25 The Fall of Night

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After the morning, Fang Qingzhao leaned back and withdrew her embrace, clearly wearing an indignant expression that seemed to say, "What's wrong with spending a little money on flowers?"

Based on her past experience, Zhou Suirong was not someone utterly lacking in romance or severely deficient in feelings for love.

This kind of malicious, opportunistic behavior was more likely to lead not to indulgence but to trouble, using it as leverage to make a few unreasonable demands.

Fang Qingzhao quickly pulled out the room card and bypassed the large obstacle—Zhou—trying to swipe the card at the door.

He showed no intention of stepping aside, stubbornly blocking her path. She tried pushing him away with her elbow but found she couldn’t move him, so she squeezed past through a narrow gap against the wall.

She used her shoulder to push open the door, and the lights inside turned on simultaneously. The warm amber glow enveloped the foyer, hazy and soft, much like the fading twilight outside the window.

Zhou Suirong followed in, using his height to immediately position himself in front of her. She couldn’t tell what amused him, but his eyes sparkled brightly as he suddenly complimented, “Fang Qingzhao, you’re really good at lying now.”

Fang Qingzhao felt a bit complicated hearing that. “Did I lie to you again?”

“I mean inside the villa.” Zhou leaned against the wall, took her hand, and praised earnestly, “Your performance was flawless. How did you find out that Liang Yizheng and the others were involved? I’m genuinely impressed.”

Fang Qingzhao instantly felt uplifted and proudly explained, “There are several reasons. First, Liang Yizheng is unpleasant by nature. He made two unreasonable demands to me. The first was when he offered me wine; I said I didn’t drink, so he passed the wine to you instead, presumably assuming you were my companion and thinking that pressuring you might save face for him. The second time was on the balcony, asking me to smoke. I said I don’t smoke and dislike others smoking, yet he lit one right in front of me. This proves he’s arrogant, overbearing, and used to bossing others around, rarely being refused. It’s clear he has psychological issues and may be involved in illegal activities.

“Secondly, after the body was discovered, everyone panicked and seemed completely flustered, yet they tacitly avoided discussing who the deceased was or why the body was outside Liang Yizheng’s villa. This sent me a signal: they weren’t surprised that Liang Yizheng was involved in a death.

“The most crucial part—I just wanted to start the ball rolling, to coax them into badmouthing Liang Yizheng a bit. The unexpected results were thanks to your timely support.”

This was her report of her investigative findings. Zhou Suirong read attentively but listened with only half his mind.

Two seconds after she finished, he caught on and added, “Wang Da—the little chubby guy who threatened to report—didn’t talk much with me but let slip some dirty secrets about Liang Yizheng. He’s loose-lipped, vain, loves bragging, and gossips a lot. On the surface, he seems close to Liang, but in reality, he’s just a gofer. People like him can be intimidated a little to get a lot of information out; he was my original target.”

Fang Qingzhao suddenly shuddered. The events that followed had made her forget one detail, but now the thought surfaced, and she grabbed Zhou’s arm fearfully, asking, “Did you drink earlier? How could you drive after drinking?”

Zhou Suirong seemed to forget that they had broken up many times over, and he moved closer, wrapping his arms around her waist and lowering his head to kiss her.

“I didn’t drink. They were so annoying that I pretended to sip a bit, but I only touched my lips. Didn’t you smell it?”

He kissed her cheek again, his breath brushing her ear as if savoring her scent.

Fang Qingzhao’s hand brushed over the scar on his neck, her fingers pressing slightly to feel his burning body temperature and accelerated heartbeat through the rough skin.

When Zhou spoke, the vibration of his vocal cords transmitted through her fingertips.

“If I had really drunk, would you report me? Then I’d have to go to jail and wouldn’t see you for days.”

His lowered face, caught in the interplay of light and shadow, resembled a perfect silhouette, his gaze calm and gentle, making Fang Qingzhao feel dizzy and giving her the illusion of seizing an opportunity.

It was also because Zhou had just regained his memory today and was deeply depressed that she grew anxious, as if she had witnessed the bloody scene of him self-harming with a knife, making her restless.

Without thinking, Fang Qingzhao asked, “If I did something wrong, what would you want me to do?”

Zhou replied, “Hmm?”

Fang Qingzhao snapped awake, withdrew all probing touches, and buried her face in his shoulder, whispering, “Nothing.”

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Zhou Suirong thought she was upset about the earlier money issue and chuckled, “I was joking. Why do you take everything so seriously?”

He held her a while longer and said, “My fault. I won’t tease you like that next time.”

His nostrils twitched, and only then did he faintly smell the lingering smoke from the party on himself. He pulled away a bit and said, “I’m going to shower first. I’ll take you out to eat later. Wait here for me.”

Zhou Suirong left with a light step, leaving Fang Qingzhao alone in the silent room.

She stood for a moment, then sat on the bed’s edge, her mood swirling and restless. After much contemplation without result, she decided to seek advice from a colleague who also acted as her emotional counselor.

Fang Qingzhao: Lin, are you there?

Fang Qingzhao: Is it better to deliver bad news when someone is happy or when they’re unhappy?

Fang Qingzhao: On TV, it’s usually when they’re happy.

Lin was as reliable as ever and replied in less than a minute.

“No no (Little Lin, no head version): Usually, don’t deliver bad news at all.”

Fang Qingzhao: Oh.

Fang Qingzhao: If there is no good lead-in before delivering bad news, what can be done afterward to lessen the harm?

“No no (Little Lin, no head version): Don’t try to fix it. Let the other person process it themselves.”

Fang Qingzhao: What if they can’t handle it?

“No no (Little Lin, no head version): Then that’s their problem.”

“No no (Little Lin, no head version): Weak people don’t deserve to be your friends. [Smile]”

Fang Qingzhao closed the chat window disappointed.

Lin was still too robotic, lacking flexibility and human empathy.

Two minutes later, Lin responded again to her question.

“No no (Little Lin, no head version): When you feel like you can’t keep the secret any longer, and he’s happy.”

Fang Qingzhao replied gratefully: Got it.

·

The red clouds surrounding the city faded into the encroaching night. Suddenly lit lights stretched from the city into the suburbs, their glow thinning with the dense foliage. On the lake outside the remote village, the moonlight reflected in its original silver-white hue.

“Do you like fishing?”

The sudden voice behind startled Liang Ming so badly he almost fell off his reclining chair. He reached out to check that his fishing rod was still there, then turned to look at the speaker behind him.

The man had arrived unnoticed and stood about a meter away in the darkness. Only his vague silhouette and the cold gleam of his watch were visible.

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Liang Ming shone his flashlight briefly at the man’s face, avoiding his eyes but catching a rough glimpse of his features.

The man was younger than him, probably in his thirties, wearing a tailored shirt. His features lacked the pronounced contours of Liang Ming’s face and were not as conventionally handsome as Zhou Suirong’s. His temperament was gentle and refined, with an elegant subtlety as if delicately drawn by a brush. His hair was lighter in color, and standing there, he looked noble, exquisite, and fragile—completely out of place amid the chaotic weeds and muddy wetlands behind him.

Liang Ming propped the flashlight on the folding table and sprayed some mosquito repellent toward the man, then gruffly asked, “Are you human?”

He had been so shaken by the man’s elusive movements earlier that all his drowsiness vanished. He crossed his legs and said, “Sorry, I’m not so firm in my materialism. Can you talk to me somewhere else next time?”

The man stepped forward a few paces, the flashlight illuminating his tall figure, casting blurred shadows on the ground and water.

“I don’t think you like fishing. I think you like being away from people.”

Liang Ming widened his eyes, scrutinizing this strange man. “Are you trying to dish out some midnight spiritual advice?”

The man’s clear voice flowed like pure water through the wilderness: “Years in prison have ingrained in your body habits forged by transformation. Eating, sleeping, walking, sitting—everyday details mark you as different from ordinary people. Even if you prepare yourself mentally, you cannot adjust. After leaving prison, you suffer chronic insomnia, avoid strangers and communication, even fear unfamiliar voices. Especially when facing your mother and witnessing life’s toll on her, it’s a different kind of piercing punishment that makes you want to escape. These are your painful truths, impossible to shed.”

The eerie scene sent chills down Liang Ming’s spine. He grabbed his flashlight again and shone it on the man’s face and behind him to confirm he wasn’t seeing a ghost.

He held back for a moment, then blurted out, “What cult are you from? Working at midnight? I don’t have money to join, and you know proselytizing is illegal here, right?”

The man, puzzled by Liang’s cynical attitude, tilted his head and asked, “Can you accept this slow torture that is your daily life?”

Liang Ming hurriedly responded, “I can.”

The man smiled, “People tend to overestimate time’s power. I did too.”

Liang Ming lay back on the chair, arms behind his head, speaking indifferently, “You’re talking too soon. I’m over forty, kid. Wait till you’re my age; you’ll learn to let go.”

The man was unimpressed. “People excel at putting a pretty face on ugliness. They give nasty things glossy names to deceive themselves. They call bullying ‘refinement,’ compromise ‘tolerance,’ and numbness ‘growth.’ But what good does that do? It doesn’t fix the root problem. Living becomes nothing more than clinging to life without meaning.”

Liang Ming dropped his legs, sat upright, pondered for a moment, then offered sincere advice: “Have you seen a psychiatrist? With such strong self-destructive tendencies, you might need hospitalization.”

The man replied calmly, “Thank you. I have received treatment, but unfortunately, they always oppose me.”

Liang Ming, feeling cornered by the man’s words, shivered and touched the back of his neck, asking, “Why are you telling me all this?”

“The first and last people who helped me were your father. Sadly, he didn’t succeed. His final hope was your safety. I hope you at least won’t encounter what I went through.” The man lowered his gaze and placed a business card between his slender fingers, extending it toward Liang Ming.

Liang Ming took it, utterly baffled.

The man’s soft short hair was tousled by the night breeze. Before leaving, he said, “We probably won’t meet again. So, good luck.”

Liang Ming shone his flashlight after him, watching as the figure melted into the darkness among the branches and leaves. Focusing again, all he saw were layers of strange, overlapping shadows.