“Your return—” There was a hint of defiance in Shen Zhicheng’s tone. “Don’t worry, I won’t tell Grandfather.”
“You don’t meddle, and I won’t either.”
As for why Shen Zhicheng had become a police officer — Shen Yong Xuan had no interest in asking.
She casually set down her napkin and stood up: “Ten-something hours on the plane — I’m tired. Going back to rest.”
Shen Zhicheng rose as well: “I’ll take you back to your hotel in Central.”
But Shen Yong Xuan shook her head: “I’ve changed my mind. If I’m back in the country, of course I’m staying at home.”
…
Shen Zhicheng and Li Heng walked toward the Kowloon City apartment together.
They walked side by side into the elevator, with Shen Yong Xuan trailing slowly behind, taking in the surroundings and the security.
Shen Zhicheng leaned close to Li Heng and whispered: “Now that’s a real young lady.”
Li Heng’s expression remained calm: “Shen Zhicheng — she’s staying at your place.”
He immediately shot back: “No — your place!”
The elevator reached the top floor. Only two units — doors facing each other.
Shen Yong Xuan glanced around: “You two know how to arrange things for yourselves — neighbors now.”
The siblings each pulled out their keys and unlocked their doors.
She held her handbag, stepped into Shen Zhicheng’s place for a quick look, then walked over to Li Heng’s.
She tossed her handbag onto the sofa, and said to Li Heng as if it were only natural: “This unit has a better layout and better lighting — I’m staying here.”
Bang — Shen Zhicheng slipped into his own place and shut the door, not even opening the glass door to the shared private rooftop, completely ignoring it.
That night, Li Heng lay in bed. Every time she was about to fall asleep, there was a knock at the door.
“I think I smell five-finger fig root soup — who made it? Heat some up for me.”
“Get me a new bath towel. Where’s the essential oil? I want to take a bath.”
“The curtains are too thin — Hong Kong’s neon lights are blinding. Find me an eye mask.”
Li Heng lay in bed, sighing silently.
Who said Shen Zhicheng was hard to please? Compared to their aunt, he was practically an angel — he hadn’t even graduated.
The next morning, Li Heng got up on time, washed up as fast as she could, and tiptoed out with her shoes in hand, trying not to wake the guest in the spare room.
The moment she closed the door, she ran right into Shen Zhicheng — also tiptoeing in the hallway.
He jerked his chin toward the unit, asking silently with his eyes how the night had gone.
Li Heng immediately pressed a finger to her lips: “Shh.”
The two siblings dashed into the elevator, escaping like fugitives, and headed straight for the station.
When they entered the CID room, the officers were already in full swing.
It had been too late last night to dig into Ku Cheung Fung’s statement. By morning, everyone was focused on the case — even the usual chatter was rare.
Officers moved in and out of the office area. Shen Zhicheng also pulled the latest entry records.
From May to mid-August — all records of incoming travelers were in the data.
“The records are complete — nothing missing, including last night’s arrivals.” Shen Zhicheng placed the thick stack on Li Heng’s desk, tapping his finger on one name in the August column. “Your aunt.”
Li Heng rubbed her temples.
In the afternoon, the conference room doors were open.
Officers filed in one by one, flipping through documents as they reported their progress.
Lin Jiacong spoke first: “We found Ku Cheung Fung’s assistant — holed up in a rental eating bread, probably lying low. That guy’s no good either — the moment the shop got raided, he grabbed everything of value. Didn’t leave a cent of the tens of thousands in the drawer for Ku. Said he earned it after all those hard days. At the TV station, he looked all proper and respectable — now he’s every man for himself.”
“He earned it?” Gao Zijie snorted. “Work a few days and make tens of thousands — not even a money printer works that fast.”
“He didn’t actually know about Ku’s scams at first — he really thought Master Ku had real skills and wanted to apprentice with him, build some connections, and eventually open his own shop,” Lin Jiacong continued. “He has alibis for both cases.”
Fang Zhishan nodded, flipping through the freshly taken statements: “For the first case, he was at a dessert shop with his girlfriend — the owner remembers them bickering the whole time, can vouch for them. For the second case, he was organizing a queue at the shop — plenty of witnesses.”
“Now Ku’s still fixated on those tens of thousands, yelling to report him to the police. It’s like dogs fighting over a bone.”
Old You stood up next: “I verified Ku Cheung Fung’s alibis. For Ng Mei Yan’s case, he was on the bus to the TV station — the passengers are long gone, but the bus driver remembered him. That day, he’d dressed all ‘immortal-like’ for the camera — the driver was startled and remembered him vividly. The bus schedule matches too — solid alibi.”
“As for the second case — a neighbor ran into him when he left the house. Since he’d gotten rich these past few days, he’d started taking cabs — there’s a call record from the taxi dispatch.”
“The neighbors said Ku had foreseen his own rise? Say what you will, but he’s got some luck.”
Gao Zijie also stood up: “In Ku’s statement, he mentioned smoking and chatting with a female journalist downstairs before the incident. I asked the shop owners, staff, and security along the street near the TV station — none of them remembered anything.”
“They said there’s a corner near the station where people usually go to smoke. It’s tucked against the wall, blocked by a large billboard — it’s hard to spot unless you’re looking closely.”
“But the staff member in charge of cueing remembered that just before the show was about to start, they couldn’t find him anywhere — they searched for half an hour and were getting frantic. That means Ku Cheung Fung did leave for about thirty minutes before the 1 AM show started. He came back in a hurry, saying he’d just been downstairs smoking.”
“He didn’t mention running into the female journalist downstairs.”
“Of course he wouldn’t bring it up,” Old You said with disdain. “If that wasn’t just a story Ku made up, then to him it was a hot scoop — his eyes would’ve lit up the moment he heard it. He’d want to keep it to himself to make money, why would he share it with anyone?”
Gao Zijie paused thoughtfully: “Madam — do you think Yeung Mong Suet really exists?”
The police had checked the population system — there were several people named Yeung Mong Suet in Hong Kong, but none of their personal information matched. Ku only described her as young, with long hair, refined and soft-spoken — she did seem like someone who worked with a pen.
But the press credentials were fake — Horizon Evening Post had no such person.
Ku had been eager to cooperate in creating a composite sketch to clear his own name. But halfway through, the more anxious he got, the less he could piece together. Frustrated, he said she was plain-looking, with unremarkable features — nothing distinctive enough to remember. He’d only met her once — there was no way to produce an effective sketch.
Li Heng stared at the dense web of leads on the whiteboard, lost in thought.
Did this person really exist?
Or was she just something Ku had made up?
“By the end of the composite session, Ku was practically slumped in his chair, muttering ‘it’s over, it’s over’ over and over.”
“He said that woman was trying to drag him down, making him take the fall.”
“He looked genuinely terrified — like his soul was about to leave his body…”
“If this person really exists, then besides targeting the two victims, she clearly has a vendetta against Ku Cheung Fung as well,” Li Heng said.
At this point, aside from the talisman barely connecting the threads, the three lines — Ku Cheung Fung, Ng Mei Yan, and Yiu Chun Fai — were largely running in parallel, scattered.
“Ku’s still in the detention room — he himself can’t even figure out who he might have crossed.”
“But someone like him — offends more people than he greets — there’s probably a whole street full of people who can’t stand him.”
“Even if a ‘Yeung Mong Suet’ does exist, the name is fake, the identity is fake, even her height and looks are unclear — tracing this lead is like looking for a needle in a haystack.”
The officers debated back and forth.
“We can’t blindly search for Yeung Mong Suet.” Li Heng made the call. “First, trace the distribution channels for fake press credentials.”
Shen Zhicheng nodded: “These kinds of fake IDs are usually produced in underground workshops around Mong Kok and Yau Ma Tei.”
Li Heng looked at him: “You have connections?”
The young master had indeed accumulated quite a few underground connections over the years.
Li Heng said: “Let’s go — take me there.”
…
Shen Zhicheng had connections everywhere — plenty of people knew his name.
Valets, bouncers — they’d spot him from afar and eagerly come over to greet him, asking “Young Master Shen” for his favor.
He had wide contacts. They went all over Hong Kong asking around, specifically seeking out local big shots.
Stall owners, mahjong parlor dealers, nightclub handymen — even loan sharks — they left no stone unturned. After asking around, they found several small workshops that made IDs.
But none of them had ever filled an order for a Horizon Evening Post press credential, nor had they heard the name “Yeung Mong Suet.” Occasionally, someone had made similar IDs, but when asked about the timeline — they were from years ago and didn’t match up.
“Not many people order press credentials — what would you even use them for?” someone joked. “Running news stories? They’re useless.”
After running all over, Shen Zhicheng stopped at a convenience store for water and leaned against a street railing to rest. His patience was nearly gone — asking the same questions over and over, doing the same useless work, he didn’t even feel like talking anymore.
From a distance, he saw Li Heng still inside a workshop, holding her ground with relentless persistence.
Just as he thought the whole afternoon would be a waste, Li Heng came back with good news.
“They said for a detailed press credential like that, you’d have to go to Dong Ge on Temple Street. His operation is the biggest, and his craftsmanship is the most reliable.”
Li Heng immediately dragged Shen Zhicheng to Temple Street.
Stepping into the unassuming back-alley shop, Li Heng was hit by a cloud of smoke and frowned. She waved it away and saw a few men sitting around a card table, playing and chatting.
“Play faster! Stop dragging your feet — waiting for your card, my neck’s getting stiff.”
“What’s the rush? Let me get a good hand and I’ll hit you with a self-drawn all-clears!”
“Out of smokes — who’s going to buy a pack?”
Just then, one of the men glanced up and spotted them. He called out: “Dong Ge — someone’s here.”
Dong Ge, with a cigarette dangling from his lips, looked up and immediately came over.
His men had already tipped him off earlier. He reached out his hand: “Young Master Shen?”
Dong Ge’s gaze swept over Li Heng with some curiosity.
Shen Zhicheng gestured toward her with his elbow and said casually: “My sister needs a school diploma — to get past my grandfather.”
In a place like this, saying you were a cop was basically crashing the joint.
If they knew their real identities, they wouldn’t get a single word out of Dong Ge — he’d never open his mouth.
Li Heng played along, speaking naturally: “I was never cut out for school — been out in the world for years without even a diploma. Now the old man wants to see a certificate — hoping I can fake my way through.”
“Got it, got it.” Dong Ge immediately caught on. “What kind do you want? Which prestigious school?”
“I don’t know anything about prestigious schools — as long as it looks real enough that it won’t get spotted right away,” she added. “My grandfather’s got sharp eyes.”
Shen Zhicheng laughed from the side.
Dong Ge blew out a puff of smoke and puffed out his chest: “Don’t worry — anything I make can pass anywhere. No one’s gonna suspect a thing.”
Li Heng paused, then added: “Last time, a friend of mine wanted to sneak into a Four Heavenly Kings event. She got someone to make her a press credential, but got stopped at the door — they said it looked fake at first glance.”
Dong Ge snorted, stubbing out his cigarette: “No surprise — that was probably from Shui Hau Wai over in Mong Kok. His work’s garbage, just out to scam people. Not like us — we turn out professional-grade stuff. Guaranteed authentic.”
“Have you ever made a Horizon Evening Post press credential before?” Li Heng asked casually.
“Horizon Evening Post?” Dong Ge let out a low whistle, glancing back at the guy at the card table. “Ring any bells?”
A young guy with a streak of bleached white hair stood up immediately: “Yeah, I did one! Just last week — rush order, got it done in a day.”
Li Heng pressed: “Was her name Yeung Mong Suet?”
The guy thought for a moment: “Yeah, I think that was it — how’d you know?”
“She’s that friend of mine!” Li Heng walked up to him. “The other day at the Four Heavenly Kings autograph event, Mong Suet used the ID you made and couldn’t even get in.”
The guy looked puzzled: “No way? She seemed happy with it when she picked it up.”
“She didn’t know she’d get kicked out later. Of course she was happy — you got it done in a day,” Li Heng said. “So she didn’t tell you she needed it for the autograph event?”
“We never ask what our customers use it for,” the guy replied. “It’s the rules of the trade — no prying.”
Dong Ge’s expression shifted slightly as he listened. He looked at Li Heng: “Miss — what exactly are you after? A diploma or a press credential?”
Li Heng deliberately pursed her lips, her tone carrying a hint of complaint: “Mong Suet said your work was shoddy — she was really disappointed. That makes me hesitate — what if mine gets exposed? I wouldn’t know how to handle that.”
The guy’s face fell: “How can she say that? She was in such a rush that day — needed the ID the same day. I didn’t even have time to eat, I rushed to help her. We chatted for a while — she said she was an old neighbor from Temple Street, so I even gave her a discount. I thought we had a good rapport — never expected her to badmouth us behind our backs!”
At that point, Li Heng and Shen Zhicheng exchanged a glance, careful not to show their hand.
“I don’t remember the Four Heavenly Kings having any events lately,” Dong Ge said, not stupid. His eyelid twitched, but he still kept his tone in check, lowering his voice: “Young Master Shen — who exactly is this woman you’ve brought?”
Without wasting words, Shen Zhicheng pulled out a stack of cash and stuffed it into the guy’s hand: “Forget the diploma. This is for your information — we just want to chat.”
After the guy was led out to the alley, Dong Ge muttered under his breath: “That pretty lady turned out to be a cop!”
…
Shen Zhicheng and Li Heng got home after ten at night.
Even as they stepped out of the elevator, they were still talking about the case.
The evening’s haul was significant — several separate leads were beginning to converge.
Shen Zhicheng leaned against his door: “Probably no mistake. She was able to talk about the old Temple Street stalls from her childhood — that’s why the ID maker believed she was an old neighbor and gave her the discount.”
Back then, the ID maker had mentioned many old Temple Street stories — details they’d chatted about casually.
He said that woman had spoken of the past with emotion, even tears in her eyes — only someone truly from Temple Street could know so many details.
Li Heng held her keys and looked up: “Remember — Ku Cheung Fung used to set up a fortune-telling stall in Temple Street too?”
“So it might be an old grudge from years past.”
They would have started digging into it tonight, but Temple Street was busy and crowded with prying eyes. They’d just come out of that back-alley shop. They didn’t yet know the woman’s motive for impersonating a journalist, nor her real name — barging in blindly would be a waste of time and yield nothing.
“We’ll arrange to bring Ku Cheung Fung in for questioning tomorrow morning and get him to talk about his old Temple Street grudges — then cross-reference with the entry records,” Li Heng said.
They settled on the plan for the next day and each went home.
It wasn’t until she opened her door and saw the delicate high heels in the entryway that Li Heng remembered — Shen Yong Xuan was still staying at her place.
The lights were on, and a faint scent of fragrance filled the room, drifting into every corner. Her aunt clearly knew how to enjoy herself — somehow she’d gotten a record player, and a slow, languid melody drifted through the air. On the dining table sat takeout boxes from a high-end restaurant, and next to them, an opened bottle of champagne.
Shen Yong Xuan, in a bathrobe with a face mask on, hummed along to the music. She sat down on the sofa and looked up at the sound of the door opening.
With the mask on, she couldn’t make big expressions — only a slight curl of her lips as she enunciated slowly: “Back?”
Li Heng acknowledged her and bent down to change her shoes.
Shen Yong Xuan’s gaze lingered on her, then she suddenly spoke again: “You really look like your mother.”
Li Heng paused, then straightened up, slowly placing her keys on the entryway table.
She’d seen old photos of her mother — she didn’t think they looked alike.
Her grandfather, Uncle Cheung, and Shen Zhicheng had never mentioned it.
Shen Yong Xuan patted the empty space beside her on the sofa, her eyes dimming with a hint of wistful nostalgia.
Li Heng had never known her mother.
Deep down, as a daughter, there was still a longing — she was willing to hear more about her.
She walked over and stood by the sofa.
Curious, a little hopeful — her heart inexplicably softened.
“In what way?” Li Heng sat down beside her.
“That look — like nothing and no one is good enough for you.” Shen Yong Xuan reached up and smoothed the edge of her mask. “Exactly the same.”
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