TTB C22

Chapter 22 

19 “This one—I want him.”

Night, inside He Lin’s home.

With no outsiders present and the atmosphere relatively relaxed, the timing finally felt right; He Lin rallied himself to talk about something serious. “You’ve been here a while now—how do you feel about the work?”

Li Shang seemed low in mood, but still answered cooperatively. “Not too busy, and solving a case is very fulfilling.”

He Lin considered, looked at Li seriously, and extended an olive branch. “You’re very good at criminal investigation. The team’s short-handed, and the hope is you’ll stay.”

Li didn’t answer that directly. Borrowing Fang Jue’s earlier topic, he asked, “Those two people Fang mentioned—why didn’t you take them if the team is short-handed?”

The question caught He Lin off guard—he hadn’t expected Li to remember.

But since Li asked, an explanation felt necessary. “For the most part, the reasons are what Old Wu said—they weren’t a good fit. As for Fang’s nonsense—that’s all it is. Even short-handed, there are standards; not everyone fits. So yes, you’re highly regarded here, and the hope is that you’ll seriously consider it.”

Li nodded, showing little expression. “Thanks for the vote of confidence. It’ll be considered seriously.”

Sensing a chance, He Lin pressed on. “What about other aspects? Anything hard to adjust to? Getting along with everyone?”

“It’s good. Everyone is easy to work with,” Li said.

Only then did He Lin relax—at least Li didn’t reject the place. He added, “If something’s off or frustrating, say so.”

Li weighed the intent behind those words and seemed to recognize the issue in himself. After some thought he explained, “I’ve always been this way—more self-contained in life, not good at group socializing. But there’s no complaint about colleagues. Everyone’s good. Working with you… with the team—it’s been good.”

He Lin nodded—he could tell it was heartfelt. The truth was, that dinner earlier had shaken his confidence about keeping Li; now he could exhale.

Some people are, by nature, solitary. And someone like Li—exceptional—wasn’t failing to show his full ability for unknown reasons so much as giving the impression of not being outside the group, but above the ordinary.

He Lin found himself staring at Li’s clear brows and features—and realized he barely knew this newcomer at all.

A simple file couldn’t capture the person standing before him.

Often, Li felt like a former leader—cool-headed, decisive, efficient—ignoring trivial people and things. It made him seem gentle, but really it was disinterest.

A line flashed in He Lin’s mind—he couldn’t remember who’d said it: “Cattle and sheep herd together; wild beasts walk alone.”

Perhaps Li only looked mild on the surface—really, a well-disguised predator, biding his time, dangerous and compelling—drawing others in despite the risk.

With official business covered and mutual intentions clear, conversation lightened. They chatted idly.

It was the first time a colleague had visited, and He Lin introduced his collection.

They wandered the apartment. In a display case were badges and commendations from He Lin’s special-operations days, plus weapons: short blades, longer sabers, tang-style knives, sleeve daggers, model firearms, and even a replica crossbow—like a doomsday cache.

They found common ground—talking at length once weapons were the topic.

He Lin hadn’t expected Li to be so talkative after dinner. If only he’d been half as chatty earlier, He Lin wouldn’t have spent the whole evening anxious.

In good spirits, Li pointed to one medal and asked.

That opened He Lin up—he took all the medals out, set them on the coffee table, and introduced what he remembered. For four of them, no matter how he tried, he couldn’t recall where they’d come from.

A little lost and embarrassed, He Lin looked at Li—words failing him.

Li was very calm—just looking at him quietly. His voice gentled. “It’s alright. Take your time.”

Under the warm lighting, the clean, cool plane of Li’s profile seemed softer.

For a moment, a familiar, strange ache rushed He Lin’s heart—his pulse quickened, and his gaze on Li warmed, more eager than he noticed.

He Lin sank into the sofa, trying to steady himself. He had made peace with his amnesia—remembering or not didn’t have to matter. But under Li’s gaze, he found himself wanting to remember.

The alcohol rose; a dull pressure filled his head, a steady hum in his ears—the old pain. It felt like walking into a storm—he wanted to press on, but wind and rain blurred everything.

He battled the ache until, in self-defense, drowsiness swept in with the drink.

That night’s memory ended there… a forced shutdown from overheating.

—

He Lin lay still, eyes closed.

Li called his name a few times—no response; the breathing was steady—he was asleep. Something quietly hoped for fell flat. Li collected himself—he hadn’t counted on more. Just talking like this felt like enough.

Then came the next question: should he move He Lin to the bedroom?

The old him could have carried a two-hundred-pound training dummy up stairs. Now, he weighed the man, his own strength—and the fallout of hauling a drunk across the floor.

Li lowered his head, thinking.

Drag? Carry on the back or over the shoulder? Or slap him awake and order him to crawl to bed?

He sighed.

Forget it.

No need to treat this heartless pup so well. No need to be that strict either.

It would be fine to let him sleep on the sofa.

He lifted He Lin’s legs, fetched a pillow and blanket. He Lin let himself be handled—sleep deep and docile.

With He Lin settled, Li drew the curtains and left a single warm lamp on. He’d meant to leave, but studying that quiet sleeping face made leaving hard. In the end, yearning won; Li sat and simply watched him.

The air went tender, even Li’s gaze turned to liquid warmth. It felt like two years ago, before it all happened.

But then He Lin’s sleep turned restless—breath shallow, brow creasing, as if caught in a nightmare.

Li brushed a strand of hair from his brow and smoothed the frown—heart brimming with tenderness.

Then he heard He Lin murmur: “Damn it, Skull-face…”

Li’s hand stalled; his eyes went clear.

The moment shattered. It was like a hard shove into reality—fresh warmth hardened to a hundred blades, stabbing his chest.

The drop in his gut left him dazed. He staggered to his feet, dared not linger, and fled—as if running for his life.

—

Light and shadow flickered; voices blurred—someone shouting hoarsely.

He Lin knew it was a dream—but couldn’t wake. Something gripped his breath, trapping him until he lived it through again.

After failed attempts to break free, he went still—then the dream narrowed into clarity…

“Next is a week-long ‘Hell Week’ selection—remember our creed: ‘Challenge your limits—surpass yourself’!”

A bus swayed, packed with elite candidates from special police units.

Later, the bus became an open-top truck, then an off-road vehicle—paved road to gravel to dirt—deep into the mountains, away from the world.

Off the vehicle—an opening blow: ten kilometers under load. People in pursuit behind. Everyone ran to collapse, supplies exhausted.

Even among elites, the late arrivals were immediately cut—numbers dropped by a third.

At sunset, a stone-faced leader took a bullhorn for the final talk. “You’re special-police elite—you know what special operations are for. Bomb disposal, counterterror, hostage rescue—even missions abroad. We need all-rounders, the very best. This Hell Week will screen for them. After seven days, the top of you will become Tianning Base special operators. In seven days, I’ll come back to greet the victors.”

The selection had red-blue confrontation. They were Red. Blue acted as terrorists—popping out to spray fire.

People “fell” all around; a puff of smoke meant elimination. Almost daily, there were fights. Drones hovered above. Three or four hours of sleep per night at most.

There was curriculum: mountain treks, water crossings, ID-and-shoot, fast-roping, night pursuits, climbing—everything with time limits, surprise tasks popping in.

“Attention all groups—intel reports armed ‘terrorists’ breached our zone—clear them.”

“Unknown armed forces on the western edge—watch for and clear ‘booby traps’.”

“New order: terrorists have taken four ‘hostages’—rescue by 1200 hours.”

The load was heavy—the pack and weapon, plus an ammo can—helmet pressing down.

He ran and ran—lungs a bellows—snatches of air in, shoved right back out.

Time and space smeared; the mind spun up. No maps—terrain had to be learned and held in the head.

By the sixth day, only a tenth remained.

In the makeshift squad, buddies waved farewell. “You guys left—avenge us.”

A stalk of grass in his mouth, He Lin answered, “Soon.”

One day till the seventh.

Aside from him, a plump demolitions tech—looser physical cutoffs—had hung on.

Another chase at night—another round of cat-and-mouse.

At rest, someone swore. “Who wrote this op plan? Not a moment’s rest—trying to kill us?”

“Yeah—insane. Previous selections weren’t this brutal.”

“Bet the brass call it ‘meticulous’ and ‘scientific.’ They sure haven’t wasted terrain.”

The plump one tapped his black face cover. “Know what this hat’s called?”

They all paused. They wore this gear as special police—but no one had ever asked.

With no reply, he answered himself. “Balaclava.”

It drew weary chuckles.

“Balabala fairy, more like,” someone groused.

He stayed serious. “I noticed differences in the Blue team’s headgear—leaders wore full face covers. One with a skull mask—I saw him briefing the terrain. My guess? He wrote this exercise.”

“Son of a—!” At last, a target for their misery. “Alright—remember the skull face. If you spot him—beat him. Revenge.”

The final op: smash Blue’s base as completely as possible.

He Lin’s team, including the plump tech, was “wiped out.” He fought alone into Blue command—fired till out of ammo—then popped the tear-gas training grenade the tech had left him.

The tent filled with thick smoke; curses and coughs echoed. The stuff wasn’t lethal—but miserable.

The smoke thickened—he lost sense of direction—coughing, eyes streaming. Then a hand grabbed him—hauled him out.

His rescuer tossed him five paces from the tent.

He lay on his back gulping air—never had it tasted so sweet.

Through the trees, the stars were clear—spinning, arcing like meteors.

In the haze, he saw the rescuer wearing a skull mask.

The man crouched down and met his gaze.

The skull covered his face—only deep eyes showed through the dark hollows.

A cool voice said, “This one—I want him.”