Zhou Jin: “…If it’s about that, I apologize.”
“I don’t want an apology.”
“Then what do you want me to do?” Zhou Jin said. “Just tell me — and I’ll make sure I do it.”
Under her questioning gaze, Jiang Hansheng fell silent. She could only say something so bold because she already knew he wouldn’t make any unreasonable demands of her.
When she saw that he wasn’t going to answer, Zhou Jin smiled in exactly the way he had expected — and was just about to say something when Jiang Hansheng pulled her tightly into his arms.
“Would you think of me — just a little? Would you?”
His voice was typically cool and low, and he had always been someone who kept his feelings reined in — for a request like this to come from him without warning was, without question, a direct blow to the softest place in Zhou Jin’s heart.
She felt herself adrift for a moment, taking in the gradually tightening grip of Jiang Hansheng’s arms and the warm breath at her throat.
“Zhou Jin.”
Only now did she realize — every time he called her name with that particular gravity, it burned all the more for how serious he sounded.
Jiang Hansheng’s warm, dry lips found the skin of her neck. His voice dropped low. “I need you.”
This was the second time Jiang Hansheng had said these words. Unlike the first time, this time held less ambiguity and far more weight.
Zhou Jin paused for a moment. Then her fingertips slipped into his hair, and she moved her face lightly against his cheek. She answered quietly: “Alright.”
“…”
After a little while, Zhou Jin wrapped her uninjured arm around his shoulders and said softly, “My shoulder actually hurts quite a lot.”
Jiang Hansheng moved to look at it. Zhou Jin didn’t loosen her arm — she held him closer instead.
Half complaint, half something softer: “It really hurts.”
---
Zhou Jin had been honorably wounded, and lifting her arm came at considerable cost, so no matter how much she worried about the ongoing rescue operation, she had no way of taking part in person.
All she could do was call Yu Dan every day and ask whether there had been any new developments in the search.
Each time they spoke, Zhou Jin could hear that the serious crimes unit had been pushed to the edge of disorder. Yu Dan kept her answers vague — most likely because Yao Weihai’s whereabouts remained unknown.
Jiang Hansheng went to the university to teach as usual, and came home to stay with Zhou Jin whenever he had any free time.
Occasionally, he would hold video conferences with Wang Pengzhe — who was still in Huaiguang — and the junior colleagues in the criminal research department.
Jiang Hansheng told Wang Pengzhe about the presence of a “fifth party” in the warehouse all those years ago. Upon hearing this, Wang Pengzhe broke out in a cold sweat.
The very real possibility that Qi Yan had never died — that was, by any measure, a deeply unsettling piece of news for them.
He urged Jiang Hansheng to be careful at all times.
Jiang Hansheng told him not to worry, and asked him to go back over the old case as quickly as possible using the new leads — to see whether anything could be found regarding Qi Yan’s background and identity.
It wasn’t until the fifth day of the search and rescue operation — when Zhou Jin could barely move her arm again with something resembling freedom — that she received a call from Yu Dan.
She could tell from the tone that there was news. Without even waiting for Yu Dan to finish speaking, she scrambled off the sofa and made for the wardrobe to get dressed.
With one hand barely functional, her movements were clumsy in the extreme.
Jiang Hansheng set down the remote control, walked over, and helped her get her sleeve on, then fastened her buttons.
Zhou Jin’s attention had already been pulled entirely toward whatever Yu Dan was about to say — she let Jiang Hansheng tend to her without a second thought.
A moment later, she gripped the phone tightly and demanded, “Say that again.”
Yu Dan repeated herself, her voice carrying a faint tremor: “We found two bodies in the eastern outskirts. They may well be Director Yao — and his informant…”