When the na "Li Shang" was ntioned by the technician, the special agent’s face instantly turned as dark as iron, and his knuckles drumd a dull sound on the table.
Feng Ju inwardly breathed a sigh of relief, knowing that he had narrowly passed through the ordeal.
One tip for surviving in the workplace: the leader’s anger will not disappear, but it can be redirected.
Next up was the reconstruction discussion of the case, aiming to dig out more clues about Zheng Hang.
As Feng Ju concentrated on contemplating, nurous doubts involuntarily erged in his mind, intertwining like a tangled skein:
"Eighth Academy? Isn’t that Feng Mu’s university? Mask... Zheng Hang, who was actually a schoolmate of Feng Mu?"
"March 18th seed to be around the ti when Feng Mu dropped out of school; could it be such a coincidence?"
Feng Ju repeatedly asked himself, yet felt it might be a bit far-fetched, shaking his head as he reassured himself:
"Maybe I’m overthinking it."
"But then, several of Zheng Hang’s subsequent cris happened at the Eighth Academy, which is my daughter Feng Yuhuai’s school—another coincidence?"
What once seed a harmless coincidence now compelled Feng Ju to think deeply.
As he dwelled further on these thoughts, a vague restlessness grew quietly within him:
"The trajectory of [Mask] either overlaps with my son Feng Mu or with my daughter Feng Yuhuai; how ominous this is.
Soone uninford might think [Mask] is deliberately revolving around my family!"
Feng Ju swallowed back this fright, not daring to utter a word about it at the eting.
In his mind, a horrifyingly absurd suspicion sprouted like a poisonous vine, twisting and entwining, but it always fell just short of forming a complete shape.
An unexplainable panic engulfed him like a tide, making him restless.
At this mont, he just wanted to rush ho, grab his son or daughter, and ask if they knew a man nad Zheng Hang.
The eting concluded.
The special agent specifically asked Feng Ju to stay behind, reiterating the final deadline and the promise of his daughter’s "Ascension" to Upper City.
Feng Ju looked troubled, but faced with the special agent’s cold stare, he didn’t have the nerve to negotiate, so he reluctantly agreed, already laying the groundwork for any pushback.
Feng Ju sneered and said:
"Special agent, at this point, [Mask] isn’t even affiliated with the Eighth Academy. The list Li Shang provided was off by a mile, misleading us significantly."
Feng Ju checked around before lowering his voice to say:
"If I didn’t trust Captain Li’s character, I might suspect Captain Li is intentionally covering for [Mask]."
Whether the special agent listened or not, he pressed heavily with his fingers on Feng Ju’s black-clad shoulder, with a stoic expression, though his tone was wrapped in shards of ice:
"Rember—seven days. I don’t need you to catch him, just find out where he’s hiding. Do not disappoint ."
Seated with worry at the driver’s seat, Feng Ju felt the steering wheel grow slippery from the sweat of his palms.
In the rearview mirror, the Patrol Office building’s silhouette distorted like a sinister shadow etched on the ground.
He slamd the accelerator, the blue glow from the dashboard reflecting the tight line of his mouth, chiseled like a blade.
Just as his car disappeared around the street corner, a taxi slowly stopped at the Patrol Office’s entrance.
The car door creaked open, and a ragged arm protruded, its veins snaking hideously beneath the skin.
The man staggered out of the car, each step as though treading on cotton, tottering and swaying.
His shadow stretched long under the streetlight, like a ghostly specter being drawn in, gradually swallowed by the Patrol Office’s entrance.
......
In the dining room, the warm amber light flowed over the beige tablecloth like molten amber, casting a gentle glaze on every fold.
The tabletop was pristine but slightly yellowed with age, resembling old letters steeped in ti, silently chronicling countless similar evenings.
Wang Xiuli wore the floral apron she’d been using for years, the flowery patterns having sowhat faded.
She bustled back and forth between the kitchen and dining room, ticulously setting the table with dishes she’d prepared with care.
As she finally untied the apron, fine beads of sweat clung to her bangs, glistening like crystals in the light.
She gently wiped the sweat with her hand, then sat down by the dining table with a satisfied smile.
In the center of the table, steam rose from the dishes, a delicate mist weaving between the three of them.
The clock on the wall ticked leisurely past ten, its chanical "tick-tock" swinging back and forth rhythmically.
This sound made everything seem as it always had, like the days when the whole family would sit together, awaiting the return of father and husband.
When Feng Ju pushed the door open, he saw a scene so familiar yet strangely foreign.
Feng Ju slowly walked to the dining table, taking his seat at the head.
He picked up the chopsticks, placing a piece of food into his mouth. As he set down the first bite,
the others began to eat in succession, everything as it used to be, as if rehearsed a thousand tis.
Wang Xiuli wasn’t a big eater and always ate quietly.
She sat beside them, gazing lovingly at her family, her chopsticks habitually moving to fill everyone’s bowls.
Feng Yuhuai stirred the soup in her bowl, sipping delicately like a porcelain doll, though her lowered lashes cast shadows that made her expression hard to read.
Feng Mu rely lowered his head and ate, accepting everything his mother served without a word, chewing and swallowing dutifully.
The conversation at the table was sporadic, mostly Feng Ju asking, with Feng Yuhuai responding softly, while Feng Mu remained silent, seemingly just an observer of this father-daughter interaction.
Everything seed the sa as usual.
Yet Feng Ju’s unease spread like a tide deep within.
He tightened his grip on his chopsticks, feeling sothing amiss, but unable to articulate what it was.
Finally, he set down the chopsticks, his gaze sweeping over the cara on the coffee table, his voice suddenly sinking:
"The cara... did you turn it on and look at it?"
Feng Yuhuai’s chopsticks paused montarily in mid-air.
Her lashes fluttered gently, and when she looked up again, her face resud its innocent and obedient look.
"Dad, why did you bring back this junk?"
She tilted her head slightly, a shallow dimple appearing at her lips, her tone naïve and innocent,
"My brother and I watched it; nothing plays out from it, though."
Feng Mu also set down his chopsticks, leisurely picking up a napkin to wipe his mouth before rising to the coffee table.
He removed the mory card from the cara, his gaze behind his lenses calm and gentle, extending the card to Feng Ju:
"The mory card’s a bit damaged. There’s a technician at the Second Prison who can fix it."
His voice was soft, yet each word was filled with filial piety:
"If you need it, I can take it back and get it fixed."
This was Feng Mu’s final effort for the family, the earnest plea of a dutiful son trying to salvage his father’s destiny, a hidden redemption.
But alas...
Feng Ju took the mory card, almost instinctively refusing:
"No need, even a patrol office can repair a re mory card."
Feng Yuhuai looked up, gently smoothing her bangs aside, her eyes silently following the small black card.
Her lips curled into a sweet, beautiful smile at her father.
In the reflection of Feng Mu’s lenses——
Imoto was emitting a dangerous red glow all around, the light so glaring it nearly seared his retinas...
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