This time, they absolutely couldn’t let anyone get away!
Wen Du snapped back to her senses only to find Ji Tingxi’s hand clamped firmly over her mouth and nose while the other gripped her right arm, pinning her against the wall. They were pressed so close together that she had no room to struggle free.
Wen Du glanced at the metal partition holding the files and couldn’t help thinking that she still hadn’t been thoughtful enough. She should have kept an axe in the restroom for the benefit of desk-job types like them who weren’t cut out for close-quarters fighting.
As if confirming that Wen Du wouldn’t make a sound, Ji Tingxi released the hand covering her mouth and nose. With her breathing restored, Wen Du took several deep breaths but kept them controlled, ensuring no noise carried beyond the partition.
“Miss Wen, if I recall correctly, we’re allies.”
There were no listening devices in the restroom, but to be safe, Ji Tingxi kept her voice to the barest whisper, murmuring right against Wen Du’s ear. The sound waves reached only her eardrum, contained entirely within the curve of her left ear.
The words were so soft, like a dandelion seed drifting into her inner ear, that half of Wen Du’s cheek began to itch unbearably, urging her to scratch it.
She didn’t move, but inside her chest, a storm was brewing. The calm composure she’d carefully assembled back in the office had been overturned by an invisible hand, splashing everywhere across the floor.
Ji Tingxi hadn’t expected a reply. She leaned in even closer to Wen Du’s ear. “Since we’re allies, I hope you’ll discuss any plans involving me with me first.”
With that, she pulled back her head to meet Wen Du’s gaze.
Those gray-brown eyes were as calm and forceful as ever, sharp with intensity, yet layered beneath the brightness were shadows like the gates guarding her thoughts—keeping others from peering in or seeing through her too easily.
“You wanted me to take you to see these two prisoners and let you review the interrogation prep materials alone. What are you planning? Care to tell me?”
Wen Du felt first the scorching heat of her breath, then the icy chill of her stare. The interrogation hung in the air between them, gentle yet piercing.
She didn’t rush to answer or move, but her right hand had been restrained too long and twitched involuntarily.
Ji Tingxi hadn’t been gripping too hard, but she sensed the motion keenly. Detecting something off, she released Wen Du’s arm but cupped it in her palm.
Wen Du tried to pull her hand back, but Ji Tingxi was faster. She seized Wen Du’s wrist and held it fast in her own palm while the index and middle fingers of her other hand slipped inside the sleeve cuff, probing around.
In moments, a neatly folded slip of paper appeared between her two fingers. She eased it slowly out of the sleeve until it lay fully exposed before Wen Du’s eyes.
“Let me guess—what’s written on this paper?”
They were so close that Wen Du couldn’t make out Ji Tingxi’s full face, but the sharp contrast of her brow bone and eye sockets amplified the pressure she exuded.
Wen Du’s mind flashed back to the day Xia Lie was arrested, when Ji Tingxi had cornered her just like this, radiating lethal menace and speaking words laced with danger.
She was as vigilant as ever, cutting straight to the heart of things.
“Is it in the Sern language? Instructions for them to casually drop hints about some secret base to aid your investigation? Or maybe reassurance that a rescue is coming, so they shouldn’t panic during any unrest—just play along?”
Wen Du stayed silent. Those were precisely her intentions, schemes she’d mulled over in her mind for quite some time.
Getting no response, Ji Tingxi waved the paper in front of Wen Du’s face. Still nothing.
She lowered her lashes and let out a sigh.
She’d hoped Wen Du might come clean so they could start over and hash it out together, but now she’d have to handle everything herself. That really wrecked their “deep friendship.”
Wen Du remained leaning against the wall in her original position, watching as Ji Tingxi unfolded the “contraband.”
Ji Tingxi examined the paper’s contents, and surprise flickered openly across her face. She didn’t bother masking it this time, letting the expression play out freely.
The inside of the white paper was just more blank white paper. Nothing at all—no words, no symbols. It was like a scrap of toilet paper grabbed on the way to the bathroom.
The blank sheet lay motionless in Ji Tingxi’s palm, silent as Wen Du herself.
Wen Du reached out, crumpled it into a ball, tossed it into the toilet, and flushed.
The paper vanished with the swirling water, gone without a trace.
After destroying the paper, Wen Du took the initiative this time. She leaned in close to Ji Tingxi, draping an arm around her neck and murmuring into her ear, her voice pitched for maximum intimacy.
“You’re right, Miss Ji. From now on, any plans involving you will be run by you first.”
…
The interrogation didn’t last as long as expected, mainly because the goal wasn’t thorough questioning but verification.
Ji Tingxi explained to them that someone was planning to assassinate them to silence them. For their protection, they needed to share any suspicions they’d noticed or answer questions cooperatively.
In truth, it was mostly about observing their reactions to confirm no outside contact had been made.
Wen Du and Ji Tingxi were exceedingly cautious in their questioning and translation, sticking strictly to the pre-approved script.
What surprised Wen Du, though, was how bold Ji Tingxi got. Following up on Zi Qin’s answer, she slipped in a question outside the script:
“Have you ever seen a drone?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“A long time ago.”
“Before you entered the camp for reform?”
“Yes.”
“After that?”
“Not since.”
“You haven’t seen any flying objects in the sky at all?”
Zi Qin thought for a moment and nodded. “No.”
Without pausing, Ji Tingxi pressed on seamlessly. “To the north of the camp stands Songling Mountain, where birds often fly in and out. You’ve never seen that?”
Wen Du’s breath caught at the question.
She controlled herself and didn’t glance at Ji Tingxi, focusing entirely on Zi Qin across from them.
They now suspected that Zi Qin and Zi Cen hadn’t been held in the labor training camp at all, but in some secret base instead.
If so, the Zi Qin sisters wouldn’t know the camp’s layout and would react with confusion to this question.
Meisi had explicitly forbidden any questions about the labor training camp, and while this one used the drone as cover, it skirted dangerously close to the line. Stricter review might deem it a violation.
Sure enough, Zi Qin didn’t answer right away. Confusion crossed her face as she pondered seriously, seemingly recalling birds or searching her memory for the mountain. In the end, though, she didn’t press further and gave her usual evasive reply.
“No, I must not have noticed.”
Wen Du breathed a silent sigh of relief. The question had passed without issue.
But the next instant, she strained to listen, fearing another sudden probe from Ji Tingxi. Thankfully, after that risky foray, she pulled back, and the subsequent questions returned safely to approved territory, staying a safe distance from the labor training camp.
During the interrogation, with message-passing off the table, Wen Du devoted her attention to observing the subjects more closely.
She’d reviewed Ji Tingxi’s descriptions and built a mental profile in advance, but seeing them in person revealed some discrepancies.
The two girls were indeed gaunt, their skin rough and flaky, their knuckles prominent, their hands markedly different from those of typical girls.
Yet upon closer inspection, they looked better overall—thin, yes, with dry skin and hands tougher than average, but that toughness seemed a natural consequence of heavy labor, fitting their circumstances.
What drew Wen Du’s deeper concern was their mental state.
From Xia Lie’s accounts, she’d sensed their fierce will to survive, a determination to reach safety no matter what they had to abandon.
But now, their faces showed only a cunning numbness.
The numbness permeated their expressions, while the cunning was a tool for handling the questioning.
Wen Du could imagine that once the questions stopped—when they were left in solitary or returned to their mysterious base— even that cunning might fade, leaving only lifeless apathy.
Apathy so profound that even if the interrogation room door were flung open with all obstacles cleared, they wouldn’t run. They’d just wait for the handlers to cuff them and lead them back to their cells.
In that moment, Wen Du felt like a guest at someone else’s home, chewing on undercooked meat she desperately wanted to spit out but had to force down.
She ached for her fellow Sern people’s physical suffering, but what pained her more was their spiritual surrender—accepting reality, ceasing to resist or question, even embracing the mainstream view that everything was as it should be, best left to take its course.
That might make daily life slightly more bearable, but it ensured the suffering would never end.
Suddenly, she recalled picking up Duo Er from school with Sha Jiali and overhearing a lesson: “This Little Fish Cares.”
Perhaps this was the Rui’er Faction’s “brilliance”—no outright genocide, which would draw undeniable condemnation.
Instead, they gently stratified society, then tailored brainwashing to the Sern people’s level, achieving racial extinction through the spirit rather than the body.
After visiting Sha Jiali, another wave of helplessness crept over Wen Du’s shoulders. This one was thicker, stickier, like an octopus tentacle dragging her down, threatening to undermine the mental defenses she’d held for years.
Could Giel truly withstand the force of extermination in the end?
…
These days, the Special Action Department was running on two parallel tracks.
Ji Tingxi focused on the Zi Qin sisters, while Bai Zhuo’s efforts were ostensibly on Gailie Country but covertly still watching the Libo Faction.
This played out in the Spectator Entertainment City investigation. Director He De had tacitly approved it, and with Bai Zhuo’s authority, procedures sailed through smoothly.
But since it had shifted to an undercover operation, all actions stayed low-key, making progress glacially slow.
After a week of discreet probing, Ma Gefan finally returned to Bai Zhuo’s office to report his meager findings.
“Chief Bai, we’ve pinned down three suspects so far: the head responsible for designing the screening program, the event’s promotional planner, and the proposal’s review supervisor.”
Bai Zhuo frowned. The results matched his initial expectations, but he sensed they could narrow it further.
“What do the pro-Libo students and special-identity audience members have in common?”
“They all bought performance tickets on the Spectator Entertainment City website, at least five times each. They favor shows with classical or retro elements. Plus, they rated Theater City four stars or higher and shared performance links, giving them some promotional pull.”
“Who set that screening criteria?”
“The promotional planner. She submitted an event proposal with target customer standards in the invitee section, and it got approved.”
“Then isn’t she the prime suspect?”
Ma Gefan hesitated, falling silent for a beat.
“We can’t be certain. I pulled the backend customer lists—Spectator Entertainment City has a massive user base, and tons fit the criteria. The program includes some randomness, and the programmer had leeway to tweak the final list.”
Bai Zhuo grasped the issue instantly and set down his water cup.
“If it’s randomized, that opens up huge room for manipulation. Even insiders could pull strings—if a friend met the basics, they could slip them in.”
“Exactly. After several rounds of checks, we can only flag a rough suspect list, not pinpoint individuals.”
Bai Zhuo nodded despite himself—not in praise of Ma Gefan’s work, which wasn’t worth it, but in sardonic acknowledgment of their adversaries’ skill.
“Nice work, Libo Faction wild rabbits. You’re leveling up. They wouldn’t hold this event without assessing the risks first—knowing we couldn’t nail specifics amid all the complexity for perfect cover.”
“True,” Ma Gefan nodded along. “And with a mole inside Spectator Entertainment City, we have to limit our scope to avoid spooking them. We can’t ask openly, so intel stays thin.”
“Any issues with those suspects’ schedules?”
“Trails look clean. Their online socials and entertainment hits some sensitive spots—like searching Sern literature or browsing left-leaning posts—but nothing damning. One thing caught my eye, though: the promotional planner was a regular at Red Show Theater.”
“Red Show Theater?” Bai Zhuo’s heavy eyelids snapped open as if pricked by a needle. “When?”
“First half of last year, frequently. Tapered off later, none this year.”
“When did she join Seven Leaves Spectator Entertainment City?”
“Same—first half of last year.”
Bai Zhuo stared at the keyboard keys, channeling his focus into thought.
“Red Show Theater and Spectator Entertainment City are both performance venues, though one leans stage plays, the other movies and theater mixes. A theater city planner visiting Red Show Theater makes sense—maybe studying promo tactics. But if we’re hunting inconsistencies…”
His gaze shifted to Ma Gefan. Both had been deep in the Red Show Theater probe before—nights of stakeouts at the front lines, memories fresh without needing words.
Red Show Theater was a Libo Faction handover spot. They’d geared up for arrests only for Ji Tingxi’s emergency order to derail them. By return, suspects had vanished, traces severed.
The unfindable always stirred trouble, so in their minds, Red Show Theater was a den of thieves. Anyone linked to it reeked of guilt.
Bai Zhuo had been buried in Gailie Forces leads these two weeks, his Libo obsession cooling—until “Red Show Theater” reignited it. His teeth ground as he spoke.
“That’s it. Promotional planner Qian Ning is our top suspect. Focus your energy on her from here on out. This time, we absolutely can’t let her get away!”
