With all guns trained on Z, the case was practically a done deal.
Ji Mingrui let out a long sigh of relief and reported to the personnel outside: “The suspect is contained—”
But at that very moment, Xie Lin stared at Z and suddenly cut in: “No, not yet.”
Chi Qing frowned. “He has no more hostages, and he’s facing a dozen armed criminal investigators. What else can he possibly do?” He paused, then asked, “Is there another trap in here?”
But almost immediately, Chi Qing dismissed his own theory. “No, that’s impossible. The power to this place was cut off years ago; there’s nothing here. His movements are restricted, so even if there were a trap, he has no way to trigger it. If it were a timed bomb, he would have been hyper-focused on the time—but he clearly wasn’t.”
“No,” Xie Lin urged, “pin him down, quickly! He’s likely trying to—”
Almost exactly as Xie Lin spoke, Z moved.
He lunged upward from the ground with explosive force, throwing himself at the nearest investigator. In those fleeting, chaotic seconds, before anyone could even process what was happening—and before anyone could even utter a warning to freeze—Z’s hand had already locked tightly onto the officer’s gun.
He was trying to snatch the weapon!
Confronted by a sudden, high-threat assault, the officers had only one logical reflex: to shoot.
A highly decisive investigator immediately aimed at Z’s leg. But a split second before his finger squeezed the trigger, he realized Z’s trajectory was entirely wrong. Z wasn’t actually trying to wrest the gun away.
Instead, Z was holding the barrel in an iron grip, forcing it to point directly at his own chest. Then, he placed his hand over the officer’s finger on the trigger—
And pressed down hard without a shred of hesitation.
He seemed to smile faintly.
The muzzle was pressed flush against his heart. For a fraction of a second, the officer holding the gun could practically feel the rhythm of Z’s heartbeat traveling up through the cold steel. In the next instant, a bullet tore through at a speed invisible to the naked eye.
Bang—!
The sound erupted right from the officer’s hand.
Bang, bang—!
The other startled investigators fired in a flurry of panic.
Z’s pupils dilated and contracted in a flash. Then, the heartbeat echoing through the gun barrel fell entirely silent.
In those final seconds as his heart stopped, trivial details from ten years ago flickered through Z’s mind.
Ten years ago, he had become Yang Yan’s “son.”
A son who had to be kept in the shadows.
He had to force himself to love the things that the round-faced boy had loved—the colors, the flavors, the hobbies.
He remembered a night before bed, back when he and the round-faced boy were locked in the same room. The boy had shivered and said: “I’m so cold. Are you cold? I think I’m getting a cold. Whenever I ran a fever before, my mama would always sing to me.”
So, before that winter ended, Z had turned off the heater in his room and opened the window.
He grew up mimicking that boy’s life. When the boy was supposed to be in high school, Z spent his nights flipping through the textbooks Yang Yan bought.
The round-faced boy had been terrible at chemistry. Because of this, Z made sure not to get perfect scores on his chemistry homework. He would deliberately get two questions wrong, and Yang Yan would look at him with eyes full of maternal affection: “Why are you still like this? You do so well in every subject, but chemistry… you always make mistakes.”
But as time marched on, those ten-year-old memories were slowly diluted by the reality of their daily life together.
They began to build memories that belonged solely to the two of them.
“Should we go buy some Chinese New Year groceries together this year?”
“This rabbit by the roadside is so cute. Do you want to raise it?”
“You did great on your homework. What do you want as a reward? How about we visit the new museum tomorrow?”
Perhaps because these genuine moments were accumulating, the face of the dead boy buried deep in her memory began to drift further and further away from Yang Yan. She started suffering from unbearable, chronic headaches, eventually keeping painkillers in her purse at all times.
He would always remember that rainy day.
He had just turned eighteen. Like any other boy his age, he had grown tall and slender, no longer the scrawny child of his youth. Wearing a simple hoodie, a cap, and a face mask, he had gone out to bring Yang Yan an umbrella.
After Yang Yan moved to a new neighborhood away from the neighbors who knew her son had died, Z was no longer restricted to the house.
“It’s raining, Mama,” he had said, standing outside a convenience store with his phone pressed to his ear. “You didn’t bring an umbrella. I’ll come pick you up.”
As he spoke, he noticed a stray cat huddled near the entrance. In a rare good mood, he tilted his umbrella toward the cat, shielding it from the rain dripping off the eaves.
Yang Yan, currently battling a severe headache, gave a distracted murmur and hung up to search for her medication.
She searched her entire bag but found nothing.
With her head throbbing relentlessly, she stood at the mall entrance, waiting for her “son.”
The pain grew worse… and worse…
It hurt so badly.
In her daze, she faintly heard a young, distant voice echoing from her past:
“Mama—”
Who was calling her?
“Mama—”
Those two faint cries of “Mama” left her completely disoriented. The headache was so intense she was on the verge of losing her composure in public. She didn’t even notice that a youth, half a head taller than her, had already walked up to her through the rain-slicked streets, holding an umbrella.
Then, she heard a voice from the real world: “Mama.”
“Let’s go,” he said, holding the umbrella over her. “Let’s go home.”
But as they walked a short distance, Yang Yan’s behavior changed.
Her steps grew slower and slower.
Suddenly, at a crossroad where the traffic light turned red, she stopped and asked, “Who are you?”
Amid the roar of traffic, he didn’t hear her clearly. “What?”
Yang Yan came to a complete halt, letting the rain drench her as she stepped out from under the umbrella.
Ignoring the downpour, she demanded, “You are not my son… Who on earth are you?”
“Mama, what are you saying? I am your son.”
“You are not,” the sober Yang Yan said, her gaze suddenly turning incredibly sharp. The warmth of ‘love’ was completely gone from her eyes. “How could my son be someone like you? You are nothing like him. My son was kind and optimistic. He was never a—a monster like you.”
He stood at the intersection, the red traffic light flashing behind him. He took a slow step forward, repeating her words in a quiet, hollow voice: “…A monster like me?”
Yang Yan became hysterical. Believing the youth was stepping closer to hurt her, she violently slapped his hand away, knocking the umbrella to the wet pavement.
Rumble—!
Thunder cracked in the distance.
“You are not my son! My son would never be… a demon like you!”
The rain poured harder.
He remembered staring at Yang Yan for a very long time. Then, his lips parted, and he whispered a single word: “I…”
But there was nothing after that.
Yang Yan hadn’t heard the rest, or perhaps he had never actually voiced it aloud, and no one had cared to ask.
Why am I remembering that day now? Z thought in his final seconds of consciousness.
Why wasn’t he remembering the thrill of killing? The sensation of a blade sinking into flesh? The whispers he breathed into his victims’ ears as he watched them sink into the abyss with him?
Instead, in his final moments, he remembered that rainy day, and the words he had actually wanted to say to her.
Standing in the pouring rain that day, what he had wanted to say was: “I actually thought… living like this wasn’t so bad.”
He had actually believed he could live a life like that.
The rain had been so heavy.
He had been drenched to the bone.
And on that very day, he finally realized—there are no roads out of hell.
“Who fired?! Did you shoot?!”
“It wasn’t me… he… he pulled the trigger himself.”
Instantly, the medical team sprang into action. Doctors in white lab coats, assistants carrying emergency kits, and other officers waiting outside rushed into the room, making the cramped space incredibly congested.
Even though everyone in the room knew the truth: To be shot directly in the heart at point-blank range left absolutely no chance of survival.
Z’s body lay quietly on the floor. Once his death was confirmed, a white sheet was draped over him. But the fabric could not mask the blood pooling from his chest, slowly staining the white cotton a stark, expanding crimson.
Standing to the side, Chi Qing’s heart had skipped a beat when Z suddenly lunged. He watched the red stain spread outward in concentric circles on the white cloth. “He… committed suicide?”
“Why?” Chi Qing couldn’t comprehend it. “Did you predict this would happen?”
Chi Qing had always struggled to understand complex human emotions. Though he had made significant progress recently—learning to distinguish real joy from fake happiness and understanding basic grief—”suicide” was a concept that transcended all standard emotional logic.
Xie Lin stared at the white sheet as the frantic movements of the people around them made Z’s lifeless form seem even quieter.
“Because he lost interest in this game a long time ago,” Xie Lin said softly. “Whether he lived or died made no difference to him. He was never afraid of us finding him. In fact, he had probably been waiting for this day for a very long time. Death is a release for him—and only death could set him free.”
“He was an extremely pessimistic yet arrogant person. He had his pride; he could choose to end his own life, but he would never allow anyone else to pass ‘judgment’ on him. After all, in his world…” The image of that old church flashed in Xie Lin’s mind. “…he was ‘God’.”
“Mama—!”
“Papa—! Waaah!“
Outside the amusement park, the rescued children ran sobbing into the arms of their parents.
“I was so scared,” a child whimpered, hugging his mother tightly. “I was really, really scared.”
The mother’s eyes were bloodshot. She had wept endlessly over the past seven days, but she kept her tears in check now, stroking her child’s hair gently. “You were wonderful. So brave… Let’s go home.”
Yet, there were other parents who had rushed over upon receiving the news, waiting in agonizing silence, only to realize their children would never walk out of those doors.
Xie Lin and Chi Qing got into their car. Through the window, Chi Qing watched the paramedics load the covered gurney into the ambulance.
The intense adrenaline that had kept his body taut suddenly dissolved, and a wave of profound exhaustion washed over him. Only now did he realize the wound on his hand hadn’t been properly dressed. Yang Yan had been far too hysterical to bandage him properly.
Xie Lin, whose scraped arm had already been treated by a paramedic, caught Chi Qing wincing as he prepared to start the car. “What’s wrong?”
His eyes traveled down to Chi Qing’s hand.
“Give me your hand,” Xie Lin said, pulling a compact emergency first-aid kit from the glove compartment. He carefully unraveled the messy, tangled white bandage, only to find the raw wound underneath completely untreated. “What kind of wrapping job is this? Does it hurt?”
Chi Qing spoke honestly. “It’s fine. Tolerable.”
Now that the case was over, Xie Lin’s mood had eased slightly. He said casually, “Can’t you at least act a little spoiled with me at a time like this?”
Chi Qing’s brow furrowed even deeper.
Xie Lin unpacked a sterile cotton swab and began to demonstrate on the spot: “Xie Lin-gege, it hurts so much~”
Chi Qing: “…”
Xie Lin continued with a perfectly straight face: “…I need Gege’s kisses, I need Gege’s hugs.”
“Get the hell out of my car.”
“Fine, if you won’t act spoiled,” Xie Lin said, refusing to back down. “Keep the sweet talk in your heart, but you have to show some action.”
Chi Qing stared at him blankly. “I don’t want to repeat myself.”
Muttering about Chi Qing having “no heart,” Xie Lin finished disinfecting the wound, opened a fresh roll of gauze, and meticulously wrapped it around Chi Qing’s hand, layer by layer.
As he worked, he suddenly mentioned his brother: “For some reason, I have this incredibly strange feeling… I feel like today was the closest I’ve ever been to him.”
Xie Feng had brushed past the truth back then, and he had never given up until his final breath. Ten years ago, that brilliant, promising young captain of the criminal investigation unit had already foreseen this hidden possibility. He had walked this very area; perhaps, ten years ago, that spirited, gentle man had stood in this exact amusement park.
They were walking the path Xie Feng had once walked.
And they had finished the work Xie Feng had left undone.
Xie Lin cast one final glance out the window at the horizon, where the sky was beginning to pale. “When Z brought him up, I didn’t feel regret, nor did I feel too much grief. I feel proud of him.”
The bandage was secure.
Xie Lin leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of Chi Qing’s bandaged finger. “A special medicine. Just for you.”
Chi Qing’s fingers twitched slightly.
A commotion outside the window drew their attention. Supported by two officers, Yang Yan was slowly walking out of the building.
She looked hollow, her face pale and her eyes wide with lingering shock.
Watching her frail, trembling steps, Xie Lin suddenly recalled a detail. “By the way, did you notice…”
Before Xie Lin could finish, Chi Qing knew exactly what he was going to say: “You mean that single step?”
Xie Lin fell silent.
He knew Chi Qing had seen it too.
With Chi Qing’s keen powers of observation, it was impossible for him to miss that tiny, involuntary flinch when Yang Yan first walked into the room. Upon entering, the woman had looked at the bloodstains on the sink with sheer panic and immediately taken a small, instinctive step backward.
It was a microscopic detail.
The other investigators hadn’t noticed it, nor had Ji Mingrui. In fact, only three people in that room had caught it:
Xie Lin, Chi Qing, and Z.
Z had likely realized it the very second she stepped into his line of sight.
From the first moment Yang Yan appeared before him, he knew this “mother” was not his.
How could a mother who truly loved her child instinctively shrink back in fear?
But perhaps, in that final second, Z decided that even if it was fake, it didn’t matter anymore. He had long since stopped caring, and he no longer had the strength to obsess over what was real and what was a lie.
Outside the car, the officer escorting Yang Yan was worried about her mental state, talking to her gently to keep her grounded: “It’s all over, Sister Yang. It’s in the past now… You’re safe…”
Yang Yan did not say a word.
She seemed utterly exhausted, each step she took feeling as though she were walking on air.
The officer helped her into the back of a police cruiser to take her home. As she sat in the back seat, the red and blue emergency lights flashed rhythmically across her face. Because the forensic team was still processing the scene, the air was filled with the constant, low wail of sirens.
The car slowly pulled away.
The officer, wanting to be considerate, turned to ask if she wanted to go straight home or somewhere else first—after all, that “home” of hers was still filled with Z’s belongings.
But before the words could leave his mouth, he glanced in the rearview mirror and froze.
Yang Yan’s eyes were blank and unfocused, but without warning, silent tears were streaming down her face.
The tears fell rapidly.
Yang Yan herself didn’t even seem to realize she was crying. It was only after a long, long time, when the cruiser had driven far away from the amusement park, that she finally raised her hand and slowly wiped her cheek with her fingertips.
She turned her head slightly, as if trying to catch a final glimpse of something in the side mirror.
But in the reflection, the amusement park had already dwindled into a tiny, unrecognizable speck of black, swallowed by the morning light.
“The sun is rising,” Chi Qing said, staring at the faint sliver of pale gray-gold breaking along the horizon.
Xie Lin looked out too. He watched the morning glow slowly rise from the horizon, its warmth piercing through the ink-blue clouds and painting half the sky in soft shades of rose and gold. The heavy, dark sky was gradually softening into a clear, pale blue.
It looked as though the night had finally been conquered.
This winter had somehow linked itself to the winter of ten years ago. Both seasons had been plagued by kidnappings and dark shadows, but everyone knew that everything had finally reached its end. The ghost of “that man” had finally been laid to rest today, once and for all.
It proved that even “Gods” could die.
From this day forward, there would be no more horrific games, no more biting, endless winters, and no more legacy of evil passed down in the dark.
Chi Qing felt a sudden whisper of warmth. The temperature had been rising rapidly over the past few days, and the heavy winter coat he wore suddenly felt a bit too warm.
Outside the car window, on the barren, dry branches of the roadside trees, tiny buds of vibrant green were quietly beginning to sprout.
This winter was finally over.
