On WeChat’s white interface, a line of words flashed.
Ji Xun looked down. The sarcastic, generous cheapskate sent a message.
“The case is over. Do you want to know the answer?”
“I don’t.”
His reply was crisp and clean, leaving Huo Ranyin no room to continue, but even so, the words “is typing…” popped up in the upper left corner of the screen, showing that the person on the other end still seemed to have something to say.
Huo Ranyin indeed had something to say.
It wasn’t about the case, but about himself.
After his secret, the secret of the notebook, was completely laid bare before Ji Xun, Ji Xun did give a sufficient reaction and attitude, but… it wasn’t enough, still not enough.
Huo Ranyin wanted to demand more from Ji Xun. Beyond that, he also had to correct a point from their previous conversation.
Ji Xun had said he was the one affected by emotions—of course not.
He was always reminding himself to separate public and private affairs, to separate feelings and desires. Only then could his thoughts be clear and his logic orderly, allowing him to obtain the truly correct answer.
His finger rubbed the phone screen. His fingertip repeatedly brought up the hidden keyboard and then hid it again, back and forth, as if this action could keep it perpetually refreshed and also promptly bring out new words from Ji Xun.
Unfortunately, even after all his break time was used up, not another word was wiped into existence.
After replying to Huo Ranyin with that single sentence, Ji Xun put his phone aside.
He looked up. In the room that usually had no visitors, someone was unexpectedly sitting there. It was a middle-aged man wearing a fedora, holding a snuffbox, and carrying a large messenger bag. Since he was indoors, the fedora had been taken off and placed on the table, revealing a stern face with deep nasolabial folds. It was a face that looked very much like a judge or a lawyer, or a medieval gentleman if time were turned back. Then, the man smiled slightly and said to Ji Xun:
“Mr. Ji.”
He was, in fact, an editor, and the editor-in-chief of the magazine Ji Xun wrote for. His online name was Foss, and his presence here now was, without a doubt, to chase him for his manuscript.
Editors chasing for manuscripts these days were terrifying; this one had brazenly stormed the author’s home.
Ji Xun wondered how to brush him off. “Actually, I’ve been a bit busy recently.”
Foss unhurriedly took out a local newspaper. “I know Mr. Ji has been gathering material for a new book recently. Helping the police solve a case is, of course, a big deal, but writing stories is also a big deal.”
The newspaper was spread on the table. Ji Xun glanced at it. He didn’t know which tabloid reporter had taken a photo while they were searching the mountain. The main content was a tribute of praise, saying the police were like firefighters rushing to solve a case, searching the mountain overnight. His side profile had also been captured, leading to him being immediately recognized by the editorial department when it was printed.
It didn’t matter if he was recognized. After all, Ji Xun hadn’t taken a deposit and delayed the manuscript. He was always very zen-like about his writing, only collecting payment after submitting the full draft, so he could procrastinate with a clear conscience. “I’m not short on money recently…”
“Writing stories can save people,” Foss said.
“?”
“It can save those who are mentally exhausted, it can save puzzle lovers, and it can save the tens of thousands of your fans who are eagerly waiting.”
After speaking, as if to prove his point, he opened the large leather bag he carried and took out a thick stack of letters, along with various gifts that came with them. These were all sent by fans to the publishing house, asking them to be forwarded to the author.
Ji Xun was silent for a moment, mainly shocked by the small mountain of letters in front of him. “It’s this day and age, and people are still sending letters to the publisher?”
Foss answered seriously, “Can’t be helped. Readers who like mysteries tend to be a bit nostalgic. Also, Mr. Ji, I came today to discuss another important matter with you. The ‘Xing Yishan Foundation’ recently sent another payment to our publishing house, hoping we can use it to organize a national book signing tour or a reader’s forum for you. Do you think you can find time for that soon?”
A case had finally ended, and the criminal police detachment got off work on time for a change.
As Huo Ranyin was leaving the police station and heading home, he lit up his phone again to look at WeChat. Three hours had passed since he sent the message in the afternoon. On his chat screen with Ji Xun, there was still only that one line of conversation.
Night had already fallen. A massive flow of traffic flanked him, and the bright red light ahead was counting down the seconds.
His fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel.
One, two, three…
Counting the red light, counting his heartbeat, counting his thoughts.
He counted and counted, until the red light ahead turned green. The surrounding vehicles slowly started moving, and he followed, driving along the road. But at the next intersection, he turned the steering wheel, ignoring his residence that was just around the corner, changed direction, and drove towards Ji Xun’s house.
Having been here a few times, Huo Ranyin familiarly entered the residential complex. He looked up at Ji Xun’s apartment; the lights were on, he was home.
He took the elevator upstairs, knocking on the door unhurriedly, already wickedly imagining what surprised expression Ji Xun would have upon seeing his sudden appearance… Perhaps he wouldn’t be surprised. Perhaps Ji Xun had already guessed he would come. Perhaps Ji Xun’s cold reply in the afternoon was meant to provoke him into coming over?
It didn’t matter.
Regardless of the motive and purpose, once they met face to face, it wouldn’t be like it was at the cemetery. This time, the one in control of the conversation would definitely be me.
Huo Ranyin thought again.
The door opened at the sound. He opened his mouth, but the name “Ji Xun” got stuck in his throat. Standing behind the door was an unfamiliar middle-aged man with a large pipe in his mouth. He didn’t speak, but the middle-aged man sized him up and quickly said, “Is that Officer Huo? Let me introduce myself, I’m Foss, the editor-in-chief of Mingxing Publishing House. Mr. Ji told me this afternoon you might come. Please, come in.”
Serves him right.
Someone’s finally here to chase him for his manuscript.
This thought actually popped into Huo Ranyin’s head. He followed Foss inside, first glancing at the living room table. He saw a pile of documents on it, with a fedora weighing them down, and a black messenger bag beside it. Neither of these items belonged to Ji Xun. Clearly, this was Foss’s temporary workspace; he was handling something here.
He didn’t see Ji Xun in the living room, so his gaze shifted to the closed study door.
“Come in,” Ji Xun’s voice came from inside, slightly distorted by the door.
He opened the door and went in. It was late, the curtains were drawn, and the room’s light wasn’t on. Only the computer was bright, its faint white glow rimming the person sitting cross-legged with a hunched back on the computer chair with a layer of light. The remaining light cast a hazy, dark blue hue in the dark room.
Ji Xun didn’t bother with nonsense like asking why Huo Ranyin was here or what he wanted. While his fingers flew across the keyboard, he cut straight to the chase.
“Is there a case?”
“No.” Huo Ranyin closed the door behind him. “What, are you looking forward to a case?”
“I thought not. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have come so early.”
“You really thought I’d definitely come today?” Huo Ranyin said provocatively.
“It’s not that important whether you came or not. If you hadn’t come, I could have gone to your place later,” Ji Xun replied.
It was clearly a business-like statement, but the prickles that had risen in Huo Ranyin’s heart softened and settled down again. He looked at Ji Xun again, and his gaze fell on Ji Xun’s screen.
In the two minutes since he had entered, a full page of the Word document had already been written, probably six or seven hundred words. Since he could write so many words in such a short time, why was the sequel to “Poison Fruit” so long in coming?
Huo Ranyin silently recalled Ji Xun’s recent whereabouts for a long while and reluctantly admitted:
He probably had to take some unimportant responsibility for Ji Xun’s procrastination…
He looked away, feeling a sudden lack of interest. He casually flipped the light switch. With a flash, the room was brightly lit, and his gaze fell on Ji Xun’s bookshelf. He had planned to have a good talk with Ji Xun about his own matters, but Ji Xun was working diligently. Never mind, he would find another time…
“No case is perfect.” Ji Xun had no issue with Huo Ranyin turning on the light without permission and continued, “I’m going on a book signing tour next, ten cities over a year. This afternoon, Foss asked me where to schedule the first city. I said Qin City.”
He turned his head. Ji Xun’s eyes were still fixed on the screen, his posture still casual, not even bothering to straighten his back for show.
But his dark eyes reflected the light.
Qin City. Huo Ranyin mulled over the name. My hometown.
The promise Ji Xun made during the day suddenly echoed in his mind, shedding its illusory, suspended, and unreal feeling. It was like a heavy stone that had been pressing on his heart, floating up, then settling down.
The day was the contract; now was the fulfillment.
A contract without action is just empty words. Only when it is being fulfilled can one feel at ease, relaxed, and be drowned by a thick wave of delayed surprise, anticipation, and excitement.
With a “click,” the light went out again.
Even with most of his focus on his writing, Ji Xun couldn’t help but complain, “Don’t turn it on and off. Does my light have a problem with you? You’re flashing so much I can’t see the screen.”
Before he could finish complaining, his computer chair was pulled from behind.
With his feet still on the chair, Ji Xun had no ability to resist. He was easily pulled away from the computer, and then the chair and he bumped against the windowsill. Now Ji Xun was annoyed. “Huo Ranyin—”
Huo Ranyin leaned down, bit his lip, and entangled his tongue.
The light didn’t provoke me. You did.
Huo Ranyin thought to himself. He then suddenly realized his heart was like a taut string. The string had been prepared for too long; when it finally sang, it was bound to be like a tempest. It was also like a volcano that had been suppressed for a long time; when it erupted, the scorching lava vaporized blood, melted flesh, and softened bone.
He kissed and kissed, initially taking complete control, until, while catching his breath, he heard Ji Xun whisper in his ear:
“There’s still someone outside.”
“Scared?”
“Scared,” Ji Xun said. “Scared it’s inconvenient.”
Ji Xun’s voice seemed to have a hook, a hook that pulled Huo Ranyin’s already submerged nerves back to alertness.
After that sentence, Huo Ranyin was pressed against the window. Ji Xun was like a cheetah, taking only an instant to go from lazy to hunting. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the dark green curtains billow up, flashing like a bat’s wing in the darkness. He was completely enveloped by the darkness, yet a fierce flame burned in his heart.
It was like standing at the bottom of a cliff when a rope falls from the sky. He climbed up the rope and saw Ji Xun’s face leaning over the edge. Ji Xun’s hand held the rope.
This moment, it was this very moment.
You don’t know if he’s going to pull you up or push you down.
So you wish you could burn the rest of your life as fuel, just to seize the person in that instant.
