Under the scar
Raindrops pounded on the tin roof of the safe house, like countless tiny drumbeats. Du Siling sat at the dining table, her fingertips unconsciously tracing the faint scar on her chin. The kitchen faucet wasn't turned off completely, and the rhythm of the falling water droplets created an eerie duet with the sound of the rain.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Han Beimo stood with his back to him in front of the stove, making coffee. The cuffs of his black shirt were rolled up to his elbows, revealing a winding scar on his forearm. Du Siling noticed that his right index finger, which held the coffee pot, tapped the handle rhythmically—three fast taps followed by two slow taps, the letter "W" in Morse code.
warn.
"Sugar?" Han Beimo suddenly asked, his voice so calm it didn't sound like a question.
"No need." Du Siling tightened her jaw.
Han Beimo turned around, placing two cups of black coffee on the mottled table. As he pulled out his chair, the metal legs scraped against the floor with a screeching sound. Du Siling didn't touch the cup in front of him; his gaze fell on the edge of the bandage peeking out from the other's collarbone—the wound from taking a bullet for him that morning.
"Afraid I'll poison you?" Han Beimo took a sip, his Adam's apple bobbing.
Du Siling picked up his cup, the steam blurring his expression: "I'm used to black coffee." He took a sip, the bitterness exploding on his tongue, followed by a strange caramel aftertaste.
Han Beimo suddenly leaned forward, his fingers brushing against the back of Du Siling's neck. In that instant, Du Siling's muscles tensed, but the other man merely picked up a rhododendron petal that had somehow fallen there. The dried petal crumbled into powder between Han Beimo's fingers, and his golden pupils contracted to slits in the dim light.
"What are Chen Yan's terms for you?" he asked softly.
Du Siling's coffee cup clinked against the table: "What do you mean?"
"Monthly reports? Special allowances?" Han Beimo drew a five-pointed star on the table with his fingertip dipped in coffee. "Or a promise of a promotion after it's done?"
Du Siling's breath hitched for a second. He stared at the coffee stains spreading across the table, his mind racing, calculating every possibility. The safe house had no surveillance equipment, and his communicator was hidden in his rain boots in the foyer—theoretically impossible—
"Two centimeters below your right shoulder blade," Han Beimo suddenly pointed to his back with a coffee spoon, "there's a micro-coded tattoo, only police academy graduates have that." The light reflecting off the spoon's metal surface danced on Du Siling's face. "Want me to recite your badge number, Officer Du?"
The sound of rain suddenly became deafening. Du Siling slowly put down his cup, his knuckles turning white from the force. He watched as Han Beimo took a cell phone out of his pocket and pressed play. His own voice came through the speaker:
"The target has gained initial trust... Han Beimo must live... The chain of evidence needs him..."
The background sound in the recording was the sound of waves crashing against the dock warehouse last night. Du Siling remembered that report—he had confirmed that there was no one within twenty meters.
"You're spying on me." This is not a question.
Han Beimo unlocked his phone's photo album and swiped up a picture: a close-up of the internal circuit board of Du Siling's communicator, clearly showing a miniature transmitter that wasn't part of the original configuration. "You've been transmitting location signals since your first day on the job," he chuckled. "Didn't Chen Yan tell you?"
Du Siling's stomach sank. This meant that the police were also monitoring him, or rather—they didn't trust him.
"Why don't you expose me?" He looked directly into Han Beimo's eyes.
Han Beimo suddenly ripped open the front of his shirt. A gruesome scar ran across his pale skin below his left collarbone, like a lifeless centipede. "On my twelfth birthday," his voice was eerily calm, "the narcotics officers stormed into my house and searched it."
Du Siling saw her own face reflected in the other person's pupils—a similarly pale complexion.
"A stray bullet shattered my mother's favorite blue porcelain azalea pot." Han Beimo's fingertips traced the scar's path. "She was holding me when the shards pierced here." He suddenly grabbed Du Siling's hand and pressed it against the scar. "Can you feel her heartbeat, Officer Du?"
The skin beneath his palm was burning hot, and his pulse was strong and erratic. Du Siling tried to pull her hand away, but it was pressed down even harder. Han Beimo leaned forward, their noses almost touching, the bitterness of coffee and the metallic smell of blood mingling in their breaths.
"Your mother...is innocent?" Du Siling's throat tightened.
Han Beimo released him and took out a rusty iron box from deep inside the cupboard. The lid made a harsh metallic scraping sound when it was opened, revealing dried azalea petals and an old-fashioned key. The key's teeth were badly worn, and a small piece of blue porcelain, about the size of a thumb, was hanging from it, on which a blooming azalea was painted in gold.
"The police later apologized," he said, picking up a shard of porcelain and holding it up to the light, "saying the intelligence was wrong." A few tiny numbers—possibly coordinates or a date—were visible through the light.
Suddenly remembering something, Du Siling took out General Huo's dog tag from his inner pocket. The back of the metal tag had a groove that perfectly matched the shape of the porcelain shard. When he placed the shard on it, the tag emitted a slight clicking sound and projected a holographic image:
A young Huo Mingyuan stands in front of the police station, holding a little boy wearing a rhododendron wreath in his arms. The boy clutches a piece of blue porcelain in his hand, smiling brightly. The date in the corner of the image shows that this was the day Han Beimo's mother was murdered.
"This is...you?" Du Siling asked, puzzled.
For the first time, a crack appeared in Han Beimo's expression: "Impossible. I was at the hospital that day."
In the video, Huo Mingyuan suddenly looked at the camera, his lips moving. Du Siling turned up the volume and caught the muffled words, "Take good care of Alpha."
"Alpha?" Du Siling frowned. "Military codename?"
Han Beimo slammed the metal box shut. The metallic clanging sound echoed in the room, and at the same time, the doorbell of the safe house rang—three short and two long rings, Chen Yan's agreed-upon signal.
Du Siling instinctively reached for his sidearm at his waist, only to find the holster empty. Han Beimo toyed with his police pistol, then suddenly pointed the muzzle at Du Siling's forehead: "72 hours."
"What?"
"Give me a reason not to kill you." Han Beimo pulled the trigger—the click of the empty chamber made Du Siling's eyelashes tremble. "Or use this time to find out why Huo Mingyuan had that video."
The doorbell rang again, this time more urgently. Han Beimo tossed the gun back to him, and as he stood up, he took the modified communicator from the inside pocket of Du Siling's coat.
"Zhou Ye has a shipment at the dock at 10 p.m. tomorrow," he said with his back to Du Siling, "twenty kilograms of [illegible]." This was clearly a test, or perhaps a trap.
Du Siling fastened her holster and suddenly asked, "Why azaleas?"
Han Beimo paused at the corner of the stairs: "My mother said...they can bloom even in the poorest soil." His figure disappeared into the shadows of the second floor. "There's listening equipment in the attic, enough to transmit the transaction back to the police headquarters."
When Du Siling pushed open the attic door, a musty smell hit her. The old-fashioned listening equipment was covered in dust, but the power indicator light was on green. Next to the equipment was a photo frame, showing a man in a police uniform holding a little boy wearing a rhododendron wreath—the same scene as the military license plate projection, but from a wider angle, making the police station sign clearly visible: Qingsong Lane Police Station.
On the back of the photo, written in pencil, is the message: "To Alpha, remember your true father."
Du Siling's temples throbbed. He activated the listening device and inserted the microchip he had retrieved from inside the dog tag. Huo Mingyuan's voice came through the speaker:
"Project Alpha Phase Two has begun... The twins must be retrieved... The Ω sample has been reactivated..."
Outside the window, the rain had stopped. A ray of sunlight pierced through the clouds, reflecting dazzling dappled light onto the glass of the photo frame. Du Siling squinted, suddenly noticing a blurry figure in the corner of the photo—Ling Hua, holding a camera, her wristwatch displaying a countdown:
71:59:23.
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