“It’s because he was too good. Too outstanding. The top marksman in the Special Forces unit, with so many commendations to his name — at just over thirty years old, he was about to be appointed Deputy Captain of the Special Forces unit.
A position that others had spent years scheming and clawing for with every ounce of cunning they had — and he simply walked into it without a word. How could that be allowed? There was only one seat. He was sitting in it and wouldn’t get down. How was anyone else supposed to climb up?
Of course they had to pull him down. Better still to drag him into the mud, stamp on him a few times, make sure he could never rise again — only then could they get rid of the resentment festering inside them.”
Zhou Jin’s tears broke free and poured down her face. Her fingers trembled without her realizing it. “What are you saying…?” she whispered.
“That’s the way it was,” Zhao Ping said. “No help for it — who told Zhou Chuan to stand out so much, to invite so much envy?”
Zhou Jin heard the implication in Zhao Ping’s words — that internal conflict within the Special Forces unit had gotten Zhou Chuan killed. For a moment she could hardly believe it. Her expression grew increasingly agitated. “Who was it?! How do you know all of this? Because you were part of it, weren’t you?!”
“Senior Sister, don’t accuse me of things I didn’t do,” Zhao Ping said. “How could I have harmed him? Of everyone in the Special Forces unit, your brother was the person I admired most.”
---
The Special Forces unit had long maintained a tradition of hazing new recruits. No one could say exactly when it had started — the original intention was to teach newcomers to respect their seniors through a dressing-down, but over time it had devolved into thinly veiled bullying.
When Zhao Ping first joined the Special Forces unit, the team organized a shooting training session. Because of his exceptional marksmanship, Zhou Chuan wasn’t among the students — he was the instructor.
On the very first day of class, Zhao Ping arrived late. Zhou Chuan punished him with fifty push-ups.
Zhao Ping resented Zhou Chuan for it, cursing him under his breath for throwing his weight around.
When the session ended and everyone headed back to the changing room, the Special Forces members — perhaps sensing an easy target — decided it was time for some hazing. First they smacked the back of Zhao Ping’s head, making him go around bowing and calling each of them “big brother” one by one, then ordered him to strip and do push-ups on the floor while they filmed it.
Zhao Ping felt deeply humiliated. Burning with anger, he naturally refused — and glared at them with undisguised fury.
Seeing that he still dared to be defiant, they raised their fists to beat him. But the one who appeared at the door and stopped them was Zhou Chuan. “That’s enough,” he said. “Don’t push people too far.”
When Zhou Chuan stepped in, they all made way.
Zhou Chuan didn’t even glance at Zhao Ping. He walked to his locker, pulled off his shirt as if nothing were happening, then cast a mild look around at the rest of them. “Still staring? Looking for a fight?”
Someone muttered quietly, “We were just messing around.”
Zhou Chuan pulled on a short-sleeved shirt unhurriedly, propped his hand against the locker door, and looked at that person. “Then come try it. Let’s see how fun it is.”
The person was left without a word to say. Sulking, he muttered, “Chuan-ge, we were doing it for you. This kid was late on his very first day — clearly he doesn’t respect you at all.”
“What am I, exactly? Why does it matter if someone doesn’t respect me?” Zhou Chuan had finished putting on his white short-sleeved shirt. He reached out and draped an arm around Zhao Ping’s shoulders. “This kid’s aim is exceptionally good — all of you could learn from him. If I ever hear about anyone giving him a hard time again, we’ll have a reckoning.”
Zhou Chuan’s features were open and striking — a thoroughly upright face. Even when he issued a warning, his delivery was unhurried and understated, devoid of any sharp edge. Just something cold and still underneath that made anyone who heard it feel an involuntary chill.
---
During Zhao Ping’s time in the Special Forces unit, he’d rarely had the chance to exchange more than a few words with Zhou Chuan. Yet he had never forgotten him.
Zhou Chuan was witty and good-humored, easygoing by nature, and commanded enormous respect within the unit. But none of that was the reason Zhao Ping remembered him.
The reason Zhao Ping remembered him was simple: Zhou Chuan was the first person who had ever told him his aim was good.
“Zhou Chuan was a good person,” Zhao Ping said. “But in a world like this — what use is being good? If he’d had even a little cunning, even a little shrewdness, he wouldn’t have lost his life.”
Zhao Ping’s eyes had reddened slightly.
“It’s such a waste. Such a terrible waste.”
The wind roared past his ears, and the wail of police sirens tore through the night sky — everything too loud, too chaotic, grating on Zhao Ping until he felt frayed and restless.
Zhao Ping looked at the police surrounding him on all sides, sealing off every exit, and knew that this time there was truly no escape — not even if he had wings.
Get arrested? Submit to interrogation, stand trial, and then spend ten-odd years behind bars?
He was nothing like those people born with silver spoons in their mouths. If he went to prison and came back out, how was he supposed to reintegrate into a society that would have moved on without him?
All those things he had wanted to chase — he still didn’t have them. And it would be very hard to have them ever again.
At that thought, Zhao Ping let out a long, slow breath — and felt, inexplicably, something close to relief.
The wind.
A free wind, sweeping in.
Acting on some sharp, wordless instinct, Zhou Jin lowered her gun and said: “Zhao Ping — come back!”
Zhao Ping spread his arms wide, closed his eyes, and turned to embrace the wind. “I don’t want to look back anymore,” he said quietly. “And there’s nothing I regret. This is the path I chose. I intend to see it through.”
Zhou Jin sensed that something in his expression had begun to shift. She moved toward him directly, with quickening steps — and just as she broke into a run, Zhao Ping turned and ran toward the void of the night sky.
Zhou Jin launched herself after him and, at the very last instant, seized one of his arms. The dead weight of his falling body nearly dragged her over the rooftop railing with him.
Zhao Ping looked up, startled.
Zhou Jin’s tears streamed down in rapid succession. From the sheer force she was exerting, her face had flushed a deep red. She bit down on her teeth and yelled: “Don’t do something so stupid!”
The tears traced a path across Zhao Ping’s face — wet, slightly cool — and settled something inside him.
Over the years he had worked alongside Zhou Jin, Zhao Ping had quietly observed her from a distance.
She was Zhou Chuan’s younger sister. But aside from a slight resemblance around the eyes and brows, the two were completely opposite in temperament.
Zhou Chuan was like water — Zhou Jin was like fire. One gentle, one scorching. Zhou Chuan extended understanding and respect to everyone he met, while Zhou Jin despised evil and drew clear lines between right and wrong.
But now, at last, he could see where the two of them were the same.
The same tenderness.
At the same moment, the other officers came rushing over to help. Before they could reach him, Zhao Ping made a decisive choice and wrenched her wrist away.
Zhou Jin cried out in pain, and the sudden loss of force made her hand go slack — and in an instant, her grip was empty.
Zhou Jin’s eyes went wide. On instinct she leaned out to catch him again — but Tan Shiming, arriving just in time, yanked her back.
The two of them crashed heavily to the ground.
Tan Shiming was not as young as he once was. That fall sent a pain shooting through his lower back as though it had snapped clean in two.
“Director Tan — Director Tan, are you alright—”
Tan Shiming waved a hand to indicate he was fine, accepted an arm to lean on, and hauled himself upright.
Zhou Jin was still sitting on the ground. All color had drained from her face. She stared at her own hand with unfocused eyes, then moved her fingers — numb now from the pain.
She froze.
She remembered the last look Zhao Ping had given her. His lips had moved, forming a very short sentence.
The wind carried his voice up to her.
He had said: “Thank you.”
Zhou Jin raised a hand to cover her eyes, and let out a sob of grief: “I didn’t catch him. How did I not catch him…”