Yi Ke glanced at the mechanical watch on his wrist: it was 00:03.
“When did they appear?”
“Just after midnight.”
The field team members hid themselves in the shadows, watching the “children” monsters in the courtyard—this time, they really had appeared. But unlike they’d expected, they didn’t look like monsters at all. At a glance, they were just a bunch of bright-eyed, adorable, normal-looking kids.
Qian Yue was dumbfounded. “How are there so many?”
His question was everyone’s question. There were twenty-three children playing in the complex’s outdoor gym area. They whooped and shrieked, climbing slides and swinging on swings, making the rusty steppers creak, uprooting potted plants, scattering soil and leaves all over the courtyard.
“Waaah, you stepped on me!”
“Lalala, I’m gonna blow up the school, the teacher will never know!”
“Little bird says, early early early!”
“I’m telling on the teacher!”
Just as Zhuang Ningyu arrived, a black blur dropped from above. He dodged aside, then—seeing what it was—reached out decisively and hoisted it up.
A piercing wail rang across the gym. The filthy little boy squirmed in his grip, limbs flailing, volume like a suona horn, red sweater caked in mud, snot and tears smeared across his face. Ye Jiaoyue signaled the others to hold position. Zhuang Ningyu set the little noisemaker down, patted off his clothes, and asked, “What were you doing up that tree?”
“No reason. Fun.” The boy wiped his mouth on his sleeve and tried to bolt. Zhuang Ningyu hooked a finger in the back of his collar and frowned. “It’s the middle of the night. Where are your parents?”
“None of your business.” Maybe because Zhuang Ningyu’s tone was stern, the boy struggled less, but his mouth stayed hard. “You’re not my mom or dad!”
Zhuang Ningyu pointed. “Your mom is right there.”
The boy followed his finger.
Qing Gang hurriedly arranged a loving expression under the dim streetlamp, feeling very much like a radiant Madonna. Although, well—Madonna isn’t two meters tall. And doesn’t carry a gun.
“He’s not my mom, not!” The boy, unsurprisingly, didn’t fall for it. He hunched his neck, slipped out of Zhuang Ningyu’s grip, and clambered “thunk-thunk-thunk” to the top of the slide.
Qing Gang fumed. How am I not his mom? If I hadn’t heroically gotten “pregnant”, where would he have come from?
Standing beside him, Zhong Mu said, “They can’t all be yours. Maybe he won’t recognize you, but another one will. Try more carefully?”
Qing Gang’s soul-searching question: “Do I pick the ones who look like me, or the ones who look like Yun Dali and Du Xiaohe?”
They’d already pulled Yun Dali’s photos from every age. In his youth, he and Du Xiaohe’s portrait looked quite alike—slightly upturned narrow eyes, broad noses, similar jawlines—textbook couple-face. If they’d really had a child, odds are the resemblance would be obvious.
Zhuang Ningyu swept the group—nothing like Qing Gang, nothing like Yun and Du. He signaled Qing Gang to keep trying, but it didn’t go well. The kids showed zero interest in the heaven-sent child-care worker—wouldn’t even bother to look his way.
“I can’t do this,” Qing Gang groaned. “This Madonna gig is tough. Maybe two women try? Or—have Brother Zhuang Ningyu- go himself. He’s famously good with people.”
Zhong Mu tried calling a few; no use. Ye Jiaoyue waved in a big sack of snacks—huge hit, but a hit didn’t mean obedient. The little devils swarmed like Emei Mountain monkeys raiding bread, grabbed, and dashed off without a backward glance.
“Ahem.” The well-liked Zhuang Ningyu cleared his throat, about to speak—when a ball rocketed toward his face. Yi Ke’s fist flashed, knocking it aside. He gave the culprit a dark look: the red-sweater boy stuck out his tongue, scooped up the ball, sprinted off, and waved his “troops” to join a new assault—on the chess and card room.
Playing cards and mahjong tiles flew everywhere. Zhong Mu’s head pounded. She was a carefree girl at heart, fond of romance, not disciplining kids—let alone a squad of superpowered monster-children, lawless and bouncing off the walls. Who could control that?
Qing Gang also had a headache. “We can’t just stand here all night, can we?”
“There’s a hall next to the property office,” Ye Jiaoyue said. “We can turn it into a dorm. As for getting them to behave—anyone have childcare experience?”
Silence—except for Zhuang Ningyu. He had no kids at home, but back in the Dispute Resolution Department, he’d often helped villagers wrangle troublemaking children. Experience translates: find someone they’ll be scared of.
Ten minutes later, an honest-to-goodness math teacher, Zhang Hui, appeared at the card room, panting. He straightened his checkered collar, thermos in one hand, pushed the door with the other, set his face, and barked, “What class are you? Why aren’t you back in the dorm at this hour?”
Silence fell. Kids stood straight and tugged their rumpled clothes.
Every teammate gave Zhang Hui a thumbs up. Brilliant. Truly brilliant.
With math teacher done, the life instructors took over. Volunteers turned the hall into a giant dorm in record time. Within an hour, the grimy little monsters were washed, in cotton pajamas, and gathered for bedtime games. The teachers handed out English picture cards.
Amid the chorus of “apple” and “ambulance,” only the red-sweater boy refused to cooperate—he flung the card, clapped his hands over his eyes, and rolled on the floor screaming. He was so infernally naughty they needed three teachers to calm him.
Zhong Mu: “I don’t want kids anymore.”
Qian Yue: “It’s not that bad.”
After games, the children yawned into their quilts, fussed a bit, then finally drifted off to the teachers’ story.
Ye Jiaoyue had numbered them 1 to 23. Zhuang Ningyu skimmed the file. Red Sweater was No. 1—a rascal, talkative, but mostly meaningless shouting. Ask east, answer west. When told to pick a name, he said “Little Bug-Bug.” In the noise, the frazzled teacher wrote down “Little Cong-Cong.”
“By the rules, as long as the mother gets the child on the bus, the story ends,” Qian Yue brainstormed. “Why not have Brother Qing take the whole batch on the bus?”
“That is plan A, but past experience says the odds are low,” Zhong Mu said. “We only dare to try because right now we have money, don’t have to pinch pennies, and we’re not short-staffed. Otherwise Ye Jiaoyue wouldn’t allow such a shot in the dark.”
The mediation unit’s budget was usually tight. Used to scrimping, Qian Yue looked with blind envy at having “money and people”—then shot a look at Yi Ke, since this time the budget surplus was thanks to him. But Yi clearly wasn’t listening—absent-minded, even… Qian Yue chewed on it. With his advantages, there was no material worry—so any low mood must be mental. He lowered his voice to Zhuang Ningyu. “Boss, did Xiao Yi get dumped?”
Zhuang Ningyu couldn’t bear that. His hand twitched as he forcibly pulled his brain away from the twenty-three kids. Qian Yue chattered on. “Look at him. He’s not himself tonight.”
He wasn’t. Zhuang Ningyu had noticed too—aside from blocking that ball, most of the time Yi Ke was dazed. When their eyes met, Yi Ke’s face showed an intensely complicated, hard-to-describe expression.
Zhuang Ningyu didn’t know what set him off this time. Mission first; no time to analyze. He sent Qian Yue to bed, lifted his head toward Yi Ke—planning to talk for a few minutes.
Yi Ke turned and left.
Zhuang Ningyu: “…”
Ye Jiaoyue happened to see that. “Did you offend him?”
“No.” Zhuang Ningyu was baffled. A few hours ago he’d tenderly tucked a blanket over him—and now he wanted to bolt? Was love really like a capricious April sky, bright one moment, overcast the next, gone without a trace?
Ye Jiaoyue reminded him, “Director Huo specifically said—everything about Xiao Yi is your responsibility.”
A fine young man, trapped in the role of rich family nanny—Zhuang Ningyu was speechless. He stared at Yi Guodong’s photo on his phone for a while to adjust his mood, then went back to 1601.
Yi Ke sat on the sofa, holding a bottle of chilled orange soda. Condensation dripped onto the carpet. He didn’t look up at the door, but he didn’t leave either.
Zhuang Ningyu poured two cups of hot black tea and set them on the table. The night was quiet; the others hadn’t returned. Good time to talk. He didn’t know where to start, but this was exactly what the Dispute Resolution Department did. Practice makes perfect—he had some professional edge. He pushed a cup toward Yi Ke and gently slid the soda from his fingers.
Yi Ke met his eyes. Zhuang Ningyu’s gaze was warm; the steam from the cup softened him even more. But that softness seemed to wound Yi Ke—because a wildly inappropriate line popped into his head: “Her lovely eyes fix on mine, but what they reveal is love for another.”
Late-night artsy sentiment—a lemon-thorn in the heart. Zhuang Ningyu had no idea the man across from him was being stabbed to pieces—or that he himself had been recast as the tragic lead of an ethical melodrama. He asked gently, “Want to talk?”
Yi Ke blurted, “What do you think of my dad?”
Eh? Zhuang Ningyu blinked—he didn’t expect that. So… family drama. He exhaled. He’d soothed at least eighty rebellious kids—this was his turf. He nodded. “Mr. Yi is excellent.”
Yi Ke’s psychological resilience had been rated A+, but not in this department. He suddenly found it hard to breathe—and he didn’t want to analyze what, exactly, was so “excellent” about his father. He stood. “Goodnight.”
Zhuang Ningyu failed to stop him and watched him close the door. He couldn’t figure out why this man had a new trick every day.
Across town, Jing Lan was woken—again—by his degenerate friends’ calls. He felt cracked too. If there’s nothing to analyze yet, can’t it wait until I’m awake?
Yi Ke: “No.”
Jing Lan pleaded, “Look—even if Brother Zhuang Ningyu really went astray, can’t you pull him back? Think of it this way: before, chasing him was shallow lust—love at first sight. Now, you’re also rescuing a fallen youth—your love has been elevated!”
Yi Ke: “…”
He sat on the bed, ignoring the phone’s clamor.
Dawn paled the sky. From here, he could see the temporary big dorm in the courtyard. Zhuang Ningyu had gone downstairs and stood on the steps talking to Qing Gang, still wrapped in that big wool blanket. The wind raised white corners.
“Why aren’t you talking?” Jing Lan asked.
Just then, Zhuang Ningyu happened to lift his head. Normally, a figure behind a sixteenth-floor pane is almost impossible to spot, let alone meet eyes. Yet Yi Ke felt his heart skip. The fire not only refused to go out, it burned hotter, with a touch of new, unnameable taboo—hard to describe.
This feeling was clearly different from love-at-first-sight—one level higher. Jing Lan adapted smoothly. “Okay, okay—you love his saintly soul.”
In the yard, Qing Gang asked, “Captain Zhuang Ningyu, why did you shiver?”
“Nothing,” Zhuang Ningyu said. “Just a sudden prickle down my back.”
“An omen!” Qing Gang declared.
Zhuang Ningyu didn’t quite grasp how back-prickles equaled auspicious signs, but Qing Gang had his own theory: left eye twitch—money; right eye twitch—money; back tingle—also money.
“…My respects, Master,” Zhuang Ningyu said dryly.
They chatted until full daylight. If Taoli Community was short on anything, it wasn’t teachers. Handling a troop of monster kids came easy. In one night, they’d compiled a jam-packed schedule. If nothing else, controlling them first couldn’t go wrong.
Zhuang Ningyu bought a big bag of sandwiches at Spring Breeze Supermarket, intending to bring them to the meeting room—only to run into Yi at the door. Maybe it was his imagination, but Yi Ke’s look had obviously changed. If before it was tender workplace harassment, now it had added aggression—an air of inevitability. The shift was baffling.
Zhuang Ningyu guardedly asked, “Do you need something?”
Yi Ke handed him a boxed sandwich and a coffee, then—like he’d done it a hundred times—took the plastic bag from Zhuang Ningyu’s hand and hooked it on his own fingers, heading toward the meeting room. He didn’t say a word.
Zhuang Ningyu had been up all night, starving. Now he was stuck: eat or don’t eat? With a roomful of colleagues, he didn’t care to make a grand entrance with a luxury sandwich. He plunked himself on the steps and gestured for Yi Ke to deliver breakfast to the others first.
Yi Ke nodded. “Okay.”
Concise. A man of few, few words. Zhuang Ningyu didn’t understand how this man’s “love” kept evolving—switching forms at different times. Clingy yesterday, aloof today. It was deadly.
Fortunately, the sandwich was loaded and generous; the salted egg-yolk salad had a strangely rich, wonderful flavor. Truly—win the stomach, win the heart.
In the meeting room, Qian Yue peered around. “Where’s Brother Zhuang Ningyu? Should we save him some?”
“No need.” Yi Ke lounged in a chair, careless—but with a hint of care—“I made his breakfast.”
Qian Yue jolted. A rich guy who cooks? Then a flood of vocational crisis washed over him.
Told you he’s coveting our dispute resolution jobs!
