Ning Zhuo glanced at Lin Qin, then at the blanket, deadpanning: “I broke my leg jumping rope.”
Lin Qin blinked, then smiled softly: “You’re teasing me again.”
The elevator doors slid shut.
In the faint haze of artificial agarwood scent, the four inside fell silent.
The three who knew each other stayed mute.
As for Motobu Ryo, shadow-like, he shrank into the elevator’s corner, barely breathing, minimizing his presence.
Jin Xueshen kept stealing glances at Lin Qin, finally unable to hold back, but before he could speak, Lin Qin’s gentle voice broke the quiet: “Is Papa Fu doing okay?”
Jin Xueshen swallowed his question—“Why are you here?”—and said: “He hasn’t been around lately.”
Lin Qin: “Oh?”
Ning Zhuo: “Off breaking the law.”
Lately, Boss Fu’s whereabouts were a mystery, though he sent occasional updates.
He claimed he’d run into an old friend’s son, was having a blast, and planned to stay longer. He even mailed back a watermelon, its rind brazenly carved with “For Ning-ning.”
No hiding his favoritism there.
Jin Xueshen had been quietly jealous for days. Hearing Ning Zhuo slander Boss Fu, he tutted, raising a hand to swat his head for talking nonsense. Halfway through, he remembered Ning Zhuo’s injuries, redirecting the swing to the wheelchair’s armrest. The force stung his palm, making him wince and shake his hand.
Lin Qin, meanwhile, stared at Ning Zhuo.
Ning Zhuo always spoke to him with deadpan seriousness, his tone and expression so flat it was impossible to tell truth from jest.
Abruptly, Lin Qin shifted topics: “Ning Zhuo, go back.”
Ning Zhuo turned his face, spitting a single word: “No.”
Lin Qin quickened his pace: “Don’t meet him. He’s out to get you. In your condition…”
His eyes flicked to Ning Zhuo’s leg: “…you can’t handle it.”
Kenan was a viper. Dealing with him legally required patience and strategy.
Ning Zhuo, tilting his head, calmly countered: “Don’t I have you? If Kenan and I both get in trouble, who’d you help?”
Lin Qin froze.
The elevator dipped slightly, chiming with a crisp ding.
They’d arrived.
Before the doors opened, Ning Zhuo asked: “You hate him, don’t you?”
He remembered when Lin Qin, freshly injured and taken in by Ning Zhuo, would wake at night. He never screamed or ran, just curled up in his blanket, panting quietly to quell his fear, not wanting to burden anyone.
A pretty kid, scarred and grieving his foster father’s death, Ning Zhuo worried he might harm himself at night. So he’d silently crouch outside his room, listening until his breathing steadied, then go wake Boss Fu.
Boss Fu, bleary-eyed, sat up, good-naturedly asking: “Ning-ning, what’s up?”
Ning Zhuo, unfazed: “Go sleep with him.”
Boss Fu’s brain lagged: “Huh? Little Apple?”
Ning Zhuo: “Yeah. He’s traumatized. Go stay with him.”
Boss Fu rubbed his eyes, already shuffling out of bed, muttering: “Can’t you do it?”
Ning Zhuo: “I’m his age. His dad died, and you’re about his dad’s age.” Hands behind his back, he analyzed like a mini-adult, then shoved Fu’s back. “Go.”
Later, as a “White Shield” officer, Lin Qin’s relentless work—beyond chasing justice—might have been to fill the surging, lonely panic that struck at night.
…
The elevator doors parted slowly.
Lin Qin, softly: “That’s not your business.”
Ning Zhuo: “Right. You never care about mine.”
With that, pushed by Jin Xueshen, he rolled toward the light ahead.
A service android waiter stood outside, smiling mechanically: “Are you Mr. Kenan’s guests? This way, please.”
The group filed out.
As they passed the waiter, Jin Xueshen casually raised a hand, lightly tapping the android’s nape, his touch delicate as a dragonfly skimming water.
The android’s mechanical pupils didn’t dilate.
It simply stared forward, turning to Jin Xueshen with a flawless smile: “Sir, this way, please.”
…
Seeing the group, Kenan was taken aback.
First, he hadn’t expected Lin Qin to arrive with them. Second, it wasn’t Shan Feibai. Third…
Ning Zhuo and Jin Xueshen genuinely seemed here to negotiate “in good faith.”
Both looked like invalids—one barely recovered, the other still faintly reeking of blood.
Side by side, their pallor matched, as if cursed with rotten luck.
“Rousseau” had clearly caused them plenty of grief.
This deepened the smile lines on Kenan’s face.
Both sides took their seats, the arrangement exactly as Kenan predicted, except Jin Xueshen occupied Shan Feibai’s spot.
Once settled, Kenan gently rested a hand on Lin Qin’s shoulder: “Let me introduce Officer Lin from ‘White Shield.’”
Ning Zhuo glanced at Lin Qin, sizing him up coolly: “Ran into him on the way.”
Lin Qin sat still, letting Kenan’s hand linger, unbothered by the contact.
Ning Zhuo imagined: if Charlemagne dared touch him like that, he’d rip off both head and shoulder.
Lazily, he replied: “Yeah. Seen him. Little Flower Face.”
The near-rude remark froze Kenan’s smile, inwardly cursing: You’re the one acting wild, picking a fight with your mouth.
Lin Qin smiled faintly, recalling young Ning Zhuo’s earnest suggestion: “How about a face tattoo? Cover the scars—maybe a rose.”
Lin Qin had shaken his head: “Too flashy.”
Ning Zhuo: “Then be a flower-faced cat.”
For a long time, Ning Zhuo’s communicator listed him as “Flower-Faced Cat” or “Little Flower Carp.”
Familiar with Ning Zhuo’s teasing, Lin Qin took it in stride.
Ning Zhuo looked away, scanning the room indifferently: “I’m late.”
Kenan, all smiles: “We only notified you an hour ago. You’re plenty fast.”
He glanced past Ning Zhuo at Motobu Ryo: “Mr. Motobu, last saw you at Ruiteng’s annual gala.”
Motobu Ryo, expressionless, jolted at Kenan’s address.
The blue-tinted glass water wall behind Kenan cast his smiling face in a ghastly light, almost sinister.
Thankfully, Motobu Ryo’s facial nerves were sluggish. He gave a dull glance, then lowered his head, legs jittering rhythmically under the table.
An eerie calm settled in the room.
Ma Yushu, obsessed with Kenan’s murder plan, was slow to notice the young man replacing Shan Feibai.
When he did, he flinched as if electrocuted, feeling like he’d seen a ghost in broad daylight.
—He looked familiar, like a wronged acquaintance reincarnated, sitting before him, eyes cold, ready to settle an old score.
Panicked, Ma Yushu racked his brain for who he resembled.
But the harder he tried, the less he could place him.
He’d done too many wrongs to catalog easily.
As a show of goodwill, Ning Zhuo’s right arm was a bulletproof glass prosthetic, its mechanics transparent, clearly unarmed.
Sleek and ornamental, it matched his sharp beauty—a glass sword, deadly yet fragile.
Today, Ning Zhuo seemed wholly uninterested in fighting.
Kenan relaxed further. After the waiter poured wine, he leaned back casually, pulling out a new lighter to spark another cigar, glancing at Motobu Ryo: “Mr. Motobu called us here, yet you’re quiet as a gourd.”
Named again, Motobu Ryo couldn’t play deaf. He raised his head, forcing a strained smile: “I’m here to atone and clear up some misunderstandings.”
“Misunderstandings?” Kenan propped his cheek. “I’d love to hear what’s different from what Xiao Ma told me.”
Dishes arrived in procession, their fish bellies glowing blue under the water wall’s cold light, utterly unappetizing.
Everyone at the table nursed their own thoughts, chopsticks untouched. Only Kenan ate heartily, listening to Motobu Ryo’s dry explanation with apparent fascination.
With nothing else to do, Lin Qin began sizing up the banquet hall.
No cameras, no windows, the lighting perfectly dim. If not for the plush, high-end carpet underfoot, Lin Qin might’ve mistaken it for a private interrogation room.
But a lingering alcohol scent hung in the air, unshakable.
Lin Qin glanced at the wall’s ventilation system.
…It was on, and a premium brand at that.
So why did the alcohol smell persist?
Kenan and Ma Yushu, who’d arrived early, didn’t share Lin Qin’s suspicion.
Having been in the room longer, they’d grown numb to the faint, swirling odor.
But Lin Qin was hypersensitive to it.
Once he spotted a clue, his mind kicked into gear.
He noticed the carpet had been lifted.
Sure, Kenan or Ma Yushu could’ve done it.
But scanning the pristine wallpaper, Lin Qin spotted two faint marks at different heights.
…Recently, two groups must’ve flipped the carpet, piling it against the wall.
Someone had tampered with the room.
So where was this persistent alcohol smell coming from?
Before Lin Qin’s gaze could settle, Motobu Ryo’s unconvincing speech wrapped up.
In summary: his debts were forced by circumstance, he hadn’t meant for things to escalate, and since they were old friends, now that he had some cash, he could repay and cover their recent losses.
Ma Yushu clearly couldn’t call the shots, which was why Motobu Ryo had invited Kenan.
Lin Qin’s interest piqued slightly.
He knew Kenan ran a loan-sharking racket but lacked hard proof.
Ma Yushu could be a solid witness.
If he’d testify, he might provide a full evidence chain.
But seeing Ma Yushu’s shell-shocked, skittish state, Lin Qin wasn’t optimistic.
Kenan listened patiently, his lips curling slightly: “Indeed, Mr. Motobu’s explanation makes sense. But you don’t need my approval. I’m just a mediator. Over the years, I’ve built some influence in Silver Hammer City, so Xiao Ma asked me here to help settle your dispute peacefully.”
He cast a meaningful, smiling glance at Ma Yushu: “Right, Xiao Ma?”
Ma Yushu, his thoughts increasingly scattered, answered promptly: “If the money’s paid, anything’s fine.”
“Exactly.” Kenan clapped once. “We’re after money, not blood.”
As the room’s atmosphere seemed harmonious, Ning Zhuo let out a faint, ill-timed scoff.
Kenan raised an eyebrow: “Got some wisdom to share, Mr. Ning?”
“No wisdom,” Ning Zhuo said, meeting his gaze. “…Just scum.”
Kenan thought: Vulgar.
But also: no need to bicker with a pretty face.
Especially one soon to die—either by Ma Yushu’s hand or “Rousseau’s.”
Unfazed, Kenan raised his glass: “Seems Mr. Ning has a bone to pick with us. Recent troubles souring your mood?”
He lifted a finger, poised to tap the glass’s rim, eyes fixed on Ning Zhuo: “Money solves everything in Silver Hammer. As a mercenary, you get that, right?”
Ning Zhuo: “Do I?”
Kenan, smiling: “Let’s not dwell.”
He glanced at Ma Yushu, pointedly: “It’s all in the toast. Everyone, drink up.”
Clink.
A sharp chime echoed through the hall.
The next instant, Ma Yushu, who’d rehearsed this countless times, raised his hand—not for the glass, but for the lighter. Numb yet precise, he aimed at Ning Zhuo, swiftly pressing the disguised trigger.
After days of scheming, he’d seen the light.
…Kenan’s plan was the most effective.
Obey him, and he’d have a chance to live.
But he could aim to wound Ning Zhuo, not kill, sparing “Haina” too much wrath while meeting Kenan’s goal.
As a gambler, he’d bet again.
Ma Yushu moved too fast, striking when everyone was poised for a friendly toast. Almost no one reacted as a laser beam shot out, aiming for Ning Zhuo’s shoulder.
But nerves got the better of him. Meant for the shoulder joint, the shot only grazed Ning Zhuo’s skin, shattering the glass water wall behind him.
The tempered glass broke into harmless honeycomb granules.
As Kenan feigned shock, retreating, the wall’s water doused him head to toe.
The alcohol scent in the room spiked, stinging the eyes.
…The alcohol was hidden there.
Ning Zhuo, shoulder bleeding, was soaked too.
Tilting his head, he eyed the stunned Kenan, dripping wet, and asked: “Money solves everything, huh? Not always.”
“…Like, can you buy a life?”
As he spoke, the android waiter, posing like a decorative vase, stepped forward, seizing the stove heating the fish and flinging its small flame squarely at the drenched Kenan.
The android’s mechanical soul had been hijacked by Yu Shifei.
The turn was so sudden, even Jin Xueshen couldn’t react.
Everything had been smooth.
After Fu got the meeting location early, they’d snuck in at night, swapping the water wall’s contents.
They’d planned the seating, ensuring the wall was behind Kenan.
Per the plan, Yu Shifei, after taking over the android, would break the glass, dousing Kenan in alcohol.
But Kenan preempted them, ordering Ma Yushu to shoot, breaking the glass himself.
The hitch: Ning Zhuo was supposed to be wheeled away from Kenan by Jin Xueshen beforehand!
Alcohol ignited instantly. Before Kenan could react, flames roared up like vengeful spirits, engulfing him head to toe in a blaze.
Immobile, Ning Zhuo sat there, his actions tossing Lin Qin a silent question:
In this mess, who do you save—me or him?
Lin Qin answered with action.
He lunged for Ning Zhuo, tackling him to the floor before the fire could spread, rolling several times to douse the flames on his arm.
In the scuffle, Lin Qin realized Ning Zhuo’s blanket was fireproof.
His move indirectly saved himself.
Kenan endured unimaginable agony in that split second.
In the searing inferno, he let out a piercing, unprecedented scream.
He’d never imagined such brutal torture, every muscle spasming in pain, shoulders jerking as he reached for Lin Qin.
But Lin Qin had gone to Ning Zhuo.
Thrashing and howling, Kenan staggered toward someone familiar—Ma Yushu.
Ma Yushu, stunned by the chain reaction his shot triggered, was too slow to dodge. Kenan, ablaze, enveloped him in a burning embrace.
Soon, two voices screamed in agony.
Jin Xueshen, shielding Motobu Ryo, watched coldly as pale blue flames danced on Ma Yushu’s face and body, enduring the world’s cruelest punishment.
Lin Qin didn’t move.
His grip on Ning Zhuo’s shoulders was rigid, iron-tight.
Crouching, he looked up at Silver Hammer’s mouthpiece, writhing in torment, shrieking.
The shadows of those Kenan’s pen had driven to ruin flickered in the firelight.
The final image froze on Lin Qingzhuo’s face.
He smiled distantly, as gentle as ever.
In the rushing heat, Lin Qin smiled back, dazed.
He thought: This isn’t right.
Then: But it’s kind of fine.
At least the nightmares would stop.
…
Ning Zhuo’s thoughts were simpler.
Kenan had written so many articles in the Silver Hammer Daily, always labeling people.
He called Lin Qingzhuo a madman, those broken by society incompetent.
He dubbed cruelty justice, indifference the way of the world.
But all his reasoning paled before a single fire.
This was Silver Hammer City’s unbreakable truth.
__
Author’s Note:
[Silver Hammer Daily]
Kenan’s Column: Vacant.
