Chapter 11: Entering the Station

Professor Li shrugged on his leather jacket. “Why exactly are you taking my student back to your headquarters?” he asked Guan Yingjun.

“He’s relevant to the current case,” Guan Yingjun replied coolly. “Besides, didn’t you just suggest he become our consultant? Consider this an introduction to the team.”

Professor Li nearly rolled his eyes. “Is this your idea of a proper introduction? That’s not how it works. I can’t just let you whisk him off like this. I’m coming too.” Wouldn’t want someone’s notoriously bad temper flaring up and intimidating the boy.

Guan Yingjun offered no comment, simply proceeding to settle the bill at the restaurant’s counter.

Jian Ruochen’s eyes flickered over the bill Guan Yingjun was paying – four thousand dollars for the three of them. Nine hundred dollars for a single lamb shank – four and a half times the price of the noodles! Even the chicken wings were fifty bucks a pair. This meal had likely just cleaned out Guan Yingjun’s frayed wallet.

While Guan Yingjun settled the bill, the enthusiastic (and financially motivated) delivery runner quickly explained the driving arrangement to a restaurant manager, then expertly pulled the white Toyota up to the entrance, face alight with anticipation.

Professor Li gestured vaguely at his midsection. “You two take the back,” he told Jian Ruochen. “This car’s rear seat isn’t the roomiest; I doubt all three of us would fit comfortably back there.”

Jian Ruochen had zero desire to be squashed next to Guan Yingjun again, but sitting leg-to-leg with the professor felt even more awkward and likely to spark gossip if noticed.

Resigned, he murmured an assent and slid into the seat behind the driver. He reached for the seatbelt buckle but found the strap itself seemed to have been long neglected, wedged deep into the crack of the seat. After a futile attempt to dig it out, he gave up.

The moment Guan Yingjun folded himself into the seat beside him, the already limited space became intensely cramped.

Those impossibly long legs of his simply couldn’t fit straight; he had to angle them apart significantly just to wedge them into the footwell.

In an effort to maintain even a sliver of personal space, Jian Ruochen found himself pressed almost entirely against the door panel.

Any minimal distance he’d achieved, however, was quickly rendered meaningless by their driver’s… enthusiastic… technique. The Toyota tore through the streets towards West Kowloon at breakneck speed.

As the driver took a sharp corner, inertia flung Jian Ruochen sideways. The edge of his forehead connected jarringly with Guan Yingjun’s shoulder, before he slid downwards, ending up pressed against the solid expanse of the man’s chest.

“Excuse me,” he muttered, awkwardly pushing himself upright.

Then, turning towards the seat crack, he applied considerable effort – practically his ‘milk-sucking strength’ – and finally managed to excavate the recalcitrant seat belt buckle. The lock clicked satisfyingly into place.

Belted in, however, Jian Ruochen found himself pulled more towards the middle of the seat cushion. Any meager space he’d previously ceded to Guan Yingjun vanished; their legs were now pressed firmly together from hip to knee.

Guan Yingjun subtly glanced down at his watch. At this speed, still ten minutes to go…

For the first time ever, the return journey to headquarters felt agonizingly long. Guan Yingjun consciously slowed his breathing, nearly holding it altogether, but that damned yuzu fragrance still seemed to worm its way into his senses.

The faint aroma had an insistent presence, almost potent enough to eclipse the lingering scent of his own tea-flavored cigarette smoke. He cracked open his window. A blast of cold air immediately invaded the car.

Jian Ruochen shot him a quick look before turning his attention back to the scenery flashing past his own window. A double-decker bus, painted a deep burgundy red, rumbled past on the adjacent lane. He’d only seen vehicles like that on TV before; his eyes widened slightly with fascination.

Approaching noon, the streets bustled with open storefronts. Signs – blue with red lettering, yellow with white – jutted out from the buildings at staggered heights, a dense canopy of advertisements reflecting the midday sun.

He caught a glimpse of a traditional Chinese medicine clinic, its name hand-painted in elaborate traditional script. Long white banners with red characters snapped in the wind, occasionally brushing against the tall, curved necks of the streetlights.

The neon tubing bordering the signs and the arrays of small bulbs above doorways were dormant now in the bright sun, their glass appearing a dull, translucent grey.

It was easy, however, to imagine the dazzling spectacle they would create once illuminated after dark. This was the unique charm of the nineties – a beauty that was vibrant, chaotic, almost bizarrely fantastical.

Jian Ruochen watched, captivated, completely forgetting about maintaining personal space.

With their legs now pressed firmly side-by-side, Guan Yingjun could distinctly feel, even through the fabric, the yielding softness of limbs unaccustomed to rigorous exercise.

He attempted another awkward shift, but in the confined space, not only did he fail to gain any distance, his leg ended up brushing against Jian Ruochen’s thigh. That soft, yielding contact seemed magnified tenfold.

Suddenly, the conditioned air felt overly dry, almost stifling, stirring an internal heat that was difficult to quell.

Guan Yingjun reached into the side door compartment, pulled out a bottle of mineral water, and downed more than half of it in several long swallows.

Only then did he lean his head back against the headrest, his expression calm as he let out a slow, even breath.

After a pause, he glanced back at Jian Ruochen. The youth remained engrossed in the view outside, face alight with fascination, eyes sparkling like a teenager planning a school trip.

Their interactions over the past few days had been a constant strategic dance, a back-and-forth. It made him frequently forget that Jian Ruochen was only nineteen, barely out of high school, really.

The car zipped past an imposing Romanesque building, a stone plaque by its gate reading: “Harbourfront New Town Mansions”.

Jian Ruochen’s gaze lingered on the building, and his thoughts turned to Jiang Hanyu fleeing in the taxi earlier. He’s probably back at Jiang Ting Residence by now.

He hadn’t held back with his words today; he wondered what Jiang Hanyu’s next move would be.

---

Jiang Ting Residence.

In his perpetually spring-like room, Jiang Hanyu had changed into delicate white silk pajamas. Padding across the thick carpet, he clutched a recently opened bottle of hard liquor.

Picking up the heavy, ornate telephone receiver from a side table, he spoke listlessly into it. “Brother Lu Qian… come have a drink with me.” His voice dropped to a dejected murmur. “Brother Ruochen… he really doesn’t want me around anymore…”

Lu Qian’s voice sharpened on the other end of the line. “You went to see him? Did he give you a hard time again?”

Jiang Hanyu had started out performing, playing the victim. But hearing Lu Qian’s reaction, the memory of Jian Ruochen’s icy stare resurfaced, leaving him genuinely stunned for a moment.

“…He really doesn’t want me anymore,” he repeated, the words now holding a different weight.

A knot formed in Lu Qian’s chest. “Why waste your thoughts on him?” he said deliberately. “And are you drinking? With your condition? Don’t move. Wait at home for me.”

Jiang Hanyu murmured an agreement, but the moment he hung up the phone, he poured himself a generous measure of the liquor and downed it, quickly followed by another.

When Lu Qian arrived, he found Jiang Hanyu draped over the sofa armrest, face flushed crimson, eyes glazed and unfocused.

He looked thoroughly intoxicated, tears streaming silently down his face, drop by single drop – a picture of fragile, heartbreaking beauty. Jiang Hanyu just looked at him, saying nothing.

Lu Qian unfurled a soft blanket, carefully tucking it around Jiang Hanyu’s bare ankles. Then his eyes fell on the liquor bottle – nearly half empty.

Anger flared within him. “Didn’t I tell you not to—” He’d barely begun the reprimand when a tear landed silently on the back of his hand.

Lu Qian’s anger instantly evaporated. “Okay, okay,” he relented immediately. “We’ll let it go this time. But your health is fragile; you can’t drink like this.”

Jiang Hanyu blinked slowly. “Doesn’t matter. I’m going to die eventually anyway.”

Lu Qian gently placed his fingers over Jiang Hanyu’s lips. “Don’t talk like that. I won’t let you die.” He paused, fatigue weighing on him.

He’d been working non-stop since the previous day dealing with the fallout from Jiang Yongyan’s arrest; he was drained.

“Where’s your father?” he asked wearily. “Why isn’t he here taking care of you?”

Jiang Hanyu pouted slightly. “You know him. Always engrossed in business. He hardly ever comes home.”

Lu Qian gave a silent scoff. Yes, engrossed in business… and utterly obsessed with his public image. Which is precisely why he allowed the papers to print that narrative about the payoffs.

He remembered the headline splashed across the papers in bold print: [Jiang Minghan Spends Lavishly, Suppresses Media to Protect Steward – What Was Steward Jiang’s Crime?]

It made sense that Jiang Minghan would try to spin this to save face, but strategically, cutting his losses now and sacrificing Jiang Yongyan was clearly the smarter move.

This news story, while not directly naming the Lus, effectively drew public scrutiny back to the underlying crime. Once the police officially announced their findings regarding Jiang Yongyan, both the Lu and Jiang families would inevitably be implicated!

Lu Qian gently ruffled Jiang Hanyu’s silky black hair. “Don’t worry your head about any of this,” he soothed. “Jian Ruochen gave up the engagement himself. As soon as this mess with Jiang Yongyan is over, we’ll announce our own engagement. You just concentrate on resting and getting well. Don’t waste tears on that heartless bastard. When you’re better, I’ll take you somewhere nice, alright?”

Even as he uttered the comforting words, an image of Jian Ruochen’s sharp, clear eyes flashed in his mind. He used to think those eyes resembled Jiang Hanyu’s, but now… now they seemed utterly distinct.

Jiang Hanyu’s eyes were softer, rounder, more innocent. Jian Ruochen’s eyes… they held a penetrating insight, a shrewd, knowing intelligence.

Completely different.

Jiang Hanyu tightened his grip on Lu Qian’s hand but didn’t acknowledge the mention of engagement. Cheeks flushed, eyes downcast, he whispered, “How can I not be heartbroken? He’s my brother… He was always so kind to me before. Anything I asked for, he’d give me…”

The old Jian Ruochen… he would definitely have given me his blood.

---

“Achoo—!” Jian Ruochen sneezed violently as he stepped through the entrance of the West Kowloon Regional Police Headquarters, the force of it making his head spin momentarily.

Who? Who’s scheming against me now? Jiang Hanyu? Lu Qian? Jiang Minghan? Or is it Guan Yingjun?

Jian Ruochen turned his head. Guan Yingjun met his suspicious look, remembered cracking the car window earlier, and reflexively rubbed his nose.

The officer stationed at the internal security desk snapped to attention and saluted smartly. “Sir Guan!”

Guan Yingjun gave a curt nod in return, then pulled a cigarette from his case and tossed it towards the officer. His face remained impassive; it looked less like offering a smoke and more like the legendary Judge Bao casting down a verdict slip.

“Keep up the good work,” he said flatly.

The officer caught it deftly and tucked it behind his ear. “Yessir. It’s our duty.”

Jian Ruochen hadn’t pegged the stern-faced, severe Guan Yingjun as the type to casually offer cigarettes. He studied the man’s profile with renewed interest.

Guan Yingjun caught his stare. “What? You want one?”

“No, thank you.” He didn’t smoke; why would he want one?

Guan Yingjun led them towards the main CID building, up to the top floor, and opened the door marked ‘Team A’. Inside, eight L-shaped workstations lined the walls. Files were everywhere – piled on desks, stacked on the floor. Manila evidence envelopes and case binders formed precarious towers, some nearly reaching desktop height.

The entire eastern wall served as a massive whiteboard, currently dotted with magnetically attached photographs. The picture in the upper left corner was of a uniformed patrolman. In the photo, he wore his service cap, eyes crinkling with a smile for the camera as he offered a crisp, proud salute.

Guan Yingjun’s gaze rested on the photo for a moment before sweeping across the notes scrawled on the whiteboard.

“That’s him,” he said quietly. “The officer who discovered Feng Jiaming’s body.”

He continued, his voice low. “Twenty-four. Also an HKU student, like you. The day he was killed… he’d just received news of his promotion from patrol officer to constable, allowing him an assignment inside the station. He was planning to visit his professors at the university to share the happy news.”

Instead, his death was the news being reported.

As Guan Yingjun’s words hung in the air, someone abruptly sat up on a folding cot tucked underneath the nearest desk.

The man squinted blearily. “Sir Guan? You back?”

He groped blindly across the cluttered desk surface, bumping precariously stacked files but apparently not locating what he sought.

Jian Ruochen noticed a pair of black-framed glasses perched precariously on the desk’s edge. He picked them up and held them out. “Your glasses.”

“Ah, thanks, thanks!” The man accepted them gratefully, breathed condensation onto the lenses, wiped them hastily on his shirt hem, and put them on. His vision cleared, focusing on an extraordinarily striking face.

He blinked. “And you are…? Look, this isn’t really a tourist area. If some movie star needs to shoot footage, they need to clear it through Public Relations first.”

Wow, someone this stunning must be from an agency, right?

Guan Yingjun cut him off with a look. “He’s with me. Professor Li’s student.”

“Oh! Oh, right, sorry about that.” The man’s face brightened into a wide grin.

He extended a hand towards Jian Ruochen. “Zhang Xingzong,” he introduced himself. “CID Constable.”

Jian Ruochen returned the handshake, smiling warmly. “No need for apologies at all. You weren’t wearing your glasses; perfectly understandable you couldn’t see clearly. Say, are you perhaps an admirer of Professor Li’s work? Would you like his autograph?”

Zhang Xingzong felt a wave of warmth, as if bathed in comfortably hot water. Wow. It had been ages since someone had so smoothly offered him a way to save face like that. He hadn’t expected to feel that kind of easy relief today.

Truly a student worthy of the master of behavioral analysis, Professor Li! Psychologists really know how to make people feel good!

Zhang Xingzong enthusiastically grabbed Jian Ruochen’s hand in both of his, pumping it vigorously. “Yes! Please, yes!”

Chuckling good-naturedly, Professor Li took a marker and autographed the back of Zhang Xingzong’s police identification card.

Guan Yingjun watched this display, unimpressed. What? Handing over glasses, providing a conversational out, and securing an autograph… is that all it takes to completely charm you?

Frowning, Guan Yingjun felt a sudden pang of regret for having brought Jian Ruochen along. He hardened his expression, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. “What are you gawking at? Is cherishing that autograph going to crack this case?”

Zhang Xingzong instinctively snapped to attention, evidently well-practiced in enduring Sir Guan’s reprimands.

Guan Yingjun jerked his chin towards the door. “Go get the rest of the team back here. We’re having a briefing.”