After Ning Zhuo finished packing, he couldn’t leave “Haina” immediately.
Before he could go, Shan Feibai casually asked, “Have you eaten?”
Ning Zhuo had forgotten.
He touched his upper abdomen, pressed lightly, and got his answer: “No.”
Then Shan Feibai wouldn’t let him leave.
His reasoning was: “You skip lunch, and tonight you’ll be busy with the ‘Tuner,’ so you definitely won’t eat dinner either. One thing leads to another, and you’ll starve to death. If you starve, I’ll take over your ‘Haina’!”
Ning Zhuo, annoyed by Shan Feibai’s wild and exaggerated chatter, didn’t want to argue. He turned to leave.
Shan Feibai moved to stop him.
If Shan Feibai had tried to block him seriously, going head-to-head, Ning Zhuo could’ve kicked him flat with one move.
Shan Feibai knew this.
So he didn’t use any serious tactics.
Instead, he leapt from behind, agile as a fish, wrapping his legs around Ning Zhuo’s waist, clinging tightly and leaving no chance for Ning Zhuo to throw him off.
Ning Zhuo: “Get down!”
Shan Feibai: “Eat!”
Ning Zhuo: “No time!”
Shan Feibai: “I’ll cook for you!”
Ning Zhuo: “I said I don’t have time to eat!”
Shan Feibai played the shameless rogue: “Then carry me out like this! Let everyone see you’re secretly keeping a pretty boy and parading him around town!”
The two bickered quietly, tripping over each other’s feet and moving as one, until they reached the cafeteria.
Luckily, it was past mealtime, and they didn’t run into anyone on the way.
Ning Zhuo’s attention was entirely on the heavy weight clinging to his back, unaware that a pair of eyes had already taken in their antics.
—Tang Kaichang, who oversaw all surveillance, was curled up in the lowest level of “Haina,” like a little mole savoring solitude and the comforting darkness.
But at that moment, milk straw in his mouth, he stared at the screen, dumbfounded.
The milk carton slipped from his hand, hitting the floor with a thud.
Tang Kaichang arched like a cat, swiftly picking up the carton and biting the straw again.
The scene was so shocking that, for the first time, he considered gossiping about it.
But he quickly dismissed the thought.
When they sat down in the empty cafeteria, Ning Zhuo watched Shan Feibai bustle about, tying an apron and firing up the stove. He knew he could shake off this shameless little wolf pup and run if he wanted.
But he didn’t really want to.
The “Tuner” only saw clients at night, so leaving a bit later wouldn’t delay anything important.
Ning Zhuo reflected for a moment, and a mix of irritation and amusement belatedly surfaced.
…He’d been dragged down by Shan Feibai into acting like a brash kid who only fought with words.
He found Shan Feibai annoying, but little did he know Shan Feibai felt the same about him, and was now genuinely upset.
To Shan Feibai, Ning Zhuo was oblivious to warmth or hunger, living like a machine despite being perfectly human.
He was determined to give him delicious food and nice clothes, and not even the heavens could stop him.
With quick hands, Shan Feibai cooked deftly, flipping the wok with flair, and in no time whipped up a dish bursting with life.
Within fifteen minutes, he served a plate of egg fried rice, the yolks fluffy and golden, a dazzling spread. Alongside it was a stir-fried vegetables, and a bowl of seaweed soup.
It was Ning Zhuo’s first time seeing Shan Feibai cook in person. The way he flitted about like a butterfly was oddly entertaining.
His stomach, for once, cooperated, sending out a “hungry” signal.
Ning Zhuo grabbed chopsticks and tried the dish.
It was light but flavorful.
While Ning Zhuo ate, Shan Feibai’s mouth never stopped, chattering left and right, recounting the exact scene of planting a bomb.
Over the past few days, Ning Zhuo had quietly gathered plenty of information online, but the police kept things tightly under wraps. People could only guess, and much of the news was hard to verify.
Now, hearing the bomber himself describe it vividly, Ning Zhuo quickly deduced where the explosive had been placed: “…Flowers?”
Shan Feibai, propping his chin with one hand: “Mm-hm~”
He had a knack for turning a simple sound into a smug, winding melody, making people itch to give him a playful smack.
With his hands occupied, Ning Zhuo couldn’t, so he kicked him under the table.
Shan Feibai was delighted, quietly pressing his toes against the spot Ning Zhuo had kicked, rubbing it lightly. The warmth and slight itch felt oddly pleasant.
Ning Zhuo asked, “How did you get the flowers delivered to the person you wanted?”
Though he asked, Ning Zhuo already had a vague answer in mind.
He knew Shan Feibai had used a deceptively simple trick.
Just like when he’d distracted Ning Zhuo with two brooches to swap out his watch right in front of him.
The trick Shan Feibai used was deceptively simple, almost blatantly theatrical. It relied on relentless chatter and close physical contact to scatter Ning Zhuo’s attention, allowing him to shift the positions of items on Ning Zhuo’s person.
It was all about being bold and meticulous.
And it worked.
Shan Feibai’s answer, though wildly unconventional, didn’t surprise Ning Zhuo: “I just wrote it on the table.”
…
At the same time, Hardy let out a mix of shock and anger: “…How is that possible?”
Lin Qin, Hardy, Bell, and the logistics chief stood before a row of tables covered with velvet cloths.
Lin Qin pressed a hand on the tabletop, his voice calm: “With this kind of tablecloth, it’s possible.”
He looked out the window: “It was overcast on the day of the celebration, right?”
Everyone nodded.
Silver Hammer City was perpetually cloudy, with only a few hours of sunlight daily.
On the day of the celebration, it was so overcast that even noon felt sunless.
Fortunately, the festivities were indoors, so the lively atmosphere wasn’t affected.
Lin Qin stepped into the meeting hall and turned on all the previously off lights.
Hardy and Bell stood eagerly outside, watching as bright light poured from the high, narrow windows, overpowering the dim daylight outside.
Emerging from the hall, Lin Qin drew the old-fashioned curtains in the corridor—not fully, just the sheer layer.
The corridor dimmed noticeably.
The lighting conditions now mimicked those of the day the explosion occurred.
The dark green tablecloth, even up close, appeared a deep black.
Only standing right by the table could its true color be discerned.
“Light suppression principle,” Lin Qin explained softly. “With this dark velvet as a backdrop, unless light directly hits the table, it looks black. The hall’s bright lights, streaming down from the high windows, form a triangular shadow, sealing the table in darkness—black on black. If someone tampered with the cloth and wrote on it, you might notice up close, but from the surveillance—especially from a distant, angled overhead view—it’s just a dark blur.”
Worse, the surveillance was five years old, its lenses naturally degraded, providing perfect cover for the bomber.
The logistics chief’s face paled, shaking his head: “No, no, there was no writing on the table. I checked after they set it up, everything was…”
He tried to recall the scene but couldn’t remember such details.
His so-called “check” was just a quick glance to confirm the tables were in place.
Could there really have been writing? Had he been careless and missed it?
His voice grew weaker, his face flushed with embarrassment.
Lin Qin didn’t blame him but asked, “Who helped move the tables that day?”
Each long table had five slots for flowers, so nine tables were needed, handled by three young logistics workers.
The tables had wheels, so the trio only needed to roll them out from the warehouse—an easy task.
The three young men were soon brought over.
Lin Qin placed a hand on the old velvet cloth and asked, “When you moved the tables that day, did anything unusual happen?”
The three exchanged glances, then shook their heads.
They didn’t think the explosion had anything to do with moving tables, so they were quite calm.
Seeing their cluelessness, the logistics chief grew anxious, pressing, “Did you see any writing on the tables?”
Prompted, the three thought back but shook their heads again.
The chief pushed further: “The writing might not have been obvious!”
The tallest of the group scratched his head: “Teacher Lu, we pushed the tables outside. It was cloudy, but it wasn’t night. If there was writing, one of us would’ve noticed.”
Hardy thought this made sense and glanced at Lin Qin, wondering if he’d overcomplicated things.
But Lin Qin didn’t dwell on the writing issue, instead asking steadily, “Think again. Was there anything unusual while moving the tables?”
“…There was,” a quieter boy said cautiously after a pause. “When I moved the first table, it wouldn’t budge at first… it was heavy. But once the wheels started rolling, it was fine.”
Hardy caught the issue: “What do you mean ‘first table’? Did you number them?”
The boy shrank slightly, stammering, “N-no, we didn’t number them. Someone had placed numbered signs on the tables, from 1 to 9. We thought it was a cue, so we arranged them in order outside the hall.”
…
At “Haina,” Ning Zhuo asked the same question: “There must be plenty of tables in the warehouse. If you wanted to tamper26. set the bomb, how could you ensure they’d arrange the tables in your preferred order? What if they didn’t even choose the table with the bomb?”
“So I told them in advance,” Shan Feibai said with a playful shrug. “I prearranged the tables, found some old number signs in the warehouse, and placed them in my desired order. That way, they’d naturally know to set the tables in sequence.”
To the movers, it seemed perfectly normal.
The number signs were old and unremarkable.
So, they’d instinctively roll out the tables in order, leaving the grimy signs behind in the warehouse.
Shan Feibai gestured: “I moved the stone weighing down the table, crawled under the first one, and hid, just in case they didn’t follow the order. If they didn’t, I’d cancel the plan and take the bomb away to avoid trouble.”
He grinned, showing off bright, perfect teeth: “But students are obedient. They arranged the tables just as I wanted.”
Thus, Shan Feibai’s first step succeeded.
The second step was guiding two students to place the flowers on the tables in order.
Ning Zhuo raised a concern: “If you wrote on the cloth beforehand, it’d look unnatural.”
Writing names on the tablecloth in the warehouse would create a subtle sense of oddity.
But once the tables were set up, they’d be under surveillance, and Shan Feibai couldn’t write on them anymore.
His tone was light: “That’s why I hid under the table.”
…
“What?”
Hardy’s voice rose in disbelief: “…You’re saying the culprit was hiding under the table?”
Lin Qin: “It’s a theory.”
Lin Qin lifted all the velvet covers from the tables, revealing the stones and welded crossbars beneath: “To know if the plan worked, hiding under the table gives the clearest view.”
He lightly swiped a finger across a crossbar, finding the typically grimy spot unnaturally clean—spotless, even.
—He grew more certain that someone had been here days ago.
Before leaving, that person had thoroughly cleaned, erasing all traces of their presence, even polishing the dusty stones to a reflective sheen.
Hardy asked eagerly, “But the students said there were no instructions on the tables for the two students arranging the flowers. How do you explain that? They couldn’t just appear out of nowhere, could they?”
Lin Qin pondered, “That can likely be solved alongside another question.”
Hardy, struggling to keep up, asked, “What question?”
Lin Qin countered, “Where are the flowers?”
Bell jumped in, “In the evidence room. We dismantled them and confirmed no explosives in the others—”
Lin Qin cut in, “I don’t need to check for explosives. I want to see the flower packaging.”
…
Ning Zhuo was finishing his meal.
He asked one final question: “How did you attach the bomb to the flower?”
Shan Feibai raised a finger, grinning, “That’s where I cheated with a bit of high-tech. I placed a piece of ‘chameleon’ paper over the velvet near the slots of tables 1 to 3, printed with thermochromic ink—names of the special guests. Normally invisible, but when heated, the text appears in brown.”
“Once the table movers left, I used a windproof lighter to heat it from below—the flame-retardant velvet and table wouldn’t catch fire easily, but the heat would transfer. The paper would then show the names.”
His expression grew lively and charming: “I tested it. With our school’s outdated surveillance, no one could see it from afar, but up close, you could clearly read the names in the slots.”
Ning Zhuo set down his spoon, picturing Shan Feibai stealthily crawling under the table to pull off his mischief, and let out a soft chuckle: “…Ha.”
Shan Feibai’s heart skipped at the sound, his words faltering as his pulse raced unevenly.
…
In the evidence room, guided by Hardy and Bell, Lin Qin found the scattered remains of the flower bouquets.
He went straight for the upgraded bouquet wrappings, flipping through a few before easily spotting something odd at the base.
Carefully peeling back a thin layer of adhered paper, his expression grew unreadable.
Lin Qin held the paper to his nose, sniffing lightly: “…Chameleon paper… coated with thermochromic ink.”
When heated, chameleon paper releases a sticky substance.
Lin Qin exhaled deeply.
He could now deduce the culprit’s method.
The perpetrator needed a thin explosive device with heat insulation, covered in fine velvet matching the table’s color, placed in the slot with a thin layer of chameleon paper beneath to eliminate any visual discrepancies.
The velvet covers, worn from years of use, sagged slightly in the slots, making it imperceptible.
Using the sticky property of heated chameleon paper, the explosive could adhere to the flower’s base.
The students’ act of inserting the flowers into the slots completed the crime.
Afterward, without heat, the thermochromic ink faded, and the text vanished.
This fooled the police, who mistook the thin paper under each bouquet as decorative packaging.
Every step involved people doing what seemed natural and correct:
—The table movers followed the numbered signs, arranging the nine tables in order.
—The flower arrangers placed the flowers in the slots according to the guest names.
Even the police followed their standard procedures.
The culprit’s cunning and audacity were staggering.
After hearing Lin Qin’s theory, Bell and Hardy were stunned.
Hardy stammered, “How is that possible…”
Bell, energized, said, “He’d need to enter the warehouse to set this up! Let’s check the warehouse surveillance!”
But during the celebration, many people accessed the warehouse.
Hardy sifted through the footage for hours, well into the night, finding nothing.
So, consultant Lin Qin stepped in again.
With Hardy trailing, he entered the warehouse, scanning all directions.
Lin Qin realized they could assume the culprit’s actions were simple and brazen.
The main entrance had a camera directly facing it.
No other areas had surveillance.
Yet, no normal person could squeeze through the narrow bars of the air vent.
Lin Qin frowned, then began walking along the warehouse walls, tapping as he went.
At the wall with the air vent, he found two large filing cabinets, recently moved, standing about half an arm’s length from the wall.
Lin Qin gripped the cabinet edges and pulled with effort.
His expression shifted—amused, exasperated—as he stared at the wall.
There was a hidden door, painted the same color as the wall, looking fairly new.
He hadn’t even bothered to crawl through a discreet doggy flap, insisting on striding through upright?
Lin Qin pushed, and the sliding door opened with a whoosh.
A howling north wind rushed in, instantly cooling Hardy’s flushed face.
“Damn it!” Hardy stood frozen, then roared, “You little brat, don’t let me catch you!”
