Night was as black as ink, drowning the most expensive enclave of Star City—"Yunshan Mansion"—in perfect stillness. This was a habitat of wealth and power, where even the dogs knew to bark with restraint. Tonight, however, the sharp wail of sirens and ambulances slashed through the money-soaked silence like crude scissors.
At Villa A-12, every light blazed. Police tape was already up; blue and red strobes ricocheted off floor-to-ceiling glass, shielding the neighbors' prying eyes.
Detective Lu Feng ducked under the tape. A chill mixed of expensive perfume and unmistakable death slid over him. He tugged up his coat collar; his deep-set eyes swept the manicured courtyard. He wasn't on duty tonight—Captain Hu Jianguo had called him out of the dusty archives with a cryptic "big case, needs your sharp eye."
Sharp eye? Lu Feng's lips curled in self-mockery. In three years that "sharp eye" had only helped him offend the wrong people and be sidelined until now.
"Lu-ge, you're here." Officer Xiao Li greeted him, face pale. "Victim's Fang Mo—founder of Quantum Leap Tech."
Lu Feng's step faltered. Fang Mo—thirty-five, tech wunderkind, hailed as the next era's business messiah—now lay in a police chalk outline.
"Situation?" Lu Feng asked, pulling on gloves and shoe covers.
"Looks like accident: study, doors and windows intact, no struggle. First finder—his PA—came at 22:45 with files, saw the boss on the carpet, and called us." Li led him upstairs.
The study door stood open; tech-team members dusted surfaces. Captain Hu stood aside, phone to ear. He pointed to the center without a word.
The room was minimalist luxury: one wall of glass overlooking half of Star City, another of trophies and prototypes. The fragrance was stronger here, as if trying—and failing—to mask something else.
Fang Mo lay curled beside the desk, in silk loungewear, one hand still hooked round an overturned chair leg.
Lu Feng didn't move in yet. Like a lone wolf he let his gaze roam the "hunting ground." Finally it settled on the dead man's face—eerily serene. No pain, no struggle—just a forced, terminal sleep.
He shifted to the ebony desk: scattered business plans, one open and red-inked; a cold latte with ruined latte-art; and a razor-thin laptop still glowing.
On the screen: a PPT titled "Genesis." Lu Feng's pupils narrowed.
He knelt, cheek to carpet. Slow, meticulous, almost obsessive. At last he spotted it—on the right index fingertip, a pin-prick so tiny it could be a pore. Colorless, almost invisible.
"Anything, Lu Feng?" Hu Jianguo finished his call, irritation edging his voice. He loathed Lu's painstaking pace.
"Odd spot," Lu said, pointing. "Needle mark."
Hu crouched, waved it off. "Pin-hole? Could be a staple, paper cut. Don't waste time."
Lu kept silent; without stronger evidence, a pin-hole was just a pin-hole. His gaze slid to the carpet—an unnatural flattening, a faint drag mark from the overturned chair to the corpse.
Before he could probe, the doorway stirred. "Dr. Ye's here."
The crowd parted. Ye Jingwen strode in—chief forensic examiner, fifteen years of unblemished reports, the woman who made corpses speak. Suit, mask, goggles, only her calm eyes visible.
"Status?" Her voice carried through the mask.
"Fang Mo, suspected sudden cardiac death," Hu summarized.
Without a word Ye knelt, opened her case, began clinical ritual: pupils, rigor, lividity—each step a scalpel stroke.
Silence fell. Lu Feng watched every movement. When Ye examined the right hand, her body shifted—barely—shielding Lu's view.
"Fixed dilated pupils; rigor in jaw and neck; lividity purple, non-blanching," she dictated. "TOD, 1–2 hours. Cyanosis of lips and nail beds, facial swelling—consistent with acute cardiac failure. No obvious violence. Preliminary: sudden cardiac death. Autopsy to confirm."
A collective exhalation; an "accident" meant paperwork, not headlines.
Hu nodded, satisfied. "Fang worked himself to death—tragic."
"Wait." Lu Feng stepped forward. "Two things puzzle me. One, that pin-hole on the index finger. Two, the drag mark on the carpet—looks like the body was moved."
Ye rose, removed her goggles. Eyes like iced lakes.
"Detective Lu, needle mark <0.1 mm, no bleeding, no tissue response—could be anything. Drag mark is faint, could be pre-existing. Without corroboration, neither has forensic weight."
Her voice was a scalpel—sharp, sterile. The thin suspicion Lu had raised was neatly excised.
Officer Li whispered: "Yeah, Lu-ge, probably overthinking."
Hu frowned. "Lu Feng, don't apply your OCD to every scene. Stick to facts."
Lu said nothing. He studied Ye's face—no crack, only perfect professionalism.
Then Ye turned away, phone in hand. For half a heartbeat her shoulders stiffened, knuckles whitened; a flicker of suppressed fear crossed her eyes—gone as quickly as it came.
She inhaled, composed herself, spoke to Hu: "If nothing else, I'll take the body for tomorrow's autopsy."
"Good, good. Thanks."
Lu remained motionless, mind racing: serene corpse, flawlessly explained doubts, the micro-expression, and now a 75-minute black hole between death and discovery.
He glanced again at the glowing laptop: "Genesis."
Midnight. One hour fifteen minutes—what had happened in this sealed, perfumed room?
Cold wind poured through the open window, rustling the business plans like whispered secrets. Lu Feng felt the chill crawl up his spine. The case, he realized, had only just begun.
Night was as black as ink, drowning the most expensive enclave of Star City—"Yunshan Mansion"—in perfect stillness. This was a habitat of wealth and power, where even the dogs knew to bark with restraint. Tonight, however, the sharp wail of sirens and ambulances slashed through the money-soaked silence like crude scissors.
At Villa A-12, every light blazed. Police tape was already up; blue and red strobes ricocheted off floor-to-ceiling glass, shielding the neighbors' prying eyes.
Detective Lu Feng ducked under the tape. A chill mixed of expensive perfume and unmistakable death slid over him. He tugged up his coat collar; his deep-set eyes swept the manicured courtyard. He wasn't on duty tonight—Captain Hu Jianguo had called him out of the dusty archives with a cryptic "big case, needs your sharp eye."
Sharp eye? Lu Feng's lips curled in self-mockery. In three years that "sharp eye" had only helped him offend the wrong people and be sidelined until now.
"Lu-ge, you're here." Officer Xiao Li greeted him, face pale. "Victim's Fang Mo—founder of Quantum Leap Tech."
Lu Feng's step faltered. Fang Mo—thirty-five, tech wunderkind, hailed as the next era's business messiah—now lay in a police chalk outline.
"Situation?" Lu Feng asked, pulling on gloves and shoe covers.
"Looks like accident: study, doors and windows intact, no struggle. First finder—his PA—came at 22:45 with files, saw the boss on the carpet, and called us." Li led him upstairs.
The study door stood open; tech-team members dusted surfaces. Captain Hu stood aside, phone to ear. He pointed to the center without a word.
The room was minimalist luxury: one wall of glass overlooking half of Star City, another of trophies and prototypes. The fragrance was stronger here, as if trying—and failing—to mask something else.
Fang Mo lay curled beside the desk, in silk loungewear, one hand still hooked round an overturned chair leg.
Lu Feng didn't move in yet. Like a lone wolf he let his gaze roam the "hunting ground." Finally it settled on the dead man's face—eerily serene. No pain, no struggle—just a forced, terminal sleep.
He shifted to the ebony desk: scattered business plans, one open and red-inked; a cold latte with ruined latte-art; and a razor-thin laptop still glowing.
On the screen: a PPT titled "Genesis." Lu Feng's pupils narrowed.
He knelt, cheek to carpet. Slow, meticulous, almost obsessive. At last he spotted it—on the right index fingertip, a pin-prick so tiny it could be a pore. Colorless, almost invisible.
"Anything, Lu Feng?" Hu Jianguo finished his call, irritation edging his voice. He loathed Lu's painstaking pace.
"Odd spot," Lu said, pointing. "Needle mark."
Hu crouched, waved it off. "Pin-hole? Could be a staple, paper cut. Don't waste time."
Lu kept silent; without stronger evidence, a pin-hole was just a pin-hole. His gaze slid to the carpet—an unnatural flattening, a faint drag mark from the overturned chair to the corpse.
Before he could probe, the doorway stirred. "Dr. Ye's here."
The crowd parted. Ye Jingwen strode in—chief forensic examiner, fifteen years of unblemished reports, the woman who made corpses speak. Suit, mask, goggles, only her calm eyes visible.
"Status?" Her voice carried through the mask.
"Fang Mo, suspected sudden cardiac death," Hu summarized.
Without a word Ye knelt, opened her case, began clinical ritual: pupils, rigor, lividity—each step a scalpel stroke.
Silence fell. Lu Feng watched every movement. When Ye examined the right hand, her body shifted—barely—shielding Lu's view.
"Fixed dilated pupils; rigor in jaw and neck; lividity purple, non-blanching," she dictated. "TOD, 1–2 hours. Cyanosis of lips and nail beds, facial swelling—consistent with acute cardiac failure. No obvious violence. Preliminary: sudden cardiac death. Autopsy to confirm."
A collective exhalation; an "accident" meant paperwork, not headlines.
Hu nodded, satisfied. "Fang worked himself to death—tragic."
"Wait." Lu Feng stepped forward. "Two things puzzle me. One, that pin-hole on the index finger. Two, the drag mark on the carpet—looks like the body was moved."
Ye rose, removed her goggles. Eyes like iced lakes.
"Detective Lu, needle mark <0.1 mm, no bleeding, no tissue response—could be anything. Drag mark is faint, could be pre-existing. Without corroboration, neither has forensic weight."
Her voice was a scalpel—sharp, sterile. The thin suspicion Lu had raised was neatly excised.
Officer Li whispered: "Yeah, Lu-ge, probably overthinking."
Hu frowned. "Lu Feng, don't apply your OCD to every scene. Stick to facts."
Lu said nothing. He studied Ye's face—no crack, only perfect professionalism.
Then Ye turned away, phone in hand. For half a heartbeat her shoulders stiffened, knuckles whitened; a flicker of suppressed fear crossed her eyes—gone as quickly as it came.
She inhaled, composed herself, spoke to Hu: "If nothing else, I'll take the body for tomorrow's autopsy."
"Good, good. Thanks."
Lu remained motionless, mind racing: serene corpse, flawlessly explained doubts, the micro-expression, and now a 75-minute black hole between death and discovery.
He glanced again at the glowing laptop: "Genesis."
Midnight. One hour fifteen minutes—what had happened in this sealed, perfumed room?
Cold wind poured through the open window, rustling the business plans like whispered secrets. Lu Feng felt the chill crawl up his spine. The case, he realized, had only just begun.