TTB C3

Chapter 3

3 “For someone to remain in your memory this long, they must have been very important…”

Later in the afternoon, He Lin beckoned Li Shang to go out with him alone.

The last case had confirmed a child as one who had been abducted three years ago. Officers from the Third Sub‑Bureau had brought the child to headquarters; it fell to them to escort him back to his biological parents.

He Lin had already contacted both sides in advance.

They picked up the child and headed out.

Li Shang’s task was simple: sit in the back row with the boy and look after him.

The child was a six‑year‑old boy. He had been abducted at three; too young, he had no memory of his home, no impression of his parents. He didn’t understand what “going home” meant. In his confused mind, it felt instead as though he was being taken away from his parents now.

When faced with two strange men, as soon as he was seated the boy began demanding to get out, twisting and wriggling restlessly.

It did not take long for He Lin to discover that perhaps he had miscalculated—his new subordinate, perfect on the surface, did have one clear weakness.

Namely: children.

Li Shang had seated himself at the far end of the back row, posture upright, aura forbidding. Coldly, he told the child: “Sit still.”

For one or two minutes, the child was cowed into silence. But children are children; quiet lasted only briefly. Soon he was climbing on the seat, leaning in deliberately against Li Shang.

He seemed intrigued by this chilly, beautiful “ice‑mountain” older brother.

Li Shang pushed him gently away with a finger, warning: “Don’t make trouble. Play by yourself.”

This time quiet lasted even less. The boy began swinging left and right, chattering endless questions—

“Brother, brother, where are we going?”

“Why did the officer say I’m going home, but I only just came from home?”

He was testing He Lin’s driving.

Li Shang moved again at last. Pulling out his phone, he explained sternly:

“If you keep this up, you’ll distract the driver, cause an accident. The drive is sixteen minutes; we have been moving for three minutes and twenty seconds. You only need to keep quiet for twelve and a half minutes more.”

Precise and serious. Unfortunately, that logic was wasted on children. The boy stuck out his hand: “But brother, it’s boring! Play with me!”

Li Shang sighed softly. He looked at the child, serious: “Fine. But I choose what game.”

The child’s eyes lit up: “Okay!”

“Do you know the Idiom Chain Game?”² Li Shang asked.

“I do! I’m really good! Mom and Dad said I know a lot of idioms.”

“Then here’s one for you.” Li Shang thought a moment. “Xing gao cai lie (興高采烈 — ‘in high spirits’).”

“Lie…” The boy promptly froze, like a computer crashing. Stuck motionless.

Li Shang basked in the silence, turned to gaze out the window: “Take your time.”

He Lin, driving, tried to think of a continuation too. A full minute passed—til realization struck: this phrase doesn’t continue at all.

Li Shang had deliberately tricked the boy.

Sure enough, after two minutes the child caught on, scowling: “That doesn’t work. You give me another one!”

Li Shang turned back to him, smiling faintly. “Alright.” His lips parted to deliver: “Si fen wu lie (四分五裂 — ‘splintered to pieces’).”

Again—lie at the end. The poor child stumbled back into the pit.

Struggling one more minute, he burst into tears.

Li Shang calmly pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to him: “Don’t cry. If you can’t, go back and memorize more idioms.”

In that moment, a small boy’s heart quietly shattered.

Hearing those cool words, something in He Lin’s head flashed—like an old, distant voice saying: “If you’re weak, train harder.”

The crying grew louder. He Lin had to intervene.

With a sleight of hand, he produced two lollipops and tossed them back.

Li Shang unwrapped one for the boy, who nibbled through tears, silenced for the moment by sweetness.

Soon He Lin deftly smoothed things further. He didn’t explain that the prior caretakers hadn’t been real parents; instead, he painted dreams:

“We’re police brothers, we’re good people. Where we’re taking you has toys, clothes, tasty food. Be good—you’ll play there a few days.”

The boy, pacified, sucked candy quietly at last.

The second lollipop remained in Li Shang’s hand.

He Lin caught the sight in the rearview, lips curving. “That one’s for you. I’ve got more.”

Li Shang froze, lowered his eyes to the rose‑red wrapper. He didn’t unwrap it, only held it near his lips, as if inhaling the sweetness of a rose.

At a stoplight, He Lin turned to see: “You don’t like candy?”

“No…” Li Shang shook his head, hesitated. “Feels like it’s something for children. I don’t usually.”

He Lin chuckled: “Try this brand. They’re good.”

“…Alright. Later,” Li Shang replied, but still didn’t unwrap it.

The boy, spotting it, reached greedily: “If you’re not eating it, give it to me!”

Li Shang drew it close protectively, slipped it into his pocket. “This one’s mine. Kids can’t have too much sugar.”

Listening, He Lin smiled again. Indeed—his new subordinate couldn’t handle children, but somehow…was rather cute himself.

The parents’ home was not far. Half an hour’s drive, they arrived.

The family had never given up. Posters in every street. Faces posted online. Records in police databases. It was through those fragmented clues that He Lin had traced the boy back.

DNA matched. The truth, resolved. After years—their son returned.

At the news, the parents had been waiting at the door. A crowd of relatives hovered, stretching necks, eager beyond measure.

Once they saw him, the mother burst into tears, running forward, clutching her son and sobbing out his childhood name again and again.

The father turned away, wiping surreptitious tears, shoulders heaving with restrained emotion.

The boy, however, only stared blankly, eyes clear and uncertain. Slowly, perhaps sensing the rich love surrounding him, perhaps glimpsing fragments of memory, he timidly lifted a hand. Amid weeping, he managed to whisper: “Mama.”

The woman trembled all over, hugging him as if never again to let go.

The father stammered endless thanks to He Lin, the word xiexie repeated like a flood of gratitude.

He Lin instructed: “Let him adapt slowly. Get him things he likes.”

Li Shang, watching, remained detached. However touching, his duty was firm. He handed papers to the father. “Please sign here.”

With that, the handoff was complete. Another case—ready for a red mark, closed.

He Lin lingered to exchange brief words, then withdrew, leaving the family united.

Checking his phone, he murmured: “We’re nearly off duty. I’ll return the files. You head home if you like.” Turning: “Where do you live?”

Li Shang reported an apartment complex near the bureau.

He Lin nodded: “Good spot. You can wake at 8:30 and still be on time.”

In the front seat, Li Shang was quiet—still recalling the reunion.

He Lin grinned: “Feels good, doesn’t it?”

A soft affirmative from Li Shang.

He Lin said warmly: “That’s when I first fell in love with this work. Missing persons aren’t like homicides, where truth is predetermined. It’s like opening a blind box³—any outcome possible.”

Li Shang asked: “Cases like today’s—common?”

“Less than one in five result in reunions,” He Lin answered. “But every one is moving. Some return alive. Some, dead. Some endings happy…some tragic.”

As he spoke, Li Shang looked at him. Strong profile, high nose, brows once youthful but filled now with quiet righteousness.

He stared, momentarily dazed.

He Lin sensed the gaze, felt again the faint prickling headache. Mild though—not blinding.

Words slipped unbidden: “Each time someone finds their life’s path again, I feel complete. We police endure the harshest selection, the hardest training—for one reason only: to protect those we must protect.”

It sounded heroic, a little boastful.

Rare for him to say such words aloud, he peeked at Li Shang’s reaction—only to find his eyes startled, unreadable emotion rippling in them.

He Lin’s confidence faltered. Flustered, he rubbed his nose and laughed softly: “Not my original phrase. Something I once heard. Must’ve been someone important who said it.”

Li Shang pressed gently, gaze unwavering: “If you remember it so long, that person must have been important.”

He Lin misunderstood. Thinking he was teased for his poor memory, he relaxed—and deflected with humor: “Must’ve been a girlfriend. I don’t recall. Haha.”

The joke fell flat.

Li Shang lowered his lashes, sighing inwardly. The answer is half right. But the path is all wrong.

He dropped Li Shang at his apartment.

Inside, Li Shang unlocked the door. Once alone, his mask dropped—expression colder, freer.

He thought: At least today, being beside him didn’t trigger headaches or bleeding. That’s something. Perhaps…I can stay by his side after all.

He had much to do tonight.

The apartment was freshly rented online, rushed in straight from Tianning after sorting his discharge yesterday. Sparsely furnished, echoing.

He ordered takeout, bought necessities. Began tidying. Quiet, efficient, precise.

Nine years of life shrunk into one suitcase.

Uniforms behind him, only monochrome clothes. One by one, he hung them neatly.

Three objects came too:

First—a rectangular alarm clock. Though phones now common, he clung to it. Obsessively punctual—always waking before it rang, unless body broken.

Second—a small medicine box, filled with pills, gauze, disinfectant. Sorted precisely beside his bed.

Third—a heavy little case.

Inside—dozens of refrigerator magnets, vivid trinkets. Like toys.

At Tianning, only captains’ quarters had fridges. Sunlight bleached old magnets pale.

Expressionless, Li Shang affixed them on his fridge. Some sun‑bleached, some fresh. His memory catalogued each—when, where acquired.

Sorting normally quick; here, he lingered. Half an hour passed before they were aligned, even shifting one a few millimeters.

The top looked chaotic; the last rows, neat—an exact replica of another fridge arrangement. One in Rong Qing’s old dormitory.

One of the few surviving testaments of that era.

Takeout arrived. He ate a little, lost appetite. Leaving the rest.

By nine, he kept routine—night run. Sprinting fiercely under Yun City’s lights, circling his block. Returning pale, color drained.

Shower, dry hair, medication. Dozens of pills measured without flinch. Wounds had left him weakened—weight falling since his last recovery, strength unreclaimable. Still—alive, working—enough.

From his laundry pile, he pulled a little object. The second lollipop.

He stared at it, heavy. Rarely did he eat sweets. To him, sugar always belonged to someone else. Taken for granted then—later realizing: life grants few candies, each one less when eaten.

If it were Rong Qing, he would’ve unwrapped, eaten, kept the wrapper.

But Li Shang could not. That man had forgotten him. He could only stare at candy, think of him.

He could not bear to consume it.

Closing his eyes, he pressed it to his chest, letting his heartbeat savor its sweetness.

In imagination, he ate it. In reality, he sealed it carefully in a moisture‑proof bag, reverently like a rare treasure.

There was still time. He produced the little case again. With magnets removed, it was lighter. At the bottom lay photos and papers. His face hardened.

Into a small dark utility room he carried them, where he had prepared bare walls.

He pinned photos, strung red threads, weaving a web across the wall. Clues connected, all used.

Staring, his thoughts returned two years.

Lily Park: the joint operation, an undercover mission two weeks long. They had appeared to win triumphantly. But for him, it was defeat.

For he had left He Lin behind. Nearly died himself.

The park had four heads—the Zhao brothers, and two Chinese migrants.

When captured, two were missing: the enforcer, Xia Yan; the accountant, Bai Zang (“White Burial”).

They vanished before police struck. Taking massive funds, as though forewarned.

Xia Yan: internationally wanted.

Bai Zang: almost nothing known. Called “Boss Bai.” A ghost. Believed male, Chinese. Three years in, yet unseen by almost all. Worked entirely online, managing daily affairs remotely.

Legend said he delighted in torture chambers—those who saw him, ended dead.

After the park’s destruction, further pursuit was cut short when the Zhao brothers mysteriously died in prison before interrogation. Line severed.

Two years passed. Rumor resurfaced: someone had seen Xia Yan near Yun City. Meaning—Bai likely lingered too.

Of all who had glimpsed his true face and lived, only one remained.

He Lin.

Though his memory lost, he might still be a target.

Upon hearing this, Li Shang knew—he must come. Rong Qing’s unfinished mission. He must guard He Lin.

And, if possible—seize those two remnants.

By 11:30, Li Shang climbed into bed.

Unfamiliar home. Solitary night. Mattress softer than the base—unsettling.

After a pause, he rose, opened the wardrobe, and took out an old pillow. He held it tightly against his chest.

Only then could he fall asleep.

Footnotes

² Idiom Chain (成語接龍): A traditional Chinese word game where players must continue with a new idiom beginning with the last character of the previous one. Li Shang deliberately chose idioms ending in “裂” (lie), which has very few continuations, effectively trapping the child.

³ Blind box: A modern Chinese slang borrowed from collectible toys—meaning something with entirely unpredictable outcomes.