There was something in the cinema that caught Ji Xun’s interest, so his attitude of refusal wasn’t as firm anymore. After a couple of perfunctory rejections, he went along with Yuan Yue’s idea, had his ticket checked, and entered. He only bought both the red and blue toddler biscuits on his way in.
After entering, Yuan Yue led Ji Xun to the seat specially reserved for him—the very center seat in the middle row of the theater. The two seats to his left and right were also empty, meaning Ji Xun effectively had three seats to himself.
Ji Xun looked left and right, then finally at Yuan Yue.
“What’s the meaning of this?”
“You like to talk and guess the plot when you watch movies, and you’re usually pretty accurate.” Yuan Yue’s expression and words were filled with great tolerance. “So this is better. You can talk freely, and we won’t hear your spoilers.”
“Heh.”
Ji Xun gave Yuan Yue a roll of his eyes, tossed the bag of red biscuits to him, and walked away.
He walked all the way to the back row of the cinema, intending to sit there, but the back row in this hall was all couple’s seats. The normally undesirable spots were filled with couples, each boyfriend with his girlfriend, sharing a popcorn and a drink, all sweet and clingy.
The only odd one out in this crowd was probably Captain Huo Ranyin, a single man who looked bored, his elbow propped on the armrest, fingers supporting his forehead, looking down at the entire audience with the posture of a king.
Ji Xun’s gaze lingered on the empty seat next to Huo Ranyin for a few seconds. He went to the second-to-last row and stood there, assessing the line of sight. He found he couldn’t get a full view of everyone in the theater.
So his gaze turned back to the empty seat next to Huo Ranyin.
This time he didn’t hesitate, calmly taking the seat and sharing a couple’s seat with Huo Ranyin.
“Not feeling cramped?” Huo Ranyin asked.
“It is a bit cramped,” Ji Xun said truthfully. He only realized after sitting down that the two seats, which looked spacious enough for other couples, were a different story when they sat together. His and Huo Ranyin’s shoulders were pressed together, and so were their thighs. Any slight movement would inevitably cause a rustle of fabric. “If it weren’t for the good view here, I wouldn’t be sitting with you.”
“Oh—” Huo Ranyin drawled lazily, his voice low. “My honor.”
The light didn’t last long. In a moment, the lights dimmed, and the commercials began.
This half-lit, half-dark atmosphere was actually quite suitable for chatting, and Huo Ranyin did indeed speak up: “Do you want Xia Youqing and Yuan Yue to get back together, or do you not want them to get back together?”
“You guess?”
“I can’t guess,” Huo Ranyin said, with a hint of light teasing and mockery. “Your actions are full of contradictions. Perhaps your thoughts are also full of contradictions. Your reason thinks they should be together, but your feelings, smack, shut reason out…”
“Are you writing a poem?” Ji Xun asked, exasperated. “And a self-proclaimed good one at that.”
Huo Ranyin snorted, displeased. “Since Xia Youqing doesn’t seem to want to abort the child, then no matter what, Captain Yuan should take on his responsibility and take care of his wife and child.”
“They are in a pure and innocent ex-boyfriend/girlfriend relationship. Are you from the Civil Affairs Bureau? In such a hurry to issue them a marriage certificate with an official seal?” Ji Xun mocked. “Do you get a commission for every pair of newlyweds you package?”
“A child needs a father,” Huo Ranyin said again.
“A police captain-style father?” Ji Xun teased.
From the moment Ji Xun arrived until now, Huo Ranyin had barely moved, seemingly intent on maintaining his kingly posture for all eternity. The only thing that suggested he was a living person and not a statue was probably his eyes.
His long eyelashes were like a dense, half-drawn curtain, slightly lowered, shielding his eyes. But that cold, sharp gaze still shot out from under his lashes, landing on everyone he watched.
It was only at this moment that Huo Ranyin finally shifted his gaze slightly, looking at Ji Xun. “What’s wrong with a police captain? Do you have a prejudice against this profession?”
The cinema screen was still playing commercials. It had been five minutes already. Just chatting was really boring. Everyone around was eating. He also opened the biscuits in his hand, ate a couple himself, then grabbed a handful and placed them in Huo Ranyin’s palm.
Huo Ranyin didn’t bother to refuse and accepted them silently.
So Ji Xun then stuffed the bag of biscuits into Huo Ranyin’s palm and, in turn, took some to eat from the other’s hand.
“What’s the difference?” Huo Ranyin deigned to speak.
“You wouldn’t know,” Ji Xun said. “It’s tiring to hold snacks.”
The corner of Huo Ranyin’s mouth twitched. Most likely, he was about to say something sarcastic.
“Using the term ‘professional prejudice’ is too strong. It should be called ‘understanding’,” Ji Xun interjected in a timely manner. “Come on, Captain Huo, a multiple-choice question: A, your future wife is having a difficult birth in the delivery room and is about to die along with the child; B, I’ve been buried alive again. The moment of a humane choice has arrived. You can only rush to one of the two places. Where do you go?”
“…” Huo Ranyin.
“100%… wait, wrong. Yuan Yue would 100% rush to save them. For you, maybe 95%.” Ji Xun said. “Am I wrong?”
He wasn’t wrong.
Huo Ranyin was silent for a long time, then put on a cold face and found a reason: “I’m a police officer, not a doctor. Rushing to the delivery room can’t save my wife and child. Rushing to the scene can at least save a guy who got himself buried alive. Besides, this kind of hypothetical question doesn’t test me. This future is impossible.”
Ji Xun raised his eyebrows. “Captain Huo is always so confident. Confidence is a good thing. I hope the future is indeed as you imagine. But the question above also proves my point. Having a police captain as a husband, he seems alive, but he’s actually like he’s dead. If the woman wants to marry, she marries. It’s a noble consciousness of sacrificing the small self for the greater good. If she doesn’t want to marry, there’s no need for others to push her to.”
“There is some difference,” Huo Ranyin.
“The difference of whether she becomes a martyr’s widow?”
“The difference of having an extra salary card.”
“That reason is quite realistic,” Ji Xun chuckled. “Two salary cards are better than one. I didn’t expect Captain Huo, who seems to have detached from the ordinary masses, to have such down-to-earth thoughts. How rare.”
They chatted idly. Huo Ranyin had spared Ji Xun a glance earlier, and now he had turned away again, continuing to stare at the people in the cinema.
Ji Xun believed that the people in the cinema were neither as good-looking nor as interesting as himself.
So the reason for Huo Ranyin’s unblinking scrutiny became obvious—Huo Ranyin had noticed something was wrong with his sudden decision to come watch the movie, and was now searching for any possible anomaly in the cinema.
Just one reaction.
Yuan Yue, who was face-to-face, felt nothing. But Huo Ranyin, standing beside him, noticed it at once.
Not only did he notice, but he also mysteriously “believed” there would be something to find.
Ji Xun shrugged secretly.
His conscience kicked in. He stopped bothering the hardworking Huo Ranyin and watched the big screen on his own. The lights suddenly dimmed. The stinky, long commercials had finally come to an end, and the main feature began.
But by this time, Ji Xun’s limited patience had almost run out. His bad habit of watching movies resurfaced uncontrollably. And since there was someone next to him today, he couldn’t help but let himself go.
He watched the first few scenes of the opening credits and started talking. But he still remembered he was in a cinema, so he only leaned towards Huo Ranyin and kept his voice very low: “I see the face of a murderer on this person. Most likely, it’s—”
“Ji Xun.”
“Hm?” Ji Xun, “Trust me, I’m very accurate at guessing the killer in mystery movies. Yuan Yue was poisoned by my blind guessing and doesn’t like to watch movies with me.”
Huo Ranyin turned his face to look at him. The light from the screen cast a layer of green on his dark pupils. That green was like a wave, surging forward with vibrant life and fighting spirit.
“I’ve guessed someone too.”
Almost at the first moment their eyes met, Ji Xun understood Huo Ranyin’s meaning.
He wasn’t talking about the movie. Of course not.
In the time he had been silently observing, Huo Ranyin had found someone in the cinema who was not quite right.
The movie’s score turned into eerie footsteps that stirred the nerves. It was probably the part of the plot where everyone should hold their breath. The audience in the cinema unconsciously quieted their breathing. Nothing could be heard but the score and the characters’ panting.
Huo Ranyin didn’t speak anymore. He took Ji Xun’s left hand and then offered his other hand to Ji Xun.
This was to write down the person they had found at the same time, to see if it was the same one.
This game was more than twice as fun as the boring movie.
Ji Xun decided to accept. He turned his body from facing the screen to facing Huo Ranyin.
His right hand wrote on Huo Ranyin’s outstretched left hand, while Huo Ranyin’s right hand wrote on his outstretched left hand.
When Huo Ranyin’s cool fingertips landed on his palm, he felt a tickle.
Then he realized the other was writing in his palm: 1202
Row 12, Seat 02.
And what he wrote in Huo Ranyin’s palm was: 1202, kill
Row 12, Seat 02, kills.
The game was over. They had chosen the same target, but Huo Ranyin had not confirmed what crime this person had committed.
Ji Xun lifted his right hand, which he had been writing with. When he was about to lift his left hand, which had served as the writing board, his left hand was grabbed by Huo Ranyin.
“The reason I found him strange is because he’s been holding his bag the whole time.”
Huo Ranyin held Ji Xun’s hand firmly, as if explaining, but it was more like a defiant challenge during a confrontation.
He needed Ji Xun’s affirmation—to affirm that he was not wrong at all.
“He’s sitting on the very end, a bad seat. Because he decided to watch the movie at the last minute, only the seats on the side were left to buy. Since he came in to watch the movie, he has been holding his not-so-small bag in his lap. No matter how expensive the bag or its contents, it’s usually enough to stuff it behind the seat. This reveals a paradox: since he’s carrying something so precious that he has to hold it throughout the movie, why did he decide to watch a movie at the last minute?”
“Close enough.”
Ji Xun did indeed affirm Huo Ranyin.
With so many people in the cinema, Huo Ranyin had accurately singled out the man with the bag. His observation was already sufficiently detailed and sharp.
“But this is not enough to deduce that he’s a murderer,” Huo Ranyin said.
“Besides what you said, when I came in, I smelled a hint of blood on that big bag, and there were also some splatter-like marks on it. Of course, it’s possible he just passed a chicken-killing stall and got some blood on it.”
“But I believe that for us… for you guys, encountering murder is much more frequent than encountering chicken-killing,” Ji Xun said with a smile. “In summary, let’s make a bold guess: he’s holding something so important yet still wants to watch a movie, perhaps because he knows that if he doesn’t watch it this time, he’ll never have another chance.”
“Of course, it’s all just irresponsible guesswork and intuition,” Ji Xun suddenly shrugged again, his tone light. “Maybe he’s just an ordinary countryman who rarely comes to the city, happened to pass a chicken-killing stall, and has the village’s public property in his bag, so he’s particularly careful with it, but still wanted to catch a movie before leaving the city.”
The movie scene changed from day to night. The green tide receded from Huo Ranyin’s eyes, and his pupils turned black again, even darker than before.
“Ji Xun, you are a genius.”
A genius has too many fantastic ideas, too many bold guesses—and in the end, they are all proven to be right.
Huo Ranyin’s voice was light and ethereal, like a ghost in the night.
“A genius always squanders his talent.”
