TTB C13

Chapter 13 

10 “Li Shang, my memory isn’t great. Have we met before…?”

Tianning Special Police Training Base.

The training field blazed under the scorching sun—everything glaring bright; the metal frames were heated near-burning, as if the whole ground might catch fire.

He Lin looked at the man standing opposite him—a towering two‑meters‑plus, half a head taller than He Lin, easily over two hundred jin, all corded muscle and raw power.

Though He Lin led in marksmanship and technical assessments, the man had evened the score in a strength event; the final decision would come down to hand‑to‑hand combat.

The winner would receive advantages during “Hell Week,” the special ops selection: choice of team and bonus points.

Given the disparity in height and weight, few favored He Lin.

At the instructor’s shout, He Lin charged without hesitation, no fear on his face.

He chose the neck as his target. The big man’s mass slowed his motions; muscle protected his body, but his neck was as unarmored as any man’s.

He Lin struck from the side, fingers driving for the throat—catching the giant off‑guard.

With the first hit landed, both fists hammered for the ribs—but that was a feint. As the opponent guarded and whiffed, He Lin’s leg whipped up—a fast, vicious side kick to the neck—raising a purple welt instantly.

As the big man wound up to retaliate, He Lin drove a punch into the hollow above the clavicle with a solid thud.

Airway and vessels ran there; even with He Lin holding back, the man’s breath hitched, leaving him rooted long enough to eat a string of blows.

He Lin moved with more agility, circling and stabbing in with intermittent strikes.

Soon the big man, fully enraged, tried to go for a bear‑hug slam. He Lin had baited exactly that—snaking both arms in a constricting wrap, locking the body like a flood dragon.

The giant crashed down, the ground itself seeming to tremble.

He tried to surge up; He Lin had already slid behind, forearms cinching the neck.

As He Lin tightened, the big man seized one wrist, twisted, and deliberately dropped to the mat, trying to fling He Lin off. They fell together; He Lin’s shoulder hit first, then was driven under by the man’s weight. Pain lanced the joint, but He Lin gritted his teeth and held.

His legs clamped hard around the torso, and his free arm wrenched down, strangling tighter. In his mind, only victory remained.

Starved of air, the big man’s strength finally ebbed; his grip slackened.

He Lin rolled, drove a knee down to pin the chest, and punched with the good hand—fist cracking into face and brow.

The giant’s nose and eyes swelled; He Lin had taken hits too.

After minutes of grappling, the opponent yielded.

He Lin had won.

Only when he pushed himself off, panting, did he realize—his shoulder was dislocated.

It was his first dislocation—pain different from torn flesh: a nerve‑deep throbbing, jackhammering up a line that seemed wired straight into heart and brain.

He Lin clenched his teeth, silent.

The timing was terrible. More than pain, he feared missing the selection; if he lost this year, he might have to wait until the next.

The team clustered around, all talking at once—hospital, wheelchair, stretcher. The sun had him mildly heat‑struck; the crowd smothered him—he couldn’t catch the instructor’s orders.

Then the wall of bodies parted; someone approached and crouched.

He didn’t know who—some kind of leader, by instinct. Even their instructors stood quietly aside, not daring to interrupt.

Combat fatigues, a cool voice: “This arm?”

An unearned trust rose in He Lin; he lifted the injured arm—barely—and pain flared hot in the shoulder.

The man tested his wrist, pressed along the shoulder. “I’ll count to three, then reduce it.”

Relief washed through He Lin; he relaxed, hope kindling. He counted silently: “One…”

The man never counted. A crisp pull‑hook‑set—pain, sharp as a gunshot to the joint.

He Lin, unprepared, spat a curse—his other hand clamped his shoulder; black crowded his vision.

For a second, anger drowned reason: “Liar!” What charlatan was this? His arm was ruined—

The man stood. “Done.”

He rose and turned away, clean and cool.

As the pain ebbed, He Lin moved the arm. It lifted—truly lifted…

—

He Lin opened his eyes. Sunlight vanished; the soft orange of a small night lamp replaced it—glowing from the desk.

He rotated his shoulder; no problem.

Night, deep and silent—the Missing Persons Division duty room.

His thoughts caught up—he’d been dreaming. It must have been triggered by watching Li Shang reset a man’s shoulder earlier.

The scene had really happened—before he joined Dragon Flame.

At the instant his shoulder reset back then, he’d been truly furious—that flare of anger had bled into the dream just now.

Later, when calm returned, he had thought he should thank the man. The help had been pure; if he’d been allowed to brace, the muscle would have braced too, making reduction harder. The suddenness had been mercy.

But he had been too close to fainting—he’d missed his thanks. Later at the hospital, when the pain eased, he asked teammates who the man was. No one knew—no one had seen him.

Thanks to the timely reduction, the injury healed in half a month. He recovered steadily and didn’t miss selection.

—

As time ticked by, his thoughts cleared. The clock on the wall read 5:30 a.m.

It had been two days since they caught the “Milk Bandits.”

For two days, Old Wu and Fang had tailed Wan Hong. She worked mornings, wandered afternoons, mahjong at night—that thread had yielded little.

The anti‑theft team, though, made strides. He Lin and Li Shang joined several interrogations. Two days straight wore down the gang’s psyches—their mouths began to open.

Last night, Captain Zheng ran another late session. To guard against surprises, He Lin took the night shift as well.

The duty room had two single beds against opposite walls with a corridor between—like a budget twin at an inn.

Besides He Lin, one more had voluntarily stayed to work late: Li Shang.

Li Shang was awake, lying on the other bed, pen in hand, notebook open. Seeing He Lin sit up, he propped his chin with one hand. “Bad dream?”

“A dream—but not a bad one.” Sleep gone, He Lin asked, “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“Woke up,” Li Shang said—then, after a beat, “The self‑critique wasn’t good enough. I got up to revise it.”

“…Huh? You actually wrote it?”

He’d said it in anger—annoyed Li Shang hadn’t listened. Unmentioned, it would have faded.

Now, seeing Li Shang so earnest, He Lin felt a twinge of guilt. If Li Shang really turned in a heartfelt, overnight essay, the blame would be He Lin’s heavy hand.

Li Shang shot him a “don’t be silly” look and closed the notebook. “I was teasing. I don’t plan to write it. I couldn’t sleep, so I’m skimming recent news.”

“…”

The budding guilt stuck in He Lin’s throat. Bold subordinate, this one.

As if expecting that reaction, Li added, “I was worried you’d regret it if I did write it—so I didn’t.”

For a moment, He Lin wondered who, exactly, was the leader here.

How was this talking to a superior?

What did “so you won’t regret it” even mean?

He Lin’s mouth twitched; he nearly retorted, “How considerate.” He swallowed it back.

After these days together, he’d realized: Li Shang’s obedience was surface‑thin. He did things because he wanted to. If he didn’t, no one could force him.

At heart, He Lin might never tame this overly capable subordinate.

Untroubled by He Lin’s mixed feelings, Li stood, slipped on shoes, and went to pour water.

By the lamp’s orange glow, He Lin watched him.

Li was slightly shorter, but still around 1.83—tall in any crowd. His frame wasn’t big; from behind he looked a touch slender. From that angle, his shoulders were only a little broad, waist narrow—too narrow…

The sleepwear was thin; his build was lean; the light traced him cleanly. From both shoulders down, a spine ran like a fine ridge, linking the winged rise of shoulder blades to the faint twin dimples in the slim waist below.

He Lin’s chest tightened; his mouth went dry.

His thoughts jumped back to Li’s many strengths—impeccable work, sharp at the crux in reasoning, a wordless rapport; dedicated, early to arrive, late to leave, and even staying willingly to keep He Lin company on a night shift.

The anger drained away. Forget it. No need for formalities he disliked anyway.

No one’s perfect. Li Shang was only stubborn in flashes. A different tack might be needed to get him to listen.

He gave himself a way out. “Doesn’t matter whether you write it. Just don’t do dangerous things again.”

Li hummed assent—and then comforted him in turn. “I know my limits.”

In all he did, Li moved unhurried and precise—calm and restrained—even pouring water became a study in quiet grace.

His fingers on the kettle were long and jointed, pale under the lamp—like a crafted piece in a gallery.

Watching that back, He Lin’s heart kicked; the needle of pain pricked his temple again. His voice came rough: “Li Shang, my memory isn’t great. Have we…met before?”

At the question, Li Shang’s hand stilled—visibly.