Change
Rain lashed against the neon sign of the "Golden Glory" nightclub, staining the stroke of the character "煌" (huang) crimson. Du Siling stood in the corner of a VIP box on the second floor, his right hand resting lightly on the gun at his back. After their drunken conversation three days ago, he and Han Beimo seemed to have reached a subtle understanding—they both knew the other was hiding something, yet both chose to remain inactive for the time being.
The private room was filled with smoke. Han Beimo sat in the center of a leather sofa, opposite a representative of the Southern District Timber Merchants Association. Ostensibly, they were discussing timber business, but in reality, they were dividing up the underground casino's sphere of influence.
"Mr. Han, our boss said 30% is too little." The bald businessman wiped the sweat from his brow. "At least 40%, otherwise..."
Han Beimo slowly and methodically peeled an apple, the fruit knife deftly twirling between his slender fingers. "Otherwise?" he asked without looking up.
The bald man swallowed hard. "Otherwise, Old Cat's people said they're willing to pay a higher price."
The knife tip suddenly stopped in the center of the apple. Han Beimo looked up, his amber eyes flashing like a predator before its prey in the dim light: "Tell Old Cat, if he dares to trespass on my territory again, next time it won't be his own finger being stuffed into his mouth."
Just then, Du Siling's alarm went off. He noticed that the bodyguard in the corridor outside the private room had been replaced by an unfamiliar face, whose right hand was awkwardly tucked into his coat pocket.
"Master Han," Du Siling stepped forward and whispered, "something's up."
Almost simultaneously, the "bodyguards" in the corridor pulled out their guns.
Du Siling instinctively lunged at Han Beimo. A gunshot rang out, the bullet grazing his shoulder and embedding itself in the wall. Han Beimo reacted swiftly, kicking over a heavy solid wood coffee table as cover while simultaneously drawing a silver pistol from his back waist.
"Back door!" Han Beimo shouted.
More gunfire erupted. Du Siling covered Han Beimo as they rushed towards the fire escape, feeling a bullet graz their ear. As they ran down the stairs, the entire building was in chaos, screams and gunfire mingling together.
In the underground parking lot, just as Du Siling started her car, a black SUV rammed into and blocked the exit.
"Hold on tight!" Du Siling jerked the steering wheel, and the car swerved sharply, crashing through the safety railing of the side door and plunging into the rainy night.
In the rearview mirror, the two cars were in hot pursuit. Du Siling skillfully navigated the alleyways, using the counter-tracking techniques she had learned at the police academy to make several sharp turns, finally shaking off her pursuers.
"You're a good driver." Han Beimo checked the pistol magazine. "Did you get taught at the police academy?"
Du Siling tightened his grip on the steering wheel: "The army."
Han Beimo chuckled softly and didn't press the matter further. He pressed his left arm, revealing a dark red stain seeping through his white shirt.
"You've been shot?" Du Siling turned sharply.
"Abrasions." Han Beimo frowned. "But we can't go back to headquarters. We can't trust anyone until the mole has been identified."
Du Siling pondered for a moment, then turned the car around and headed towards the northern suburbs. Twenty minutes later, the car stopped in front of an abandoned cabin in the woods. This was one of the police's safe houses, theoretically known only to senior officers.
"Where is this?" Han Beimo looked around warily.
"A hunter's temporary shelter." Du Siling helped him out of the car. "I found it by chance; it should be safe."
The room was covered in dust, but the basic facilities were complete. Du Siling started a fire, rummaged through the first-aid kit, and helped Han Beimo take off his blood-soaked shirt. When the wounds were exposed to the firelight, he gasped—the bullet graze was fresh, but Han Beimo's body was covered with various old scars: whip marks, burns, and even several obvious knife wounds.
"Have you seen enough?" Han Beimo's voice was icy.
Du Siling didn't answer, silently cleaning her wounds with alcohol. Han Beimo's skin glowed golden in the firelight, his muscles clearly defined, yet he was covered in scars, like a broken piece of porcelain pieced back together.
After the bandage was applied, Han Beimo suddenly swayed, his forehead burning hot. Du Siling helped him lie down and noticed that the wound showed signs of slight infection.
"I need antibiotics." Du Siling rummaged through her medicine cabinet but only found a few expired pills. "I'll go to town to buy some."
"Too dangerous." Han Beimo grabbed his wrist, his strength weakened by the fever. "Wait until dawn... Afeng will find us..."
Late at night, Du Siling stood guard by the fire, listening to Han Beimo's breathing gradually become heavy and irregular. He would occasionally wipe the other's burning forehead with a damp towel, a strange protective instinct welling up inside him.
"Mom..." Han Beimo suddenly murmured in his unconscious state, "Don't go..."
Du Siling's hand paused. In the firelight, Han Beimo's usually cold face was now as vulnerable as a child's, his brows furrowed and his eyelashes trembling.
"Azaleas...Mom likes azaleas..." Han Beimo murmured intermittently, "Dad...please don't hit her...please..."
Du Siling involuntarily grasped his hand, surprised by her own action yet unable to let go. Han Beimo's palm was large and rough, with calluses on his knuckles from years of fighting, but now it was curled up helplessly.
"It's alright now," Du Siling said softly, reassuringly. "You're safe."
In the darkest hour before dawn, Han Beimo's fever finally subsided somewhat. He briefly regained consciousness and saw Du Siling still by his side, a complex mix of emotions flashing in his eyes.
"Why?" he asked hoarsely.
Du Siling knew what he was asking—why someone who might be an undercover agent would go to such lengths to protect him. "Professionalism," he replied, half-jokingly.
Han Beimo closed his eyes: "When I was nine, my father locked me in the basement for three days because I broke a vase. The next day was my birthday, and my mother secretly brought me a cake and a rhododendron—the only one in the greenhouse that blooms in winter. My father found out..."
His voice was so soft it was almost inaudible: "He strangled her right in front of me. The azalea she clutched in her hand turned red."
Du Siling felt a tightness in his chest. He recalled the cause of death of Han Beimo's father in the police files—he was shot and killed for resisting arrest, and the one who fired the shot was his master's old partner.
"And then?" Du Siling asked softly.
"Later, I learned how to survive in that hell." Han Beimo turned to the wall. "Go to sleep. We'll go back when it's light."
After Du Siling waited until his breathing stabilized, she quietly checked his phone—this was a golden opportunity. However, when she unlocked the screen (the password was the scientific name of azalea, which she had memorized while listening to Han Beimo's ramblings the night before), what she saw was not evidence of a crime, but a series of photos of welfare homes and donation records.
What shocked Du Siling the most was that one of the folders was labeled "Sunshine Home"—the very orphanage where he spent his childhood. Opening the file revealed a detailed list of donations over the past ten years, with the earliest donation occurring exactly the year he left the orphanage.
Du Siling's fingers trembled slightly. He flipped through the photo album and found dozens of photos of him with the children. Han Beimo smiled naturally and relaxed in the photos, completely different from his usual self. The latest photo was taken last week, and a familiar figure in the corner made his heart stop—the elderly Dean Li, the kind woman who had stayed up all night to watch over him when he had a fever.
My phone suddenly vibrated, and an encrypted message popped up: "The mole has been dealt with. Location? —Ah Feng"
Du Siling quickly replied with the coordinates and then deleted the record. He put his phone back and stood by the window, gazing at the gradually brightening sky. The rain had stopped, and a thin mist rose from the woods, much like the growing fog in his heart.
He came here to collect evidence of Han Beimo's crimes, but unexpectedly discovered the gang leader's unknown acts of kindness. Ironically, he might be one of the beneficiaries—the mysterious donation that the orphanage suddenly received years ago provided them with new dormitories and textbooks.
Du Siling pulled out a miniature communicator hidden in his shoe heel; this was the perfect opportunity to report to Chen Yan. But when he pressed the start button, he hesitated to utter the agreed-upon code.
Beside the fire, Han Beimo curled up in his sleep, like a child lacking a sense of security. Du Siling recalled his trembling voice when he recounted his mother's death, the scars covering his body, and the smiling faces of the children in the orphanage who called him their "guardian angel."
Chen Yan's urgent voice came through the communicator: "Nighthawk, please respond."
Du Siling took a deep breath and turned off the device.
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