Chapter 4: Acting with Effortless Control

The expected pain never came. Instead, an arm snagged his waist, pulling him off balance, and he found himself face-planting into a firm yet yielding human cushion.

Rustle! Papers were scattered across the floor.

In that instant, the mingled scent of tobacco and black tea filled his nostrils. Jian Ruochen registered that the scent came from the man he’d collided with. The position was awkward; he’d never been pressed this close against another person before.

He hastily yanked his hands free, pushed off the man’s shoulders to create distance, and straightened up quickly.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbled. “And thanks for catching me.”

“No problem,” the man replied, his voice low and slightly husky, as he straightened up fully.

With some space between them now, Jian Ruochen finally got a clear view of the man he’d run into. He was tall and strikingly handsome, though his features had a cold, sharp edge. His expression was severe, complementing a frame characterized by broad shoulders, long legs, and lean, defined muscles, bringing to mind a panther coiled and ready to pounce.

A well-cut camel trench coat hung open loosely on his frame, collar upturned, revealing a black, fitted, ribbed turtleneck sweater underneath—likely made of expensive cashmere. The close fit of the sweater hinted at a solid chest beneath, and the faint lines of shoulder holster straps were visible. Below the waist, a metal belt buckle glinted above long, powerful legs clad in tailored camel wool trousers.

Jian Ruochen’s eyes drifted slightly, his thoughts momentarily straying. Those legs look like they could deliver a lethal kick.

He risked another quick glance. The man, his features composed and unreadable, crouched to gather the fallen papers. His tone was detached, his words brief. “Name?”

The tone wasn’t far off from someone officially taking a statement.

“Jian Ruochen.” He crouched too, helping gather some of the papers. As he did, his peripheral vision caught the small, grey text in the header of an A4 sheet. Hong Kong University Faculty of Medicine, Woods Homicide: Scene Examination Report. It was about the Feng Jiaming case.

Anything related to Feng Jiaming’s case is related to me now.

He figured establishing a little rapport couldn’t hurt; might even be useful later. As he passed the papers he’d collected back to the man, Jian Ruochen asked politely, “And your surname is…?”

“Guan,” the man replied, pausing almost imperceptibly before adding, “Guan Yingjun.”

Guan Yingjun straightened the papers. “Statement’s done, but you’re still here at the station. Why?”

Jian Ruochen raised an eyebrow slightly. Well now. This was the first time he’d met someone who spoke like an academic genius tackling an equation. Terse, methodical… giving the distinct impression of someone who skips all the intermediate steps and just presents the critical points.

Someone less quick on the uptake would undoubtedly be asking: How did you know I just gave a statement? How did you know I intended to remain here? How did you know I was curious about your name?

And then, withered by one of Guan Yingjun’s impatient glances, they’d probably flush with embarrassed anger and storm off.

Amused by his own train of thought, the polite deflection Jian Ruochen had been about to offer changed course. “I need to see the primary suspect in the HKU Faculty of Medicine Woods Homicide case.”

Only then did Guan Yingjun take a moment to properly study the young man standing before him. The youth’s hair was a bit disheveled, but there was a faint smile on his lips, and his expression was perfectly composed.

He held himself ramrod straight despite the ill-fitting wool jacket he wore. There wasn’t a trace of confusion or panic on his face; he acted as if being brought into a police station as a potential suspect was as routine as going home. His amber eyes, fringed by subtly curled lashes, held a clear, penetrating intelligence.

Guan Yingjun looked away. He wasn’t entirely blameless in that collision moments ago. He didn’t like owing people. And Jian Ruochen looked obviously unwell; leaving him to wait around aimlessly could result in him collapsing right here in the station. Letting him rest and return later seemed more sensible.

Guan Yingjun glanced at his watch. “It’s midnight already. I saw Inspector Chan’s team heading out when I got here. Making the arrest and processing will take time. You could probably come back around 3 AM.”

Jian Ruochen’s eyes crinkled in a smile. “Thank you.”

See? A little polite conversation always pays off. More friends, more paths, no matter where you are. That gave him plenty of time for a nap first.

Jian Ruochen closed his eyes, stifling a yawn. When he opened them again, Guan Yingjun had vanished.

…S-such speed!

Tucking his hands back into his pockets, Jian Ruochen ambled out of the station and slid into the passenger seat of the Porsche. The car’s heater circulated warm, scented air, enveloping him completely. Jian Ruochen immediately relaxed, practically melting into the plush leather seat back. The effects of the cold medicine were starting to hit him.

Breaking out in a light sweat yet barely able to keep his eyes open from drowsiness, he mumbled towards Luo Binwen in the driver’s seat, “Gonna… sleep here… wake me at three… need to see… suspect… Thanks, Uncle Luo…”

Having delivered his instructions, he succumbed to a heavy, hazy sleep.

Dimly, through the haze of sleep, he was aware of someone quietly opening a car door, stepping out, and then getting back in. A sliver of cool night air slipped through the cracked-open window, carrying with it fragments of low, whispered conversation from nearby.

“…Guan sir really shows his CIB training, doesn’t he? Those interrogation methods… tsk, pretty damn ruthless.”

“Well, they’re all like that from CIB. It’s kinda our equivalent of the CIA, right?”

“So intense… figures he’s 26 and never dating… Hey, d’you know why he left CIB, anyway?”

“Can it with the gossip,” a lower voice admonished. “Your big mouth’s gonna land you in hot water one day.”

The speaker smacked his lips. “Ah Cai, you got a smoke? Let’s have one.”

Outside, the sharp, distinct click-flick of a lighter sounded.

Jian Ruochen was now wide awake.

He turned towards the driver’s seat. “What time is it?”

Luo Binwen replied, “2:40 AM.”

Almost three. His body felt considerably better as well. Now, only those nagging questions needed answers!

Jian Ruochen sat up, ran fingers carelessly through his hair to smooth it down, then opened the car door and walked back towards the police station.

Inside, he walked past the pantry area and towards the interview room, where he saw Chan Wanchuen standing nearby with her arms crossed. Fatigue was plain on Chan Wanchuen’s face, marked by faint dark circles beneath her eyes.

She looked up at the sound of his approach, registered Jian Ruochen, paused briefly, then retrieved her notebook. Finding the ID card tucked inside, she held it out. “My apologies,” she said. “In the rush to bring in the suspect, I forgot to give this back.”

“Thank you.” Jian Ruochen accepted the card, his gaze shifting towards the one-way mirror set into the wall behind the inspector. Through the glass, he could see someone seated in the interrogation chair, hands cuffed, immobilized. The person was visibly trembling, shaking like a leaf, clearly in the grip of immense fear.

“Hasn’t Huo Jinze confessed?” Jian Ruochen inquired.

“He confessed alright,” Chan Wanchuen confirmed. “The DNA match was conclusive; he couldn’t deny it.” She shot Jian Ruochen a curious glance. “But… Guan sir finds his motive for the frame-up questionable. He suspects someone else might be behind him, which is why the questioning is still underway.”

Jian Ruochen paused. That aligned precisely with his own suspicions.

Just then, the interrogation room door opened, and Guan Yingjun emerged. He’d removed the trench coat, leaving the black turtleneck fully exposed. Perhaps the interrogation had heated him up; the sleeves of the sweater were pushed up, revealing solid forearms.

Chan Wanchuen frowned. “If the brass finds out you interrogated him like that, you’re going to catch hell again.”

“Mm,” Guan Yingjun responded noncommittally, clearly unconcerned.

Chan Wanchuen sighed inwardly.

Guan Yingjun stopped directly in front of Jian Ruochen, looking down at him. “I’ve just reviewed the recording of your interview.”

Quite skilled, Guan Yingjun assessed internally. First, he deftly repositioned himself from suspect to witness. Then, purposefully sidestepped direct questions while taking control of the dialogue. He then guided Chai Jinwu’s recollections, gently eliciting the prime suspect’s name and probable motive—all while volunteering absolutely nothing about himself.

Guan Yingjun held Jian Ruochen’s gaze. “I’ve also accessed your personnel file and university records.”

None of that aligns with the expected skillset of a medical student. Something isn’t right here.

A prickle of sweat traced its way down Jian Ruochen’s spine, but he met Guan Yingjun’s intense stare head-on, unflinching. He simply let out a questioning hum, “Hm?” Looking away now would be tantamount to showing guilt, he thought. Can’t make such a rookie mistake.

He finally grasped what ‘Ah Cai’ meant about Guan sir’s interrogation ‘techniques’. Facing a gaze this sharp, feeling like it could slice you open and expose your innermost thoughts—anyone who didn’t crack under it had the makings of a professional spy.

Guan Yingjun maintained his stare. The youth’s eyes held the ghost of a smile. Strands of slightly-too-long dark hair fell haphazardly beside his face, as if casually brushed aside. His striking eyes looked clear, almost innocent, and that questioning hum sounded genuinely perplexed, silently asking: What does my background have to do with this case?

Guan Yingjun’s eyes narrowed fractionally. He inclined his head towards the interrogation room. “You mentioned wanting to see the suspect earlier. Have questions for him? Go ahead.”

Such a transparent maneuver, Jian Ruochen thought. Guan Yingjun was testing him, seeing if scrutiny would force him to reveal his capabilities. Holding back now would signal guilt or concealment. Good thing I had no intention of hiding my skills anyway.

Jian Ruochen took a closer look at Huo Jinze through the window. Noticing the suspect’s chapped lips, he turned, grabbed a paper cup, filled it with warm water from a nearby dispenser, and carried it into the interrogation room. He walked over and placed the cup on the table directly in front of Huo Jinze.

Huo Jinze lifted his gaze. He shifted his wrists slightly, the chains securing them to the chair rattling noisily—clank, clank. His hands were cuffed flat to the surface built into the chair. He couldn’t even lift them, let alone reach the cup.

After a few seconds of silence, Jian Ruochen picked up the cup and held it to Huo Jinze’s lips, tilting it gently. He did it purposefully – a small gesture designed to reinforce the feeling of receiving aid, a simple technique to lower psychological defenses.

The sound of Huo Jinze’s desperate gulping filled the small room. He drank eagerly, not spilling a drop, and let out a long, shuddering sigh once the cup was empty.

Outside the room, Guan Yingjun lit a cigarette, watching the scene unfold through the mirror in silence.

Jian Ruochen turned, pulled over another chair, and sat down directly opposite Huo Jinze, bringing them face-to-face, close and level. They were close enough that Huo Jinze could almost make out individual eyelashes framing Jian Ruochen’s eyes. He thought back to that cup of water—like life-giving rain—that the police had refused him despite his pleas. His voice was unsteady. “I framed you… why did you give me water?”

“You looked thirsty,” Jian Ruochen replied simply. He paused. “Would you like some more?”

Huo Jinze’s breath hitched, nearly choked by a sudden, overwhelming surge of guilt. He would have preferred hysterical questioning, harsh rebukes, even a punch or a slap—anything but this quiet gesture of goodwill from the very person he had wronged. Receiving this kindness made him feel no different—no better—than Feng Jiaming or Chai Jinwu!

Huo Jinze clenched his fists, pressing them hard against the chair’s surface. He bowed his head, a sharp stinging sensation filling his nose. Gritting his teeth, he forced out, “What are you doing here?” He was starting to break.

Interrogating students is far easier than dealing with street-smart old-timers, Jian Ruochen reflected. “I have some questions I need to ask you,” he said softly.

He reached out, gently placing his open hand over Huo Jinze’s tightly clenched fist. “Why frame me? Feng Jiaming humiliated you – I understand wanting him dead. He had it coming. Chai Jinwu slandered you and cost you your job – hating him is understandable too… But me?”

He spoke again, his voice almost a murmur. “You don’t strike me as the kind of person who’d kill over a scholarship. Your grades in our program are practically equal to mine. With just a little more effort, you definitely could have earned that scholarship on your own merit.”

Outside the room, the cigarette dangling from Guan Yingjun’s lips had burned halfway down, a long cylinder of ash clinging precariously to the end. He’d never witnessed acting this good. So controlled, so natural.

Even the tone was perfectly judged – a blend of confusion, sorrow, reluctant empathy, and a hint of pained regret. It had clearly shaken the suspect, whose eyes were now red-rimmed.

How could a person with this level of social skill possibly be unpopular at university? How could anyone genuinely find him loathsome? Either the records are inaccurate. Or he maintains a completely different persona at university. Or… this isn’t the same Jian Ruochen.

Guan Yingjun carefully tapped the long ash into a portable ashtray he produced, took another drag, and blew out a slow smoke ring, perhaps tasting a hint of tea mingling with the tobacco.

“Get me Jian Ruochen’s file and records again,” he instructed Chan Wanchuen. “I need to go over them one more time.”

Chan Wanchuen passed him the file. “What’s wrong?”

Guan Yingjun frowned slightly as he flipped through the pages. “Jian Ruochen’s current demeanor is utterly inconsistent with the descriptions gathered during campus interviews. In fact, it’s diametrically opposed. Has he undergone cosmetic surgery?”

Chan Wanchuen thought that was reaching. “Are you suggesting an imposter? Post-surgery faces usually look stiff. Recreating Jian Ruochen’s kind of seemingly natural good looks surgically would be extremely challenging; it would require extensive work. His expressions are far too mobile and natural for that. Don’t let your suspicious nature run wild.”

Guan Yingjun’s gaze returned to the one-way mirror. “Let’s observe further.”

Inside the room, Huo Jinze’s eyes were red, tears dripping onto the surface before him. Jian Ruochen turned, grabbed a couple of tissues from a box on the side table, folded them, and gently pressed them to Huo Jinze’s face.

He waited patiently, replacing the tissues as needed, gently wiping away the tears until the young man in the cheap, fleece-lined hoodie finally subsided. Only then did Jian Ruochen speak again. “Okay. Now tell me. Why did you frame me?”

Huo Jinze looked into Jian Ruochen’s eyes, then down at the damp tissues. He finally broke his silence. “Someone… someone paid me a lot of money. A man, about thirty years old. His surname is Jiang.”

Thirty? Jian Ruochen processed. Jiang Minghan is over fifty, and Jiang Hanyu is only nineteen.