Wu Qiyuan · Conversa

The return of consciousness was an agonizingly slow and heavy process—no, that's too flowery a description. It was more like being slowly pulled upward by an invisible thread from a state of never-ending drowning in the deep sea. The oxygen in your lungs seemed to have been wrung out long ago. The sensations from your limbs were first numb, then a needle-like, prickling pain, finally converging into a throbbing, dull ache in your chest and abdomen. When you woke up, the first thing you saw was a pure white ceiling. There was no damp, moldy smell of a basement, no gunpowder from a pursuer's gun, and certainly no stench from that bone-chilling river mixed with industrial waste and silt. Instead, the air was dry and warm. Sunlight filtered through blinds, casting regular, parallel patterns on the white duvet. The faint scent of cedar lingered in your nose, along with that reassuring, fluffy smell of sun-dried cotton. This felt too unreal. As a phantom thief who had been hunted across the city by an underground organization and forced to jump into a river to fake your death, the first thought that flashed through your mind as your brain restarted was—is this heaven? But soon, the sharp pain from your ribs shattered that unrealistic fantasy. Heaven shouldn't have broken bones, nor should it have the maddening itch of a healing wound that makes you want to claw at it. You were still alive. Furthermore, you were in a room that was clean and orderly to an almost obsessive degree. Moving your neck took an immense amount of effort. As your gaze slowly swept across the room, a strange sense of familiarity mixed with an absurd feeling of incongruity welled up in your heart. The room's layout was the ultimate gospel for someone with OCD. On the wall-mounted bookshelf, books weren't categorized by author or content; they were strictly arranged by spine height and color gradient, like a tamed rainbow. On the low cabinet next to the shelf sat several potted plants; the Monstera leaves were a shiny green without a speck of dust, and every leaf seemed to have been carefully adjusted to ensure they caught the sunlight at the perfect angle. On a solid wood workbench nearby, a self-healing cutting mat was laid out, with various small hand tools neatly arranged: craft knives, tweezers, sandpaper, wood glue... every tool sat snugly in its dedicated storage slot. This was definitely no ordinary safe house. This style of near-pathological pursuit of order was something you had only ever experienced from one person in this world. The door handle made a soft click. You instinctively held your breath, your muscles tensing in defense. The sudden movement pulled at your wounds, making you gasp in pain. The door was pushed open. A tall, upright figure entered, carrying a tray. Wu Qiyuan. Your old rival, the inspector who maintained a 100% case-solving rate at the police station and was always as solemn and stiff as a stone. Right now, he was wearing a high-quality dark gray home shirt, no tie, with the collar buttons meticulously fastened all the way up to his Adam's apple. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows, revealing strong, lean forearms with a few faint, old scars. Gold-rimmed glasses sat steadily on his high nose, and the gaze behind the lenses was deep and calm. The small mole at the corner of his eye was particularly clear in the sunlight. Seeing your open eyes, his footsteps paused for a moment, but his face didn't show any exaggerated expressions of surprise, ecstasy, or relief. He simply lowered his eyelids slightly, walked steadily to the nightstand, and set the tray down. On the tray were a glass of warm water, a few anti-inflammatory pills, and a bowl of steaming, extremely plain-looking white porridge. "You're awake." His voice was deep and steady, carrying a natural sense of authority, much like his opening remarks when interrogating suspects at the station, but his pace was a beat slower than usual. You opened your mouth, your throat as dry as if it had been scorched in a desert for three days. The voice that came out was hoarse and grating: "You..." "Don't talk. Your vocal cords are swollen from water inhalation and hypothermia," Wu Qiyuan interrupted, his tone brooks no argument. He turned and looked down at you. Behind those gold-rimmed glasses, a complex emotion seemed to flash through his eyes, but it was quickly masked by his usual solemnity. He reached out a hand—a hand with distinct knuckles and thin calluses from years of handling guns and doing woodwork. You instinctively wanted to flinch, but he only placed his palm gently against your forehead. The temperature of his palm was warm and dry, and the touch was unexpectedly gentle. "The fever is gone. Your temperature is 37.2 degrees, within the normal range." He spoke as if reporting a set of data, withdrew his hand, and picked up the glass of warm water. You looked at him, and that final scene before you lost consciousness uncontrollably surfaced in your mind. The freezing river water had poured into your nose and mouth; you thought your life would end at the bottom of that filthy river. Just as you gave up struggling, a pair of powerful arms grabbed your collar tightly and dragged you out of the water. You had dizzily opened your eyes to see Wu Qiyuan's face, twisted with anxiety. You thought he would lecture you with his usual businesslike tone—"Confession leads to leniency, resistance leads to severity," "You can't escape"... But he didn't. On that rainy riverbank, soaked to the bone with water droplets hanging from his gold-rimmed glasses, he just stared at your deathly pale face and asked hoarsely: "Do you want to come with me?" Near death, you didn't even have the strength to think about the meaning behind those words; you just instinctively nodded. And then, you ended up in this "OCD heaven" of a room. "Drink." Wu Qiyuan held the glass to your lips. Seeing you try to reach for it, he frowned slightly, his voice deepening. "Your right shoulder blade has a tear, your left arm is on an IV for antibiotics, and you have two cracked ribs. If you don't want to spend the rest of your life as a cripple who can't even hold a glass of water, you'd better follow doctor's orders and stay still." His tone carried that familiar, stern, fatherly scolding tone. You pursed your lips, but the pain in your body forced you to face reality. You could only take small sips of the warm water from his hand. The temperature was just right, neither hot nor cold, providing some relief to your parched throat. After you finished the water, he set the glass down and picked up the bowl of porridge. He scooped up a spoonful and even naturally blew on it at his lips before bringing it to your mouth. This scene was far too bizarre. The great phantom thief, who used to lead this chief inspector on a wild goose chase (though you were always nearly caught), was now being fed spoonful by spoonful like an infant who couldn't care for themselves. You turned your head away in resistance, though the movement pulled at your neck muscles and made you gasp in pain. "I'm not hungry. And... this is too strange, Inspector Wu." Your voice was still hoarse. Wu Qiyuan's hand holding the spoon paused in mid-air for two seconds. He pushed his gold-rimmed glasses up his nose, the lenses reflecting a cold light. "Strange? What do you mean? Do you mean the fact that you, a wanted criminal being hunted by the mob who took two bullets and tried to drown yourself, are now lying safely in an inspector's private residence? Or do you think me feeding you hurts your meager self-esteem?" His words were still as biting and sharp as ever. You were speechless. "Eat. I didn't put any ingredients with a fishy smell in this porridge. I also roughly screened the rice grains by size; it's cooked soft and is easy to digest. You need energy to repair that riddled body of yours." He didn't withdraw his hand, his gaze fixed firmly on you. Hearing him say he "roughly screened the rice grains by size," your mouth couldn't help but twitch. This man is insane. Who on earth sorts rice grains to cook porridge?! But you also knew Wu Qiyuan's stubbornness. If you didn't eat, he might stand here with the bowl until the end of time. You had no choice but to compromise, opening your mouth and swallowing the bland porridge. The meal was long and silent. The only sound in the room was the occasional clink of the spoon against the porcelain bowl. Wu Qiyuan's movements were steady, the amount in each spoonful precisely controlled—neither too much to swallow nor too little. His faint cedar scent became clearer in the close proximity, having a strange, nerve-soothing effect. With the meal finally over, he supervised you as you swallowed the anti-inflammatory pills. After finishing everything, he packed up the tray but didn't leave immediately. Instead, he stood by the bed, looking down at you. "This is my private residence," he suddenly spoke, as if giving a very brief report. "The door isn't locked. But given your current physical condition, I suggest you don't make any stupid attempts. There's an access control downstairs, and this is a high-end community. Without my fingerprints, you won't get out. Of course, if you think your ribs can support a jump from the second floor, you're welcome to try." "What exactly do you want, Wu Qiyuan?" You looked at him. "Keep me locked up here? Or wait until I'm healed to personally hand me over to prison just to maintain your 100% case-solving rate?" Wu Qiyuan didn't answer immediately. He turned around, moved the perfectly placed Monstera pot one millimeter to the left, and then turned back to look at you. "Your case... the files at the station have been archived as 'suspect deceased after falling into the river'," he said matter-of-factly, stating something that would cause an uproar in the police world. "As for what I want... all you need to know is that you are currently a 'dead person'. And dead people need quiet recuperation." With that, he picked up the tray and walked out of the room with steady steps. The door closed softly behind him with a click. But immediately after, there was a "beep" electronic sound from the lock—he had deactivated the external access control. He said the door wasn't locked, and he meant it. He wasn't treating you as a prisoner. You lay in bed, staring at the flawless ceiling, listening to the faint, steady sound of his footsteps outside. Your heart seemed to beat a little faster than usual. This feeling of being kept... no, cared for by a former rival was absurd, yet it brought a strange, unprecedented sense of security. Over the next few days, your life became a nearly monotonous but precisely regulated routine. Wu Qiyuan appeared in your room every morning at exactly 7:30. He would first check your temperature, then bring breakfast—usually food that had been strictly categorized and deodorized. He seemed to have extremely strict requirements for the smell of food; any fish or meat with even a hint of a fishy smell would never appear on your menu. He wouldn't stay in your room for long. Most of the time, after changing your dressings and feeding you, he would sit at the workbench in the corner of the room. Sometimes he was reviewing case files from the station. You would occasionally hear him answer the phone. "Jiang Yuhuai, I don't care how late you drank last night, go check the surveillance in the third block immediately. If there's a blind spot, go interview the surrounding shops. Don't give me excuses," he would coldly order his subordinate on the other end, his voice kept very low, seemingly afraid of disturbing you. Sometimes he was doing woodwork. He had a set of extremely fine woodcarving tools. You would watch him, wearing those gold-rimmed glasses, focused and solemn as he carved a piece of wood. His movements were slow and deliberate; he would stop and observe for a long time after every cut. That focused expression overlapped with your memory of him aiming a gun at you, but the sharp killing intent had faded, replaced by the quietude of a craftsman. The communication between you wasn't much. He wasn't a man of many words, let alone jokes. If you tried to tease him with your old, playful phantom thief tone, he would usually just give you a cold look and continue with his business. But you gradually discovered some... details about this serious man. For example, every time he changed your dressings, although his technique seemed rough and efficient, the pads of his fingers never actually applied pressure to the edges of your wounds. His movements when unwrapping the gauze were incredibly gentle, forming a stark contrast to his tall, sturdy build. For example, one day you casually complained that "drinking plain water every day makes my mouth taste like nothing," and the next day, a glass pitcher appeared on your nightstand with light lemon water inside. The lemon slices were cut to exactly the same size, as if measured with calipers. But he himself never mentioned it. Another example: he absolutely hated a messy room. One day, you intentionally left a book you'd finished reading on the bed instead of putting it back. When he came in, his brow furrowed immediately, those thick eyebrows nearly knitting together. But he said nothing; he just walked over, picked up the book, carefully wiped the cover with a handkerchief, and then precisely tucked it back into its place on the shelf—by color and height. "Your bodily functions are recovering, but I don't believe that means your brain has recovered its ability to create chaos," he said, turning around and pushing his glasses up, using a solemn tone as if stating charges in court. You couldn't help but laugh, even though it pulled at your ribs again. "Inspector Wu, do you have OCD? Do you even sort your socks by color in your drawers?" Wu Qiyuan looked at you, his eyes devoid of emotion. "It's basic order. The reason human society can function is because of order. Sorting socks by color saves me thirteen seconds when looking for them in the morning, and those thirteen seconds are enough for me to decide if I can catch the first subway on time. Is that funny?" "No, it's not funny. It's very... Wu Qiyuan." You stopped smiling and looked at him seriously. He seemed a bit uncomfortable with your sudden use of his full name. He looked away, focusing on the Monstera by the window. "The weather is nice today. If you feel up to it, I can push you to the balcony in a wheelchair this afternoon to get some sun. UV rays help with sterilization and calcium absorption." He changed the subject stiffly, his tone still that businesslike solemnity, but you keenly caught a suspicious hint of redness at the tips of his ears, partially hidden by his shirt collar. Stoic but a closet romantic. You silently labeled the serious inspector in your mind. In the afternoon, the sun was just right. Wu Qiyuan indeed pushed in a wheelchair. He carefully, almost holding his breath, transferred you from the bed to the chair. His arms wrapped around your back, and you could feel the surging muscle strength in his arms and his slightly elevated body temperature from tension even through the thin fabric. The balcony was large and filled with various green plants, almost like a small botanical garden. And, as expected, every pot was neatly tended to, strictly zoned by their preference for shade or sun and their watering frequency. He pushed you to the spot with the most sunlight, but where it wouldn't shine directly into your eyes, and then sat down in a rattan chair next to you with a newspaper in hand. Neither of you spoke. The sun felt warm on your body, chasing away the lingering chill in your bones. The wind blew through the plants on the balcony, making a soft rustling sound. The city's bustle was in the distance, but here, it felt as if everything had come to a standstill.