warmth seeping through Zhuang Ningyu’s blanket.
Zhuang Ningyu frowned, touched his forehead with a finger. He’d seen the evolution report—Yi Ke’s body temperature varied with mood. Right now, the boy was overly excited—abnormally so.
Zhuang Ningyu, ever the mentor, raised his hand to discipline.
Yi Ke didn’t dodge—caught it instead, and pressed his face against it.
Zhuang Ningyu fell silent. Harassment in the workplace—either never once, or endlessly repeated. With no good options here, he did the only thing he could: picked up the phone and snapped, “How’s the investigation progressing?”
On the other end, Huo Ting: “…What did he do to you this time?”
Wrapped in creamy-white cashmere, Zhuang Ningyu stood on the balcony, cursing at length. Work calls did not force him into the freezing fog—but cursing calls did.
“Are the three hospitals in Cangshan built yet?” he demanded.
“They’re built,” Huo Ting replied. “But the school’s construction just started. You’ll have to endure.”
He even sent a photo: Yi Guodong at the groundbreaking of the Hope Primary School in District 24, children with bright red flowers pinned against their chests, smiling innocently into the camera.
Zhuang Ningyu: “…”
