Chapter 13

Chapter 13

April brought a rare, torrential downpour to the small northwestern city.

Lightning tore gashes in the sky, as dark clouds churned and thunder cracked incessantly. The rain fell in shapeless sheets, a relentless deluge that churned the world into a turbulent frenzy.

This was the scene Fang Bingxue observed from his window.

Waking from a hangover, his head throbbed as if a demolition crew was blasting inside his skull. An electric drill pounded at his temples, and even his throat ached as if shattered by the vibrations. Drinking water felt like swallowing shards of glass.

He pressed his forehead against the cold windowpane, regulating his breathing with slow, deliberate counts.

Fang Bingxue hated this feeling of losing control.

Over the years, both his superiors and colleagues had come to regard him as a pillar of strength. Young detectives were often impulsive, driven by a mix of conviction and anger. There had been cases where rookies, after just half a year on the job, quit the force and lunged at suspects in interrogation rooms. In their line of work, they witnessed too much of life’s cruelty—their hearts couldn’t afford to grow cold, but neither could they burn too hot, or they’d burn out.

Fang Bingxue was young too.

Yet he was like a perfectly fitted mortise-and-tenon joint, flawlessly interlocking under pressure. Whether firing rounds at the police academy’s shooting range, enduring sleepless nights on duty, or standing before gruesome crime scenes where grieving families wailed in despair, he remained unfazed, calmly securing the perimeter with crime scene tape as he stepped through the outer buffer zone.

“That’s the last time I drink.”

For once, Fang Bingxue felt a twinge of regret. He wasn’t one to dwell on unexpected illnesses, but losing control and making a fool of himself while drunk left him deeply unsettled.

Then again, maybe it was just the storm outside.

By three in the afternoon, the rain had eased slightly.

Returning to his dorm, Fang Bingxue’s first order of business was stripping out of his damp clothes. Hanging them on the window handle overnight had barely dried them, but he couldn’t wait any longer.

The borrowed clothes had been neatly folded and placed on the bed. With the rain still falling, walking around in wet clothes wouldn't go unnoticed—not that there were many pedestrians out in this weather. The downpour had turned Lichuan County into a snail seeking shelter, its gray rooftops like a protective shell, with only the occasional curious child poking their head out like tentative feelers before being scolded back inside by their mother.

At least it was the weekend.

After tidying up, Fang Bingxue headed to the kitchen to make ginger tea. He took good care of himself—ever since childhood, when Teacher Qin would tell him to stop taking medicine once he was mostly recovered, he’d chase after her insisting on finishing the course.

Fresh out of the shower, the lingering discomfort of his hangover had mostly faded, making it the perfect time for some ginger tea to ward off the chill.

The only problem? He had no ginger.

Staring at his barren kitchen for a solid half-minute, Fang Bingxue resigned himself to setting aside his pride and asking for help—Li Wenbin’s family lived right downstairs. His wife taught high school and and often cooked at home, the constant rumble of their exhaust fan a frequent sound in the building.

The apartment complex had three apartments per landing, with the middle one reserved as bachelor pads for junior officers. The side units were slightly larger. Fang Bingxue knocked on the east-side door, and after a moment, footsteps approached.

“Oh, Xiao Fang?”

Li Wenbin’s wife pushed the door open. “Sorry, I was cooking and didn’t hear you.”

Once she understood why he was there, she immediately fetched a large chunk of ginger and thrust it into his hands. Fang Bingxue hadn’t come empty-handed either—he handed her a pack of AD Calcium Milk. “For An’an… Oh, is Director Li not home?”

She accepted it with a smile, without ceremony. “He left half an hour ago—said he had business.”

Nothing unusual about that.

Back in his own place, Fang Bingxue didn’t dwell on it. Following the method Qin Sumei had taught him, he sliced the ginger and dropped it into boiling water, letting it simmer on low heat. Unfortunately, he hadn’t had time to buy brown sugar, leaving the resulting brew with a weird, medicinal flavor. After forcing down half a bowl, he finally decided to call it quits.

“You still don’t look too good,” Ma Rui remarked, leaning in to scrutinize him. “Didn’t sleep well last night? Still dizzy?”

Fang Bingxue emerged from behind a stack of case files. “No, I slept fine.”

He couldn’t help but marvel at the locals’ alcohol tolerance. They’d all drunk the same amount, yet now they were bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, while he remained slightly wilted—like frost-nipped blossoms.

Monday arrived, and the rainstorm showed no signs of stopping. If anything, it grew fiercer.

Fang Bingxue pulled out a thick white knit sweater—a gift from his mother. Teacher Qin had always loved soft, light-colored clothing, the kind that could easily be mistaken for something a young girl would wear. As a result, he stood out conspicuously among his gruff colleagues.

Especially since the others were all puffing away, cursing the heavens every third sentence.

“This damn rain won’t let up!”

“Took my daughter to school this morning—wind snapped my umbrella like a twig!”

Fang Bingxue was busy setting up a database and tuned out the chatter around him. It wasn’t until Ma Rui came over to call him for lunch that he snapped out of it.

“You guys go ahead,” he said, clicking a ballpoint pen with a smile. “I’m not hungry yet.”

When absorbed in work, Fang Bingxue often skipped meals. He had a bit of wrapping up to do and planned to head to the canteen once he was done.

Ma Rui nodded. “It’s pouring out—make sure you eat something warm, alright?”

Fang Bingxue grunted in acknowledgment.

He had no idea how much time had passed when the sudden ringing of the office phone jolted him from his work. Blinking, he looked around—the office was now completely empty.

The landline on the opposite desk kept ringing.

What was going on? Wasn’t anyone on duty?

Fang Bingxue walked over and picked up. “Hello—”

“Get Lao Yan over here,” Li Wenbin’s voice snapped through the phone. “Tell him to talk to Zhou Xu—mediation isn’t working!”

Fang Bingxue set down his pen.

At the same moment, the window slammed open with a violent gust of wind, driving rain inside and rattling the ceiling fan overhead.

Things weren’t any better on the other end.

Li Wenbin, responsible for criminal investigations, was no mediator—especially when dealing with someone as stubborn and unyielding as Zhou Xu.

He was at his wits' end. It seemed every interaction with Zhou Xu left him fuming, and Zhou Xu, in turn, became even more belligerent in his presence. Now, the man lounged on the sofa, legs crossed, sucking on a lollipop.

Li Wenbin scowled. “Can’t you at least act serious?”

Zhou Xu didn’t look up. “Canker sore. Just sucking on a sucker.”

His relaxed demeanor contrasted sharply with the tense atmosphere in the room. The others sat in silence, brows furrowed, the air thick with tension—a powder keg ready to blow. This put A Liang, posted in the corner, on high alert, eyeing everyone warily.

After a pause, a rasping voice spoke up. “...Three thousand. That’s the most I can do.”

The speaker was Chen Xiu, a middle-aged woman with disheveled hair and weariness carved into her features. Dark circles ringed her eyes, but they couldn’t hide the dried tear stains.

“Eight thousand,” Zhou Xu drawled. “Not a cent less.”

Chen Xiu trembled. “You’re cashing in on corpses—you’re inhuman!”

Zhou Xu shifted the lollipop to the other side of his mouth, the picture of an unscrupulous bastard. “Why don’t you go earn it yourself, huh? If you had the stomach for it, you wouldn’t need to beg me.”

A young officer cut him a dirty look. Before Zhou Xu could react, A Liang snarled like a junkyard dog, returning the glare with teeth.

Chen Xiu lifted her face, her gaze unfocused. She had cried, made a scene, and even nearly prostrated herself to Zhou Xu, but it was all in vain—Zhou Xu stubbornly insisted on eight thousand yuan... Where could she find eight thousand? The old man had spent all his savings supporting their son, even taking her dowry to pay off debts. His clouded eyes were full of wariness, afraid she might take even a penny from her family.

But she couldn’t just stand by and watch her father rot in the icy river, eaten by fish!

"Eight thousand..." Chen Xiu propped up her frail body. "Don’t get greedy and wind up empty-handed—not even the three thousand."

Zhou Xu slung his arm over the back of the sofa. "Then so be it. Can’t you find someone else? Why come begging me?"

Chen Xiu had no reply—even the police fell silent.

In Lichuan, neither the police nor the fire department had professional water rescue equipment. The place was windy and sandy, and the winding river wasn’t like a silken scarf but more like a coarse rope choking one’s throat—the terrain below was treacherous, full of sand pits and rapid currents. Even able-bodied men didn’t dare swim recklessly back and forth. Every summer, schools assigned teachers to patrol and keep children away, fearing their recklessness might lead them to swim in dangerous waters.

Yet, accidents still happened once or twice a year.

And whenever they did, everyone thought of Zhou Xu.

He was the best swimmer. Whenever he heard someone had fallen into the water, he’d drop whatever he was doing and rush to dive in and save them. But accidental drownings weren’t common—most of the time, people had to beg him to retrieve corpses.

And that was when Zhou Xu would hike his fee.

People wondered why he pinched every penny so fiercely when he didn’t rely on physical labor for a living. Zhou Xu never explained, nor did he rush. In the end, the grieving families would still come begging.

The highest price Zhou Xu ever demanded was fifteen thousand.

That was fifteen thousand back in 2000—enough to do many things. It could fund a high school student’s seven-day-six-night tour across the vast United States or buy a quiet burial plot.

Others didn’t know, but A Liang did. Under public pressure and fear of some unknown superstition, those parents had begged Zhou Xu to retrieve their daughter’s body. The father had raged and swore on the riverbank, calling her a good-for-nothing who couldn’t even die without causing trouble—just to ruin her brother’s summer vacation!

A Liang didn’t understand. Wasn’t that old man who killed himself supposed to have money? And didn’t he have a son? Why was his daughter the one left scrambling for eight thousand yuan?

People spoke too fast—he couldn’t keep up, couldn’t understand. Zhou Xu would hand him some candy and say, "Eat this. Don’t mind their filth." A Liang would suck on the candy, no longer staring at people’s lips, just their eyes. If he saw scorn or disdain, he’d snarl.

"Then what do you want me to do?" Chen Xiu suddenly roared. "My brother Chen Jianjun was arrested by you all! My dad said a life for a life, but you wouldn’t allow it—you’re going to execute him! You forced this!"

As she spoke, she burst into tears, grabbing a cup from the table and hurling it at Zhou Xu, her eyes bloodshot. "You’re forcing me too! All of you are forcing me! Why?!"

The water never reached him—an officer restrained Chen Xiu, but they couldn’t stop her primal scream. Maybe it was too much suffering, too long suppressed. It was as if she was pouring out every cry since the day she was born, her voice breaking, screaming with all her might: "*WHY—*"

...

Zhou Xu washed his face at the sink, exhaled, then walked into the restroom.

This negotiation was held at a police station closest to the river. The restroom was clean—urinals on one side, stalls on the other, empty except for the sound of pouring rain outside.

Zhou Xu had just steadied himself when he heard the restroom door creak open. He paid it no mind, reaching to unzip his pants.

Men were like this—they didn’t like others too close when doing their business. Not even friends. It was awkward, uncomfortable. Unless it was buddies joking about comparing sizes, or unless it was...

Before Zhou Xu could even start, he jerked his zipper shut. "What the hell are you doing?!"

Fang Bingxue, standing mere inches away, didn’t look up. "Taking a piss."

Zhou Xu snapped, "You weirdo, how can you piss with someone this close?"

"Can’t you curse differently?" Fang Bingxue said flatly. "Is that all you’ve got?"

For once, Zhou Xu—who always asked others if they were "pathetic"—was the one being mocked. Stunned, he could only glare furiously. "Fang Bingxue!"

"Hmm?" Fang Bingxue smiled, smirking, turning to face him. "Bro Xu."