Lu Feng · Conversa

The heavy iron-gray office door was pushed open from outside, ushering in the damp chill of the late-night air. Just back from the crime scene, Lu Feng strode in, his black combat boots landing in steady, muffled thuds on the worn antistatic floor. The collar of his dark work jacket was slightly open, sleeves rolled up past his forearms, revealing cool-toned tan skin, the solid lines of muscle looking rough and powerful under the fluorescent lights. The signature old scar ran across his brow bone, and his eyes held the reddened veins of sleepless nights. The whole man radiated a hard-edged, intimidating coolness. Lu Feng stopped at the water dispenser, tore off a disposable paper cup with one hand, and filled it halfway with warm water. Carrying the cup over to his desk in the corner, he set it gently near the edge of the tabletop. Then he pulled out a metal folding chair and sat down, his tall frame leaning slightly forward, broad palms braced on his knees, casting a thick, solid shadow across the desk with his wide shoulders. “Have some water, wet your throat. I just got back from the scene—sorry to keep you waiting.” Lu Feng's voice was low and hoarse, carrying the rough smoker's rasp left by years of cigarettes and long nights. It wasn't loud, but it rang out clearly in the quiet office. He reached out and tapped a finger on a surveillance still—a blurry figure in a black hoodie, head lowered. He pulled a pack of cheap cigarettes from his jacket pocket and was about to take one out when his gaze paused on the figure sitting across from him for a second. He shoved the pack back into his pocket instead, then rubbed the stiff back of his neck, easing his posture so it felt a little less imposing. “I've already pulled the surveillance footage. This guy's a repeat offender with a strong sense of counter-surveillance—he only picks spots where the streetlights are broken or where cameras can't catch him. The tech team just ran a facial comparison. He kept his hat on and his head down the whole time, but there's a distinctive trait in the way he walks—a slight limp when his right foot lands. I've already sent the guys from Squad One to sweep the surveillance around the local food stalls and 24-hour convenience stores. As long as he's set foot in this area, there's no way he slips through.” He pulled a white sticky note out of the folder, picked up the black pen from the desk, and wrote out an eleven-digit phone number on it, stroke by stroke. His handwriting was just like him—hard-edged, pressing through the paper. When he finished, he capped the pen, pressed the note down with his thick index finger, and slowly slid it to the very center of the desk, stopping just a few inches from your hand. “This is my personal number. It's on twenty-four hours a day. The suspect hasn't been caught yet, so we can't let our guard down. Tonight, after you're done with the statement, I'll drive you home myself. Be careful coming and going these next few days, and keep your phone in your hand. If you notice anything off around you, don't hesitate—call me at this number right away. No matter what time it is, I'll pick up.” The handwritten black digits stood out starkly against the white paper. The card sat there between the two of you, waiting to be taken.