Chapter 192 Psychological Trap
Sheng Tingzhou's eyes flickered slightly as he recalled the words Zhou Huaiqing had said that morning in the office while leaning back on the sofa: "You and Zhiwei are not a good match. A young woman's youth is limited; don't waste her time."
His tone was calm at the time, but every word he spoke was like a needle piercing the eardrum.
He snapped out of his reverie, a faint smile playing on his lips, his tone indifferent: "It's nothing, just the usual platitudes, telling me not to hold you back, and to set you free."
He paused, his voice becoming even softer, "But I didn't agree, and I won't agree."
——
The next morning, just as dawn was breaking, the sunlight outside the window was just beginning to climb onto the windowsill.
As soon as Song Zhiwei reached out and pushed open the door, she saw Sheng Tingzhou already standing at the door, one hand still hanging in mid-air, his fingertips only inches away from the wooden door, as if he was about to knock, but he stopped the moment she opened the door.
"What's wrong?"
She was still a little sleepy and asked in a soft, sweet voice.
His expression was grave, his brows furrowed, and his voice was low: "About the car accident last time... I've found something wrong."
The person I contacted last night replied, and the driver's background was completely exposed.
Song Zhiwei's heart sank, and her fingertips unconsciously clenched the hem of her clothes: "What's wrong?"
He didn't answer immediately, but instead pulled her into the study, his steps steady yet carrying a hint of urgency.
After closing the door, he went straight to the computer on his desk, quickly tapped a few keys on the keyboard, and the screen lit up.
The screen showed a blurry video—the angle of the shot was clearly from a window of the building across the street, with the camera pointing directly at Zhou Yuze's hospital room window.
The lighting was dim, and the nighttime images were noisy and slightly shaky, but the movement inside the room was still discernible.
Despite the distance and shaky footage, every movement was glaringly clear: the hospital bed was empty, then the door was pushed open from the outside, and a figure walked in—it was Zhou Yuze.
He walked steadily, his expression was natural, and there was no sign of injury.
He walked to the water dispenser by the bed, bent down, picked up the water glass, and poured a glass of water with smooth and steady movements.
The water flow was controlled perfectly; not a single drop spilled from the rim of the cup, and not even a tremor was felt in his hand.
Song Zhiwei stood frozen in place, her eyes fixed on the screen, as if she couldn't believe what she was seeing.
Her voice trembled, as if squeezed from deep in her throat: "My uncle... he's perfectly fine? His leg..."
Was it broken? The doctor said it requires long-term rehabilitation, how could it be…?
Sheng Tingzhou stood beside her, his tone calm but heavy: "Yesterday I had someone review the hospital's surveillance footage and retrieve all the records from his hospitalization. Unfortunately, the cameras closest to his ward all went offline around 3 a.m. on the day of the incident and were not restored until the next morning."
He paused, his gaze falling on Song Zhiwei's pale face. "What's even stranger is that the equipment in other areas is working perfectly, but the surveillance on his floor looks like it was deliberately sabotaged."
“This video,” he pointed to the screen, “was filmed by someone who paid a lot of money, from a high floor of that empty old building across the street. The person who filmed it hid behind the curtains and used a telephoto lens. Your uncle’s leg is perfectly fine. Not to mention walking, his posture and coordination are completely normal.”
His voice lowered, carrying an undeniable chill: "And that car accident—according to the driver, it was personally arranged by Zhou Yuze. The time, the location, the route—everything was planned in advance. Even the manner of the impact was carefully considered, enough to attract attention without actually causing serious injury."
After he finished speaking, he clicked the mouse again and opened an audio recording.
A low voice came from the speaker, with a noisy background, like a conversation inside a car.
"When the time comes, we'll just run straight at the woman in the photo."
A male voice spoke, his tone stiff and numb.
Another voice hesitated before replying, "But what if something really happens? Will I end up in jail? Who will be held responsible?"
"Don't drive too fast..."
A third voice came, slow and calm, with a commanding tone, "Keep it steady. Just give her a fright, don't actually hurt her. Remember, make it look like an accident."
In that instant, Song Zhiwei seemed to have lost her soul; her body swayed slightly, and she had to hold onto the corner of the table to barely keep her balance.
Her lips trembled violently, her eyes were vacant, as if her soul had been torn apart by reality.
She asked softly, her voice almost inaudible, "Uncle... how could he do such a thing? Why? Why did he lie to me?"
These recent events have been like a bucket of ice water poured over my head and toes, the chill spreading down my spine and throughout my body.
She couldn't believe that her uncle, who had protected her since childhood, stood up for her, and silently offered her candy when she was scolded by her mother, would deceive her in this way and even use his "serious injury" to force her to soften her heart.
He wasn't like this before.
How did the person who would kneel down to tie her shoelaces and hold an umbrella for her on rainy days suddenly become a stranger who planned a scam and manipulated people's hearts?
The warmth of her memories clashed violently with the truth before her eyes, causing her so much pain that she could barely breathe.
Sheng Tingzhou stared at her face, watching the hope in her eyes slowly fade away.
His voice was low, but every word was clear: "Is it possible... that he just wanted to use this 'serious injury' to make you feel guilty? To force you to turn back? To make you give up your current choices and return to your original life path?"
Song Zhiwei's mind went blank, as if countless needles were piercing her temples at the same time.
Last night's scenes in the hospital suddenly flooded back—Zhou Yuze lying weakly on the hospital bed saying, "Wanwan, you've finally come to see me," with tears streaming down his face; him holding her hand and saying, "I just wanted to see you," his voice hoarse and sorrowful… It turned out that all those tears and trembling were just an act.
Every word, every expression, is a carefully designed psychological trap.
"I'm going to the hospital."
She looked up abruptly, a resolute glint in her eyes. "I want to ask him myself. I want to hear him tell me, face to face, why he did this."
Sheng Tingzhou didn't speak, but just looked at her quietly. After a moment, he nodded slightly.
That nod contained understanding, support, and silent companionship.
In the ward, the nurse was bent over, intently taking his blood pressure.
She held the blood pressure monitor in one hand and gently adjusted Zhou Yuze's sleeve with the other to make sure it wasn't too tight around his upper arm.
The only sounds in the air were the ticking of instruments and the faint sirens of ambulances outside the window.
The door was suddenly pushed open roughly, slamming against the wall with a loud bang.
Song Zhiwei burst in, her steps hurried, her cheeks slightly flushed, as if she had just run from afar.
Her hair was a little messy, and there were fine beads of sweat on her forehead, indicating that she had arrived in a great hurry.
Zhou Yuze was taken aback. He looked up at the doorway, his pupils trembling slightly, and a long-lost light flashed in his eyes.
The light was brief and gentle, like seeing a candle flame in the dark night, carrying a kind of indescribable expectation.
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