Charlemagne hurriedly left the meeting, speeding home in a panic.
On the way, he tried accessing his home’s surveillance, only to find all feeds locked and inaccessible.
He cursed, gripping the communicator tightly as the electromagnetic car raced through Silver Hammer City’s streets, his palms slick with sweat.
More than once, he considered calling White Shield to have them storm his house and arrest Ning Zhuo as an intruder.
But after weighing it, Charlemagne gave up.
His influence at White Shield had dwindled to nothing in a short time.
Marginalized for months, people still greeted him politely as “Inspector General,” but few obeyed him anymore.
If he sent Ning Zhuo to jail, the man might surrender willingly, even eagerly.
Who knew what Ning Zhuo would tell White Shield once inside?
And his wife was in no state to be seen.
If her “ramblings” were overheard and used against him, the stability he’d fought for would crumble.
Silver Hammer City’s sky was perpetually ashen.
But his fear-inducing home was a serene contrast: deep red villa walls, green artificial turf, and snow-white picnic chairs, a splash of color in the gray world.
Ning Zhuo had wheeled Charlemagne’s wife, dressed in a black gown, onto the front lawn to bask in the thin sunlight.
Mrs. Charlemagne was a quiet lunatic, never smashing things, just drifting like a ghost, muttering chilling nonsense.
Living with her tormented Charlemagne, so he locked her away for peace.
Of course, she wasn’t docile. In her confusion, oblivious to pain, she obsessed over finding her husband to ask about her precious son.
Her wrists were severely chafed, the once delicate, well-maintained skin now raw, bloodied bracelets sunken deep, some spots so worn they seemed to expose bone.
A man knelt before her, patiently cleaning her wounds and applying ointment.
Mrs. Charlemagne gazed at him, her expression unusually calm.
From a distance, Charlemagne watched his wife find freedom in another’s care, his heart a tangle of emotions, yet he dared not approach.
His gaze shifted to the other figure… likely Ning Zhuo.
As Charlemagne hesitated, Ning Zhuo turned, meeting his eyes.
To Charlemagne, this was their first meeting.
He’d glimpsed Ning Zhuo’s arrest photo once—a small image of a man who looked more like a movie star than a mercenary, with cold, striking features, loose prison garb hanging off him, revealing a pale, clean neck.
Back then, Charlemagne had traced a finger over that neck, itching to snap it.
He’d even thought spitefully: Ning could make more selling his ass to a good client.
But photos didn’t capture Ning Zhuo.
A still image froze a moment; in motion, he was real.
Charlemagne’s glance was met with a chilling aura, like a bolt of lightning piercing him through.
…He’d seen that face before.
Not a reunion, but like seeing a ghost in daylight.
In Charlemagne’s eyes, his lawn now held two specters—a man and a woman—staring at him, goosebumps creeping toward his face.
But he couldn’t let this man roam his home!
Steeling himself, he touched the gun at his waist and stepped forward.
Before Charlemagne arrived, Ning Zhuo had been speaking softly to Mrs. Charlemagne.
She was lucid enough today to trust and rely on Ning Zhuo—he’d helped her get revenge, and taking two payments didn’t change that.
Noticing Charlemagne’s approach, Ning Zhuo nodded. “Mr. Charlemagne.”
Seeing that long-lost face so close, Ning Zhuo oddly felt no anger.
Just calm.
This wasn’t the mindset he’d imagined when facing his family’s killer.
In countless nightmares, he’d been consumed by rage, losing all reason, lunging at Charlemagne, killing him in every brutal way possible.
Waking, Ning Zhuo warned himself countless times: Charlemagne didn’t deserve such a clean, quick death.
Yet, the rage he’d feared didn’t come.
Earlier, wandering Charlemagne’s home, Ning Zhuo had even noticed a half-used block of butter, its cut surface neat and pristine, clearly high-quality.
Maybe he’d stop by a supermarket on the way back to grab one.
Calmly, Ning Zhuo faced Charlemagne, who was racking his brain to place him. “Mr. Charlemagne, hello.”
Charlemagne couldn’t recall who he was, his gut screaming with dread as he instinctively drew his gun, thinking a quick kill here could be covered up easily.
Ning Zhuo was unfazed. “Your shooting scores haven’t been great lately? Need auto-aim to hit the mark?”
A faint smile played on his lips. “Shame, you’ve let your old skills slip. I heard you used to be a crack shot.” His father had told him that.
Back then, Officer Hai admired Charlemagne, the “young prodigy,” endlessly.
Charlemagne’s face darkened, his nerves frayed. “Who told you that?”
Ning Zhuo replied, “My father.”
Charlemagne frowned, scouring his memory for a face like Ning Zhuo’s.
There was one, faintly overlapping, but blurry, refusing to come into focus.
Dressed in mourning black, his wife stared at the horizon, murmuring, “Little Jin…”
Charlemagne snapped back, wary. “What do you want with me?”
He guessed Ning Zhuo knew he’d hired Rousseau to hit Haina and was here for answers.
He had none to give—maybe only a fight to the death.
Cold sweat seeped through him, trapped by his crisp suit, chilling him further as he trembled.
“I told you, it’s a follow-up,” Ning Zhuo said, his voice clear and poised. “Haina’s policy is regular check-ins. I noticed Mrs. Charlemagne didn’t answer, so I came to visit.”
Her communicator was locked to only reach Charlemagne.
Charlemagne snapped, “No one was home. Who let you break in?”
Ning Zhuo stood, resting his hands on Mrs. Charlemagne’s frail shoulders. “Who says no one’s home? Isn’t your wife right here?”
At those words, Ning Zhuo felt a flicker of disorientation.
Did his mother, like Mrs. Charlemagne, welcome Charlemagne into their home with fervent hopes of rescue?
His frail mother’s phantom stood nearby, smiling at Ning Zhuo.
Dazed, Ning Zhuo continued, “I’m good at taking care of people. Seeing the夫人 locked up so long, I brought her out for some air. Now that you’re back, I can leave her to you.”
Mrs. Charlemagne seemed in good spirits, nodding at her husband with a smile.
Charlemagne was bewildered.
He’d assumed Ning Zhuo was there to threaten, extort, or even kill.
This tender act left Charlemagne unsure whether to fire the bullet in his chamber.
Ning Zhuo pushed Mrs. Charlemagne’s wheelchair toward him, step by step.
To Charlemagne, Ning Zhuo was an unknown specter—every move suspicious, terrifying, unfathomable.
If Ning Zhuo attacked, he could shoot him dead now.
But Ning Zhuo’s warmth left Charlemagne vigilant yet disoriented.
He couldn’t help wondering if there was a plot at play.
When Ning Zhuo handed Mrs. Charlemagne over, Charlemagne was still torn, too conflicted to react.
Ning Zhuo gently instructed, “Please take care of your wife.”
Then he left.
Charlemagne couldn’t believe he’d just walked away. He kept his gun trained on Ning Zhuo’s back while frantically patting his wife, fearing an explosive device.
A cold, clammy hand grabbed his, startling him.
Lowering his eyes, he met his wife’s joyful, mysterious smile. “Little Jin’s home.”
Distracted, Charlemagne looked up to find Ning Zhuo gone.
…Really gone?
Swallowing hard, Charlemagne hurriedly wheeled his wife back inside.
The moment they entered, he froze.
His wife’s mad words had come true.
His home was filled with old photos of Jin Charlemagne, framed in glass, covering every wall upstairs and down.
There were his elementary and middle school graduation photos, even candid shots of him as Basil and Raskin.
One showed Jin Charlemagne in the clothes he wore the day he was caught as Raskin!
Surrounded by his son’s face and smile, Charlemagne clutched his own face, overwhelmed by tidal waves of panic.
Where did Ning Zhuo get these!?
He’d never seen these candid shots!
…Did Ning Zhuo take them?
Did he know all along that Basil and Raskin were Little Jin?
Then Jin’s death—
Panting heavily, Charlemagne didn’t notice his wife’s blissful ignorance.
After the 930 case, to avoid trouble, Charlemagne had destroyed all photos of Little Jin, leaving her no keepsake.
In her dazed despair, she’d nearly forgotten her son’s face.
Ning Zhuo’s photos were her salvation.
She giggled, “Look, our son’s back.”
Charlemagne, silent, grabbed a frame and tried to dismantle it.
The photo was fused to the glass.
Sweating coldly, he smashed it to the floor!
Glass shattered.
He picked up the photo from the shards, sweeping more frames off the coffee table.
The breaking glass, like a demonic chorus, jarred Mrs. Charlemagne’s fragile, healing heart.
She screamed, lunging at him, but weakened by long confinement, she collapsed, cutting her face on the debris.
Blood streamed, twisting her into a monstrous visage.
…Like her precious son’s methods with those lowlife girls.
Clutching his sleeve, she wailed, “No—don’t!”
Charlemagne stared down at the once-dignified wife who’d brought him endless pride.
Her eyes, more black than white, her lovely face torn, looked like a demon crawling from hell’s furnace.
With their wealth, her face could still be fixed.
But her heart was gone.
Charlemagne’s eyes stung, but he turned away expressionlessly, raising Jin’s graduation photo high and smashing it down.
He wanted her to wake up!
Their son was dead—a photo wouldn’t bring him back!
Mrs. Charlemagne froze like a statue, save for her bleeding.
Her newborn soul died again within her.
…
Charlemagne had no mind to tend to his wife. He roughly locked her back in the attic, then swept through the house like a storm, burning every photo.
By midnight, he’d cleared the eyesores, collapsing exhausted onto the bed, too drained to shower, and fell into a deep sleep.
In his dream, he saw the past.
Someone stood silently behind him, watching.
Charlemagne sensed it was a woman, beautiful and frail.
He desperately tried to turn and see her face, but his neck was rusted shut, immovable.
Blood’s scent filled the air, mingling with a baby’s faint cries. His heart burned with urgency. Clenching his fists, he forced his head around and saw—
…Ning Zhuo’s face.
Charlemagne woke, still grappling with the dream’s meaning. Glancing aside, he screamed, scrambling off the bed.
Mrs. Charlemagne was dead.
Somehow, she’d undone her shackles, slipped from the attic, and crawled into bed, slashing her arteries, soaking the sheets in blood.
Her eyes, unclosed, stared at the sleeping Charlemagne.
Her other hand, open in death, glinted faintly.
…It held the lockpick Ning Zhuo had given her that day.
