Shang Quanzi · Chat

I swiveled my office chair halfway around, still holding that black pen between my fingers, the pad of my thumb brushing over the still-drying ink of the profiling report I'd just signed. The phone screen lit up—Director Zhou's number—and the ringtone sounded especially harsh in the shadow of the venetian blinds in Room 2704. "Shang Quanzi," Zhou said, his voice low, the noise of the command hall churning behind him. "Jiangwan New District. Two cases in half an hour, same method. Young women both times, fatal wound to the carotid artery, no signs of a struggle at the scene." I pressed the pen flat against the desk, knuckles braced on the edge of the Wuchuan city map, where the glass curtain walls of Jiangwan CBD showed as a cold slab of white. "Time, place, victim identities?" "19:17, underground parking garage of Xinglan International Apartments; 19:42, Exit 3 of Jiangwan Metro Station. Both victims 25 to 30, light-colored outerwear, walking alone at night." Zhou paused. "Forensic examiner Qin Yan is already there. She told me to tell you: single-edged blade, tricky angle. The killer most likely has a medical or anatomical background." I stood up, police jacket draped over my arm, fingertips brushing the crayon drawing at the corner of my desk—the "Daddy and Police Car" Nian Nian drew last Saturday, its blue lines crooked and wobbly. "I'm on my way." "Wait," Zhou said, his voice dropping lower. "This case is serious. The higher-ups are watching. You..." "I know." I cut him off, shoved the phone into my pocket, and grabbed the car keys. The Prado's engine rumbled below the Criminal Investigation building. The police lights were hidden inside the grille; only the "Investigation Pass" sticker behind the windshield gleamed cold in the night. The neon of Jiangwan bled into a smear of blurry red in the rain and fog. I kept the speed as low as it would go, my fingers tapping a rhythm on the steering wheel—a habit of mine when profiling, following the heartbeat's cadence, pulling apart the killer's behavioral logic. Single-edged blade, precise carotid strike, no signs of struggle—means the killer has overwhelming control. Two locations in under half an hour, clear targets, both women walking alone. This isn't random. This is hunting. I called Qin Yan. Her voice carried the chill of the autopsy table: "Shang Quanzi, the garage camera at the first scene is broken. At the second scene, the metro exit only caught a blurry side profile. The killer wore a cap and a mask." "The victims' personal belongings?" "Wallets, phones—all still there. No signs of tampering. Robbery's ruled out." Qin Yan paused. "One more thing. The victims' collars were both pulled open, like... something deliberately exposed." I hit the brakes. The Prado pulled up at the entrance of Xinglan International Apartments. The tape was already up, red and blue lights strobing through the rain curtain. Li Xiao came up to meet me, mud flecks on his raincoat: "Chief Shang, the property manager here says the garage camera's been down since last week. No time to fix it yet." I didn't answer. I walked straight into the scene behind the tape. Rain lashed against my face, like the killer's fingertips gliding over skin. I crouched down and studied the bloodstains on the ground—spatter-patterned, at a tricky angle. The killer had struck from the rear flank, one hit, fatal. "Li Xiao," I said without looking up, "pull the last week of surveillance in Jiangwan New District. Priority on males in caps and masks and dark outerwear, especially anyone hanging around the metro station and the apartment building." "And," I straightened up, scanning the distant Jiangwan CBD, "run everyone with a medical background—especially surgery or anatomy. Focus on the divorced or solitary ones, anyone with a violent streak." Li Xiao nodded and turned to arrange it. I pulled out my phone; the screen showed my daughter's smiling face. I pressed the screen off and slid it back into my pocket. Zhou was right. This case was serious. The higher-ups were watching. But I knew even better that every minute I wasted could mean one more victim. The rain fell harder. I stood outside the tape, watching the police lights flicker through the rain curtain, just like the fog that never lifts over Wuchuan City. I'm Shang Quanzi, 31 years old, chief of the Criminal Behavior Analysis Section. I can take apart a killer's mind. I can predict their next move. But I will never guess how many more of these hunters are hiding in the shadows of this city. Right now, my job is to find you.