trust

Du Siling woke up at five in the morning, forty minutes earlier than his alarm. He did twenty push-ups, took a cold shower, and put on the black suit he had prepared the night before—a finely tailored suit that fit his body perfectly, delivered by Han Beimo's men.

As he adjusted his tie in front of the bathroom mirror, the scar on his right chin glowed a pale pink in the morning light. His fingers gently traced the scar, and Du Siling recalled a conversation he'd had with Chen Yan in his office three months prior.

"This scar will be your best cover," Chen Yan said, pushing a scalpel blade in front of him. "A scar you create yourself will look more real than one we forge."

The pain of the blade slicing through his skin was still fresh in his memory, but what stung even more were Chen Yan's next words: "Han Beimo's father killed six of us brothers, including your master. This operation wasn't just official business."

Now, Du Siling had a miniature pistol tucked into his lower back and a dagger hidden in his boot. At 6:50, he stood downstairs at the apartment building waiting for the pickup car.

A matte black Mercedes-Benz G63 pulled up on the side of the road right on time. The window rolled down, revealing Ah Feng's fierce face: "Get in, rookie."

The car was filled with the scent of leather and a faint sandalwood. Ah Feng glanced at Du Siling in the rearview mirror: "First time going out with Master Han? Remember three things: Don't talk too much, don't stare around, and don't be a damn smart aleck."

The car headed towards the North Wharf. The port was already bustling with activity in the early morning; cranes stood like giant beasts in the fog, and workers moved like ants among the containers.

"We're here." Ah Feng parked the car next to an abandoned warehouse. "I'm meeting a few unruly guys today."

Du Siling followed A-Feng into the warehouse, where more than ten men in black were already lined up and waiting. Han Beimo stood at the front, wearing a dark gray overcoat today, with a bright red azalea pinned to his collar as always. In the dimly lit warehouse, that splash of red was as glaring as blood.

"You're here?" Han Beimo said without turning his head, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. Only then did Du Siling realize that the other party was talking to him.

"Yes, Master Han."

"Stand to my right, keep a one-meter distance."

The warehouse door was suddenly kicked open, and three men, bound hand and foot, were dragged inside. Their faces were covered in blood, and one of them had his right hand bent at an unnatural angle.

"Master Han! We know we were wrong!" The eldest man struggled to kneel and kowtow. "We didn't touch a single penny of that shipment, really!"

Han Beimo walked forward slowly, his leather shoes echoing coldly on the concrete. He crouched down and lifted the man's chin with his gloved right hand: "Old Li, how many years have we known each other?"

"Ten, twelve years..."

"Twelve years." Han Beimo nodded. "Then you should know what I hate most?"

Old Li's pupils contracted sharply: "Betrayal..."

"Wrong," Han Beimo said softly, "I hate lies the most."

He stood up, took off his gloves, and threw them on the ground: "The three of you embezzled two hundred kilograms of Grade A goods and sold them for six million on the black market." He turned to Du Siling, "Du Fei, what do you suggest we do?"

Du Siling's muscles tensed. This was a test, without a doubt. He recalled the criminal psychology he had learned at police academy—criminal leaders valued loyalty and intimidation most.

"Right hand." Du Siling heard his own calm voice. "Disable one right hand from each person."

The warehouse was deathly silent. Han Beimo's eyes narrowed slightly, then he suddenly laughed: "Interesting. But too lenient." He turned to A-Feng, "Hand them over to the finance department and deduct three times the market price from their wages. If there's a next time..." He made a throat-slitting gesture.

Du Siling secretly breathed a sigh of relief, but was still puzzled. According to the police files, Han Beimo should have cut off at least a few of their fingers.

On the way back, Han Beimo suddenly asked, "Why did you say right hand?"

Du Siling's heart raced: "The right hand is more convenient for doing things. If their right hand is disabled, they'll have to use their left hand to work for you."

In the rearview mirror, Han Beimo's lips curled into a slight smile: "You're smarter than you look."

The car didn't return to headquarters, but instead headed towards the outskirts of the city. After passing through a birch forest, a white building came into view. The sign on the iron gate read "Sunshine Welfare Home".

"Wait here," Han Beimo said to Afeng as he got out of the car, then looked at Du Siling, "Come with me."

The children at the orphanage cheered and surrounded Han Beimo as soon as they saw him. "Uncle Han!" a little girl with pigtails hugged his leg, "Look at my newly lost tooth!"

Han Beimo knelt down and gently examined the little girl's teeth: "Great! They'll grow even stronger next time." He took a bag of candy from his coat pocket. "Take this and share it with everyone."

Du Siling stood aside, watching this scene in shock. Han Beimo was surrounded by children, his coldness completely gone, replaced by an awkward tenderness.

"This is Uncle Du," Han Beimo suddenly introduced, "my new friend."

The little girl tilted her head, sizing up Du Siling, then boldly grabbed his hand: "Uncle Du, the scars on your face are so cool! Like a superhero!"

Du Siling didn't know how to respond, so he could only nod stiffly. Han Beimo chuckled and led him toward the dean's office.

"Mr. Han, you've arrived." A white-haired woman greeted him warmly. "We've received last month's payment, and we've purchased twenty new beds."

Han Beimo handed her an envelope: "This is for next month. Remember to buy some winter clothes for the children."

As they left the orphanage, Du Siling couldn't help but ask, "Master Han, what's this...?"

"It was my mother's last wish." Han Beimo looked at the children playing in the distance. "She did volunteer work here for the last year of her life." The azalea on his collar had wilted a little, but it was still stubbornly red.

On the way back, Han Beimo remained silent. It wasn't until the car entered the city that he suddenly said, "Tomorrow afternoon at three o'clock, come with me to another place."

That evening, Du Siling reported to Chen Yan from the safe house.

"An orphanage?" Chen Yan's voice was full of suspicion. "A typical money laundering scheme. Don't be fooled, Si Ling. Remember how your master died? The blood on the hands of the Han family father and son can't be washed away."

Du Siling thought of his mentor—the old policeman who taught him shooting and carried him to the hospital when he was wounded on his first duty. Three years ago, during a drug raid, his mentor was shot in the head by a confidant of Han Beimo's father.

"I understand." Du Siling turned off the communicator, but couldn't help pulling out the photos she had secretly taken during the day. One of them was a drawing that the little girl had given to Han Beimo: a tall man in black clothes surrounded by many tiny figures. In the corner of the drawing, the words "Our Guardian Angel" were scrawled in a crooked hand.

The fleeting smile on Han Beimo's face as he accepted the painting was captured precisely by Du Siling's phone. The man in the photo was completely different from the cold-blooded gang leader in the police file.

Du Siling encrypted the photo and labeled it with the date. Outside the window, a full moon hung above the city's neon lights, cold and distant. He suddenly realized that he hadn't thought of the name "Du Siling" for three days. The moment the children called him "Uncle Du," he instinctively responded.

This discovery kept him up all night.