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(1)

Incongruently, the first thought in Shen Yi’s head when he finds himself ambushed in the alley outside his home is that Du Cheng is never going to let the lack of lights go ever again. Stuffed into the boot of a car with tape over his mouth and his hands bound, a pinprick of pain in his side where the knife had dug in a little when he’d attempted to pull away, Shen Yi has plenty of time to consider all the ways Du Cheng might solve the issue – from making himself a nuisance at the city council until they put in a new lamp to getting Du Qing on the case. Or turning up to install one himself.

There’s little else to occupy him in the cramped darkness. The assailant wore a full face mask, leaving Shen Yi with only basic bone structure to estimate from, and though he had ample opportunity to note the man’s height and build, it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.

Eventually, the car stops. Shen Yi’s groan of pain as his knees thwack against hard metal remains trapped behind the tape, but at least distracts him from jumping when the latch clicks and light streams into his eyes. A grip that is neither gentle nor overly rough levers him out and to the ground.

Shen Yi blinks away dizziness and casts a look around. He recognises the factory looming large in the background – something to do with rubber, if he recalls correctly. Tires? There was a public campaign to get it shut down that hadn’t gone anywhere last he’d heard of it. They’re at the western edge of the city, in the poorest neighbourhood which borders on the area claimed by heavy industry.

A good place to disappear.

Shen Yi shivers in the wind as he’s pushed quickly through a door and down steps into a basement. His first thought is that it looks habitable – there’s even a toilet in the corner, though no partition. Second, he notices the easel and painting supplies stacked in one corner of the room.

His blood runs cold.

He had painted once when he shouldn’t have. He had told himself he never would again. Not under duress, not for anyone but himself.

Seconds flow by like molasses as his captor frees his hands, rips the duct tape from his mouth, and the sting of it brings him back to himself.

“What do you want from me?” he asks, surprising even himself with how steady his voice sounds.

“Paintings.”

It’s the first time he hears his captor’s voice, and Shen Yi finds himself surprised by its rich, deep timbre. Then he stumbles forward, pushed towards the one corner he doesn’t want to go.

He stares at the easel, the blank canvas already waiting. “Why?”

A huff of almost laughter. “Because your paintings are rare, and they sell. I need money, you’re a goldmine. An easy calculation.”

“Why should I do as you say?”

The blow comes so fast he doesn’t even have time to duck, head snapping to the side with the force of it.

“To spare yourself pain. And if you decide to be… entirely uncooperative, I have no compunctions in just getting rid of you permanently.”

He should hardly have expected anything else from a man whose reaction to needing money is to kidnap another human being.

“Do you really think I’ll believe that you’ll let me live otherwise?” Shen Yi swallows blood from where he’s bitten his cheek, the sharp sting masking the ache already flaring along his cheekbone.

The man cocks his head. “I will. Once the necessary money is made, I’ll disappear and you’ll be found.”

With the face masked, Shen Yi has no expression to judge sincerity from. The fact that the man is wearing a mask is hopeful, since it will make identification harder. Yet even if it’s true, it would mean painting for him.

Every fibre in Shen Yi’s being revolts against the very thought.

He’d sworn to himself that he would never let his art be used for evil ends again. Granted, this is about money not murder, but he doesn’t know what the money will be used for, and the man who literally kidnapped him is pretty unlikely to be a good person.

But. Shen Yi doesn’t want to die. Even at his most guilt-mired, he hadn’t wanted to die – he had wanted atonement.

His kidnappers impassive eyes meet Shen Yi’s gaze.

“So what you want,” Shen Yi says, making no attempt to hide the bitterness in his voice, the disgust, “are Shen Yi originals.”

The masks moves with the man’s smile. “Yes. Simple, no?”

When Shen Yi remains silent, he shrugs. “Water in the crate. You’ll get food once that” – he gestures to the blank canvas on the easel – “starts looking like a painting. I’ll leave you some time to think it through, but I’d advise thinking fast.”

The door at the top of the stairs clangs shut behind him. There’s the sound of a deadbolt sliding into place, then silence.

Shen Yi takes a few deep breaths to still the trembling in his body. Finds the water and drinks. Starts thinking about ways to twist this situation to be less unfavourable.

Fact 1: he has been given no direction as to what to paint; whether because the man knows enough about art to realise that if he wants a Shen Yi original he needs to let Shen Yi makes his own decisions, or because he simply doesn’t care is, in the end, immaterial.

Fact 2: if a painting by him, one that every appraiser and person who knows his art style will agree is authentic, suddenly appears on the art market, people will notice. Unless his kidnapper already has a private buyer lined up, the first sale will make waves. Shen Yi hasn’t outright sold a painting in years and his stance on the matter is public. His team will already be investigating his disappearance – if they hear of a new painting surfacing, that might get them on the right trail. But working backwards from seller to middle-man to Shen Yi, trapped in a basement at the edge of the city will be time-consuming at best, and depend on how well his kidnapper can hide his steps.

Fact 3: if he wants to be found before his kidnapper’s assertion that he won’t kill him is put to the test, getting a message out is critical. The only way he can do so is through the painting to be sold.

Shen Yi bites his lip. He teaches a whole course on decoding messages hidden in paintings, interpreting what’s there on the canvas and what’s only hinted at. It’s rarely an exact exercise, and the line between too obvious and too subtle is very, very thin. Too subtle and they won’t find him, might not even realise there’s a message there to be decoded. Too obvious, and his kidnapper will notice and no doubt do something unpleasant to make Shen Yi regret the attempt.

Slowly, he pulls together a mental image. The impression of a skyline, to indicate place. Black rings that might be interpretable as tires, for the factory. Red horns, for the street name he’d glimpsed in the brief time spent between car and house: 红牛路. He considers something that would be recognisable as rope or fetters, but eventually discards it as too risky. Besides, they’d already be assuming duress.

It’ll be a long shot, but Shen Yi trusts that Du Cheng will pull in an art expert if he realises the necessity.

Mouth firming, he reaches for the brush.

Time passes in clumps, punctuated by spikes of fear that leave a jittery residue in his mind.

He learns to ignore the creaking of the ceiling, steps above his head, but can’t stop himself from jumping every time the door opens, tension winding through his body and into his painting arm. He learns to ignore the throbbing ache in his cheek, his knees, his side. One bottle in, he realises he needs to ration the water; there’s no guarantee the crate of five bottles will be replenished.

His captor’s quiet satisfaction when he sees the painting well underway gets him a bowl of barely palatable ramen, and the collapse of any illusion he might’ve tried to build in his brain that this is just a painting like any other.

With his plan now relying on the painting being sold, Shen Yi paints until his fingers cramp and his eyes burn. The night must be over already, not that he can tell the passing of the time with his phone in his bag – wherever that has ended up. He hadn’t been wearing his watch. He should rest and conserve his energy, but the thought of being asleep when his captor next comes down the stairs sends a panicked chill down his spine.  

Another clump of time later, he does force himself to settle on the sofa. If he keeps painting now, with his hands so shaky and his eyes refusing to focus properly, he’ll ruin what he’s already achieved. The sofa is saggy and barely padded, but comfortable enough he falls into a fitful doze.

He doesn’t know how long he’s under, finally woken fully by his growling stomach and the need to pee. The latter, at least, he can do something about, even if the facilities available are lacking in appeal.

When his captor checks in on him not much later, he doesn’t bring food, only an approving noise and reminder to work fast.

Paradoxically, after that mockery of sleep it seems harder to push the complaints of his body aside and focus – he has never before gone hungry like this, had no reference for how distracting this gnawing ache in his belly would be – but he needs to get this done. Because he needs to get out of here.

The next time the sound of the deadbolt sliding aside makes Shen Yi jump, the painting is as finished as it needs to be, white signature in the lower left corner placing his mark for all to see. He hates the way his captor’s eyes light up when he sees it, covetous of something that should not be his.

“You finished?”

It’s a rhetorical question, so Shen Yi, standing tensely with his back to the sofa, only nods.

“Good, good. Cooperation makes things go so smoothly, doesn’t it?”

Shen Yi clenches his teeth around the retort that wants to slip out. There’s a container of food in the man’s hand, and he can’t help his gaze from lingering on it. His stomach is so yawningly empty.

His captor laughs quietly, and it doesn’t even sound mocking. “Here.”

Shen Yi takes the box, and doesn’t stop himself from immediately reaching inside for the first dumpling, barely warm and still vying for the best thing he’s ever eaten. Preoccupied with the food, he at least doesn’t have to watch his painting being carried away.

He’s barely finished eating when the door opens again. It breaks the pattern, so he’s already wary. Wariness spikes into fear when he catches sight of the ropes his captor is carrying.

“No need to worry, this is just insurance while I’m away,” the man says, stepping forward inexorably. “I recommend you sit.”

For a moment Shen Yi considers fighting. Trying to run. But then rationality reasserts itself – he’s no fighter, and this man already overpowered him when Shen Yi wasn’t hungry and tired and in pain.

He sits.

A little to his surprise, his captor starts with a soft yet sturdy cloth around his wrists, wrapped tightly and kept in place with a security pin.

Catching his look, the man huffs quietly, something almost dreamlike to his voice when he says, “An artist’s hands are important, my brother always said.”

Shen Yi hesitates, but in the end he can’t let the opening go unacknowledged. “Your brother?”

Rope tightens around his forearms, immobilising his arms completely.

“He liked art. He liked your art.” More rope around his ankles. “He never did get to sell one of your paintings.”

Some of the murky context becomes clearer. The brother clearly isn’t around anymore – dead, Shen Yi would guess from the way his captor spoke – but in him lies the genesis of the idea of making money through art. Of kidnapping Shen Yi specifically.

Granted, there also aren’t that many artists who fit the criteria his captor needs: art deemed valuable. In reach. Refusing to paint for ideological reasons, not because of a decline in skill.

Still alive.

Left alone in a basement whose walls seem closer and more menacing every time he looks, hardly able to move, Shen Yi could find his way to regretting that.

Time breaking away in chunks had been disconcerting, but the way it starts slipping through his fingers now that he’s forced to remain still, nothing to distract him from his body and the basement holding it, is worse. Eventually he drags his feet up on the sofa and curls up awkwardly on his side, facing the doorway. That way, at least his drifting mind doesn’t have to look at the art supplies spelling out his broken promises.

He recognises Du Cheng’s hands first, then his voice. The way the latter brims with loud worry is familiar, too.

Reassuring him is almost instinctive, but there’s some part of the past still bleeding into the present and he is driven by a deep, welling need to make sure Du Cheng believes him, believes that he didn’t cause any harm with this painting –

“I know, Shen Yi. We found you because of that painting, you did good.”

Even more than the calm, reassuring tone of voice, it’s the touch that makes Shen Yi relax. Du Cheng’s hands don’t leave him, stay solid on his arms. They’re big, those hands, blanketing warmth into Shen Yi’s skin. As long as they don’t shift, Shen Yi will know that he isn’t alone in this basement anymore.

Shen Yi lets relief sweep him away.

In the privacy of his own mind, Shen Yi admits that insisting on giving this lecture at the police academy the day after he was freed may have been a bad choice. He had felt physically up to the task in the morning, but two hours of standing have taken an unaccustomed toll from strained muscles. He had known, of course, that spending a solid twenty-four hours held immobile on top of not inconsiderable bruising had been detrimental, not to mention the cramping fingers from overdoing it with painting. Had felt it, too. But it had all seemed manageable, and getting back to his routine after those terrible days had seemed like a good idea.

Now, he’s moving away from the front of the auditorium, trying not to move so carefully as to be obvious to any lingering students that he’s in more pain than the vivid bruise on his cheek attests. Everything has tightened up until he feels like little more than a ball of ill-concealed tension, and it’s making his mind keep drifting back to a dark basement.

Not the best lecture he’s ever given, all in all.

When he finally walks the steps down towards the street, the exasperation he should feel at finding Du Cheng’s jeep parked obviously and obnoxiously close to the entrance remains absent. Shen Yi is simply too relieved that he doesn’t have to worry about finding a taxi to get him home. Du Cheng, at least, already knows most of the physical complications, having no doubt read Shen Yi’s after-incident report, and he’s experienced enough to fill in any remaining blanks.

Not to mention the way Shen Yi can’t keep from wincing noticeably when he levers himself up into the passenger seat.

Du Cheng’s gaze prickles on the side of his face, but none of the obvious questions follow. Instead, Du Cheng merely starts driving.

It takes Shen Yi longer to notice the abnormality than it should have, because he’s preoccupied with shifting with the movement of the car to not tense up further.

“This isn’t the way to my apartment,” he observes blandly.

The car rolls to a gentle stop at a red light.

“We’re going for dinner, remember?” Du Cheng’s fingers tap on the steering wheel.

“This isn’t the way to Li Han’s Sichuan restaurant either.”

“Detour,” Du Cheng says shortly. “Light exercise, remember?”

Shen Yi’s mouth thins. The doctor at the hospital had recommended to slowly get used to physical exertion again and keep his cramping muscles in use without burdening them, but he hardly needs nor wants Du Cheng to start making him an exercise regimen.

“Stop scowling, you’ll like this.”

Too tired to contest that point, Shen Yi remains quiet for the rest of the ride. Eventually, he recognises their destination.

"Wanshi Botanical Gardens?” he asks, distracting himself from the painful hop out of the car.

“It’s a nice place to walk,” Du Cheng says, and proceeds to pay the entry fee for them both before Shen Yi can intervene.

So walk they do. His messenger bag keeps bumping against a bruise on his leg (definitely the car boot), but Shen Yi can feel his muscles relaxing a little at the slow but steady movement. Du Cheng doesn’t seem to feel the need to break the silence, which is nice. Shen Yi spends a good half hour meandering along paths and looking at the beautiful variety of plants – he doesn’t often draw flowers, but he makes a mental note of several that are tempting him with bold colours and interesting shapes – in peaceful quiet. The sun is warm on his skin, and the surroundings could not be more dissimilar to the cold, dank basement that haunts the edges of his mind.

Eventually he tires, and they settle side by side on a bench overlooking a little ornamental pond. Shen Yi tilts his head up towards the sky, breathing in the vastness around him, the fresh green scents and brightness.

“Thank you,” he says quietly to the sky. “I haven’t been here in years.”

“Hard to make the time,” Du Cheng agrees, which could either be a comment on Shen Yi’s work ethic or his own. Possibly both. “Du Qing held a party here, once. Only one I ever came to willingly.”

Shen Yi chuckles quietly. A duck floats serenely past.

Between one breath and the next, his stomach growls quietly, and Shen Yi’s brain grinds to a panicked halt. He fumbles for his bag, pulling out the candy-bar he’d put in his bag before leaving, on the nebulous thought that he didn’t want to be without food at hand.

It’s not even a candy bar he likes, it had just been the only thing he found in his kitchen that he could easily stuff in his bag.

“How often did he feed you?” Du Cheng asks quietly. He isn’t looking at Shen Yi, giving him the option to ignore the question if he needs to.

Shen Yi crinkles the wrapper between his fingers. The chocolate is settling uneasily in his stomach. “Twice.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Du Cheng’s expression tighten before he brings himself under control again.

“Jiang Feng always keeps snacks in his desk drawer,” Du Cheng says abruptly. “I’ve got a stash of protein bars in my office.”

The wrapper crinkles further in Shen Yi’s grip. “It was only three days.”

Du Cheng shrugs. “Maybe it’ll go away again. Maybe it won’t.”

Of all the things that had happened in those three days, Shen Yi doesn’t think that the lack of food is really what’ll stay with him. It was unignorable at the time and it might take a little while to forget that feeling of gnawing hunger, but compared to finding his life in the hands of someone who wanted nothing from him except the one thing he least wanted to give, it feels almost trivial.

It helps, that his painting helped free him in the end. It helps that his apartment is bright and sunny and comfortable. It helps that Du Cheng doesn’t pry, just takes him to the greenest place he knows and lets him breathe.

“It’s gone five,” Du Cheng finally says, hand warm and solid on Shen Yi’s shoulder. “Let’s go meet the others.”

With Du Cheng’s hand on his back, it’s easy to heave himself back to his feet.

(2)

It’s nothing new for Shen Yi to be sent to other police stations who don’t have a sketch artist to help out with a tricky case. It’s not even particularly new to be met with suspicion, doubt, derision, or a combination of the three – he knows some of the things he can do with a pencil sound outlandish to the kind of police officer who prefers “good old-fashioned” police work (never mind that suspect sketches have been used for hundreds of years), and that some detectives don’t much appreciate a third party coming in to help out.

Shen Yi takes in Detective Yang’s sour look and smiles blandly. The sour look deepens in response, but that’s not Shen Yi’s problem. He isn’t going to act confrontational, but he’s here to do a job and the sooner Detective Yang gets with the programme, the better for everyone. It’s just unfortunate that the man’s attitude is setting everyone else in the office on edge.

“Is the witness still here?” Shen Yi asks, perfectly pleasant.

“In the waiting room,” Detective Yang says, after a loaded pause. “But you’re not going to get far with her, the description is total gibberish.”

Shen Yi smiles again. “I would like to make up my own mind about that.”

The sour look darkens – Shen Yi is almost certain now that the main issue they’re having here is one of territory and perceived slight to the detective’s ability – but Detective Yang is at least conscious enough of the atmosphere not to say anything else in the busy squad room. Instead he jerks his head towards a corridor, and Shen Yi quietly follows him.

Outside the waiting room, Detective Yang pauses. There’s more privacy here, and Shen Yi braces himself to remain impassively gentle throughout whatever comes next.

“Look, Shen-jingguan,” Detective Yang starts, eyes stormy. “You’re here because the higher ups thought you’d be useful. My hopes aren’t that high, and I’ll settle for getting your interference out of my station again as soon as possible, understood?”

The man looks like he’s expecting Shen Yi to cower, flinch, retreat backwards. Shen Yi does none of those things.

“Yang-dui, I’m here to provide you with a sketch of the suspect – nothing more, nothing less.” He meets Detective Yang’s gaze squarely. “The sooner I get started with that, the sooner I’ll be gone. So may I?”

Detective Yang snorts derisively, but he does step aside. Shen Yi gives him a nod, and heads into the room, closing the door quietly behind him before Detective Yang can get any ideas about joining the interview. In Shen Yi’s experience, very few witnesses have no insights of value. Often, when that appears to be the case, it’s merely a question of finding the right approach to tease out the information that’s buried under false or irrelevant information. This, Shen Yi has always been good at – having Detective Yang glower over his shoulder would only hamper him.

Especially given that the witness turns out to be a frightened young woman, who shows all the signs of mild shock.

Shen Yi smiles at her with much more warmth than he’d extended to Detective Yang, softly introduces himself, and gets to work.

Forty minutes later, he has a first sketch that he knows would only make Detective Yang laugh, but he also has a good enough grasp on the witness’ mental state and habits that he’s certain he can produce a viable sketch from that. Detective Yang was right insofar as the witness’ panicked mind had confused the suspect’s facial features, but what he got from her is far from gibberish. He just needs to eliminate the additional aspects and add what got subtracted.

He has just placed the copy paper over the first sketch when Detective Yang bangs through the door.

“The witness said you were done with her. What about that sketch then?” There’s oily satisfaction in his voice, born from certainty that Shen Yi won’t have been able to do what he said he would.

“I have all I need from her,” Shen Yi says calmly, pencil tracing the outline of the face on the paper. “I will now rework the preliminary sketch.”

Detective Yang leans over his shoulder, staring down at the sketch. Shen Yi doesn’t lean away from his bulk – as long as they’re not touching, he won’t be intimidated by a larger stature.

“From that?”

“From that,” Shen Yi agrees. The description of the suspect’s hair had been the most definite and unlikely to need any changes, so he copies that over as well. “It will take me a while. Do you need this room for something else? I can work pretty much anywhere.”

He can almost hear the grinding noise coming from Detective Yang’s teeth. “Stay here and stay out of the way.”

Shen Yi makes an acknowledging noise, all his attention back on the sketch. It’s already 7pm – if he wants to get back to Beijiang before tomorrow, he needs to get this done soon, and he has no desire to stay in this police station longer than necessary.

Two hours later, he straightens, cracks his neck and sets the pencil aside. The sketch is as good as it’s going to get with the information he has. He’s pretty confident it would be able to get a match in the database. His work is done.

Rubbing at eyes that are complaining at the last few hours’ intense focus put on top of a bad night’s sleep, he gets up. Sketch in hand, he goes to open the door. The doorhandle doesn’t budge. He tries again, with the same result.

The door is locked, from the outside.

Shen Yi sighs. This is unexpectedly petty, unless it’s an honest mistake. He noticed earlier that this room is pretty out of the way, and if there’s an automatic electronic locking system, no one may have remembered that he doesn’t have an access key.

He knocks on the door. “Anyone there?”

Trying a few more times doesn’t get him anywhere. The whole station is quiet. He slumps back against the door. At least it’s warm in here. Definitely a step up from, say, a basement. Shen Yi huffs at himself, then forces himself into action. He takes a photo of the sketch with his phone, and then pushes the paper under the door until it’s half sticking out into the corridor. The next person to pass by should notice it and realise that there’s someone still in the room.

Briefly, he contemplates calling someone at the Beijiang station to get him out of here, but these people don’t really deserve the wrath of Du Cheng coming down on their heads – or of Bureau Chief Zhang, for that matter. It’s not really worth that much fuss. At worst, he’ll be stuck in here until the morning. Besides, his life would really be easier if he doesn’t acquire the reputation of being a snitch – even if neither his bladder nor his back will thank him for it in the short run.

Since it’s a waiting room, there’s a decently-sized sofa, just large enough for him to curl up on if he draws his legs up. With his bag serving as a pillow, it’s not so bad, and he’s used to the lights being on during studio catnaps, so he just closes his eyes and breathes deeply, relaxing the muscles in his jaw.

He must’ve dozed off eventually, for he’s woken by the sound of the door opening and a startled exclamation.

“Shen-laoshi, you’re still here!”

Shen Yi opens his eyes to find the young female uniformed officer who had smiled at him behind Detective Yang’s back the day before. She looks stricken, hovering in the doorway and taking in his position on the sofa with wide eyes.

He sits up, ruffling his hair into something that hopefully resembles order. “Ah, yes, I was working late and ended up locked in. What time is it?”

“5am,” she tells him, looking not at all happy. “I’ve got the early morning shift today.”

“Perfect,” he says, standing up and settling his bag around his shoulder. “That’ll give me enough time to get back to Beijiang. Did you find the sketch?”

She nods.

“Then there’s nothing else for me to do here.” He smiles. “Good luck with it.”

He walks out before she can find anything else to say, or marshal her thoughts enough to figure out what exactly has been happening here. No need to involve innocent bystanders. With the help of a taxi that he absolutely will bill the police force for, he even makes it into the office before the rest of the team does, thus neatly avoiding immediate questions about why he looks like he barely slept and didn’t even change his shirt.

Du Cheng storms into his office with all the subtlety of a charging elephant. “Why did Zhang-ju get an anonymous report that you ended up locked in a room in that police station overnight?!”

The mild pounding behind Shen Yi’s eyes intensifies. He reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose, not that it does much.

When he doesn’t immediately answer, Du Cheng leans on his desk in a classic interrogation tactic. Shen Yi shoots him an unimpressed look.

“Shen Yi, why didn’t you call someone?”

He sighs. “And have you make a fuss? It wasn’t a big problem.”

“The problem,” Du Cheng says, enunciated slowly and clearly, “is that you are owed both respect and courtesy, neither of which you seem to have got at that station. It’s not the kind of behaviour we should let go, when it comes to police officers. Or are you saying you wouldn’t care if it had been someone other than you in that situation? Li Han, maybe? Or He Rongyue? You went there to help them, for fuck’s sake.”

“You know as well as I do that sometimes people get huffy about me butting in,” Shen Yi says. Pointedly. Because while he knows that Du Cheng isn’t wrong, the issue is hardly this cut-and-dry and Du Cheng’s past behaviour is proof enough of that.

Du Cheng glares at him. He doesn’t like to be reminded of his past attitude towards Shen Yi. “I had personal issues with you, not professional ones.”

“Are you sure?” Shen Yi raises a brow. “I seem to recall that you thought composite sketches a waste of time.”

“Yes, well.” Du Cheng crosses his arms over his chest. “It took you all of one case to prove me wrong.”

That, Shen Yi has to concede. He doesn’t care to be falsely humble about his professional capabilities.

“It’s easier if the complaint doesn’t come from me,” he says quietly, because he really wouldn’t mind if Detective Yang got reprimanded over this, and Du Cheng deflates a little. “You know that. Besides I had no proof it wasn’t an accident.”

Du Cheng studies him for a moment longer, as if to make sure he’s really won this round, then says, “The anonymous report mentioned that that door locks manually.”

“Right.”

The expression on Du Cheng’s face softens. “Go home and sleep, Shen Yi. We can manage without you for a day. Zhang-ju and I will get the ball rolling on this.”

“You do that,” Shen Yi mumbles. He has half a mind to argue about being sent home, but his head really does pain him and there’s nothing urgent waiting for him in the office. “Is my bike still here?”

Du Cheng’s hand finds its way underneath Shen Yi’s elbow as he rises, steadying him. “It is, but I’m finding you a ride. I don’t want to get a phone call in half an hour saying you were in a traffic accident.”

“That wouldn’t happen,” Shen Yi complains, looking around for his bag only to find Du Cheng holding it in his free hand.

Du Cheng pats his shoulder “This way, we won’t have to find out.”

(3)

In retrospect, the chain of events that led to Shen Yi being locked in a walk-in freezer is unlikely to make anyone particularly happy. Not him, currently huddling on top of his bag in the middle of the space away from frosted walls and animal carcasses. Especially not Du Cheng, who already scolds Shen Yi for recklessness as a matter if course, never mind the hypocrisy. In this case, Shen Yi feels justified in protesting – to the phantom Du Cheng in his head, since he’s very much alone in his current predicament – that he really couldn’t have known that the butcher’s shop he’d noticed in the background of one of their suspect’s social media photos is actually a money laundering front; and that, confronted with a nosy yet clearly harmless police officer, the money launderers had decided to shut him away in here while they decided what the hell to do with him. The fact that they hadn’t immediately gone for murder is extremely cold comfort to his most crucial and least protected body parts.

His hands are drawn into his sleeves and tucked in between his stomach and drawn-up legs despite the position’s strain on his already protesting back, but it’s only a matter of time until what little body heat he’s still holding onto ceases to do any warming at all. Du Cheng will find him; Shen Yi has no doubt on that score. But whether he finds him before Shen Yi either turns into a human popsicle or asphyxiates is the more urgent question. It wasn’t too bad for the first while; endurable, and his brain still worked decent overtime in putting together the remaining loose threads of the case. He’d even considered sketching to pass the time, since they’d only bothered taking his phone, but had thought better of it for the sake of his fingers. There wasn’t anything useful to insulate himself with in the freezer, plastic sheeting or the like, so his lack of appropriate cold weather gear has really been starting to impact his condition after a while. Worse, it’s not a very big walk-in freezer, and the air is already starting to feel a little thin. He can’t currently remember whether lack of oxygen or excess of carbon dioxide will do him in first, which is possibly a sign of them impacting his brain functions.

He starts losing time, the cold now bone-deep and his mind unpleasantly muddled. He keeps having to stop himself from listing so far to the side that he’s in danger of touching the cold floor. It’s inevitable, but the portion of his brain that’s still trying to work insists that it’s worth avoiding as long as possible.

Shen Yi drifts, keeping himself warm with visions of his sun-drenched studio, creating a painting drenched in warm reds and yellows and oranges that will only ever exist in his mind for he can already feel the details slipping away from him like water sliding through grasping fingers, erased one brushstroke at a time.

Sheer bloody-mindedness is keeping him hunched upright, but it can’t sustain him forever. Focus lost, he thinks about charging cavalry, too late on a bloody battlefield, of Xiaoxuan, meowing into a lonely space. Of water closing over his head, still and soft, gently brutal.

If it weren’t for the sudden swell of warm air hitting his numb skin, Shen Yi may not even have noticed the door opening. It takes a terrible amount of effort to turn his heavy, fuzzy head to allow his drooping eyes to squint toward the exit. He’s too cold for relief when he recognises Du Cheng’s silhouette haloed in the doorway. Numbness might preclude any measurable reaction, but some part of him recognises the changed circumstances, tenuous control over muscles slackening because he knows Du Cheng will be there to catch him.

“Shen Yi!”

Blazing heat, scorching painfully into his skin.

He’s never before thought of Du Cheng as particularly warm, but now he radiates sheer heat even through layers of clothing.

Du Cheng curses quietly, his grip on Shen Yi’s torso providing more of an anchor than he’s had in hours.

“Are you with me?” Du Cheng asks, voice distorted. He lightly pats Shen Yi’s face.

Shen Yi breathes through that swell of pin-pricking warmth and manages a vaguely affirming noise.

“Can you stand?”

Shen Yi produces the same sound again, despite having some doubts on the matter. He hasn’t been able to feel his feet and legs for some time.

Du Cheng’s sigh gusts over the top of Shen Yi’s head. A dizzying swirl of vertigo follows when Shen Yi finds himself tugged upward. Calling what he does next ‘swaying’ would still be too complimentary.

The moment stretches. Then Du Cheng says, “Try to hold on to me,” and Shen Yi finds himself being moved more purposefully until he’s plastered against Du Cheng’s back like a limp backpack. For the first moment after Du Cheng straightens to his full height, only Du Cheng’s grip on Shen Yi’s arms stops him from sliding back down to the ground. Then Shen Yi regains some control over his arms and locks them together in front of Du Cheng’s breastbone.

“Du Cheng,” he rasps into the shirt collar his face is currently smushing, hoping the slurred name will adequately convey his indignation and protest.

“Don’t argue,” Du Cheng grunts. He starts forward and Shen Yi closes his eyes against another bout of dizziness. “If I didn’t carry you, you’d just keel over.”

As much as Shen Yi would love to contest that claim, all he can manage is another discontented grumble. It’s not that he’s particularly worried about his dignity, it’s the principle of the thing. He’d rather people didn’t get it into their heads that he’s fragile and carry-able. At least no more than they already do. There’s only so much he can affect that view, given his stature and general temperament. Usually he finds leaning into the perceived softness to be quite effective, but he needs his colleagues to trust in his competence beyond that.

Emerging into the solid, encompassing heat of the world outside the freezer derails his thought process. The wall of noise collapsing over his head is equally painful and less welcome. Already, the prickling in his limbs and overstimulation of this more oxygen-rich environment is serving to clear his head. It remains heavy and a little sluggish, but thoughts cease slipping away from him.

“Did you get them?” he mumbles, because it’s easier to focus on shaping words than the worried faces crowding in around them.

“All but the leader, but the rest are ready to flip,” Jiang Feng says from somewhere on the right. “Are you all right, Shen-laoshi?”

Somewhat to Shen Yi’s surprise, it’s Du Cheng who answers, “He’s fine. Just needs to warm up.”

It’s a bit of an about-turn from his earlier concern, but maybe Du Cheng has noticed how uncomfortable Shen Yi is under the scrutiny.

“Jiang, Feng, you secure the scene,” Du Cheng continues. “I’ll get Shen Yi home.”

In short order, Shen Yi finds himself bundled into the passenger seat of Du Cheng’s jeep, a blanket from the boot wrapped around him under the seat belt. The chill in his bones persists, but it’s such a relief to feel his fingers and toes again – aching but clearly functional – that Shen Yi barely notices. Du Cheng drives gently, 5 kmph under the speed limit, avoiding any unnecessary jostling.

“This is not the way home,” Shen Yi says eventually, with a mild sense of dejavu. He’s still feeling a bit muzzy, but not so out of it he wouldn’t notice.

Du Cheng casts him a brief look. “I’m taking you to mine. You should really go to the hospital, but since you looked about ready to bolt back there, I figured keeping you under observation in case you show any worrying symptoms for the next 24 hours would be enough.”

Shen Yi had been looking forward to the warm solitude of his apartment, but given the choice between hospital and spending a night at Du Cheng’s, the choice isn’t exactly hard.

It does, however, call for a pre-emptive strike; Du Cheng doesn’t have a guest room. “I’m not kicking you out of your own bed.”

Du Cheng sighs. “You’ve literally been huddling on a freezing floor for hours, Shen Yi. You must be hurting.”

“Your air mattress is plenty comfortable,” Shen Yi says because he can’t believably claim that he isn’t stiff and aching. His back is anything but happy with him.

“So it is,” Du Cheng agrees. Except he’s a contrary bastard, and adds, “For me.”

Shen Yi glares at him from under his fringe. He’s tired and chilled and he doesn’t want to argue with Du Cheng. He also doesn’t want to burden him any more than this whole rescue and watching over already is. At his best, he can easily meet Du Cheng’s stubbornness with equal amounts. Today –

Half an hour later, Shen Yi is tucked in under several blankets in Du Cheng’s excessively comfortable bed.

(4)

Though Shen Yi rarely gets sick, waking up to a heavy head and a sore throat isn’t so out of the realm of the usual that he thinks much of it, until he tries to get up from the bed and finds the world tilting around him. He flops back onto the covers with a muffled thump, eyes screwed shut tight.

Bringing a hand up to his face, he compares the temperature of his forehead and his lips, unhappy to find the former very much hotter than it should be. Seems like he bypassed a normal cold straight into fever territory.

A meow makes him peer down the side of the bed. Xiaoxuan is sitting primly upright, eyes pleading upwards. As cats go, she’s exceedingly polite and patient, but that’s definitely a reminder that she wants to be fed, and fed now.

On his second attempt, he does manage to get his feet under him, feeling not entirely steady but at least capable of walking into the other room and refilling Xiaoxuan’s food bowl. Still, the fact that he had to steady himself on the wall once probably means he shouldn’t attempt to go to work, on top of not wanting to infect everyone else with whatever flu he’s got.

Since he’s up already, he goes to the bathroom before heading back to his bed with a glass of water.

Then he calls Du Cheng.

“Hello?”

“It’s me,” he says, wishing immediately he’d thought to drink some of the water before dialling. “I can’t come in today. Probably not tomorrow either.”

After that it’s the weekend, which he doesn’t usually work – four days will hopefully be enough.

“You sound like shit, Shen Yi. Did you take another swim or what?”

Shen Yi shivers despite himself. The air in his room already feels colder than it should be.

“Just a cold,” he manages. “Call me if there’s anything urgent.”

And then he hangs up on Du Cheng, because he can, and also his head decided that second to desperately want to be lying down again. Also, the mental image of Du Cheng’s offended expression is funny – hopefully someone in the office gets to enjoy it.

Five minutes after he put the phone away, he shoots upright again to dial the Police Academy’s administration. It had somehow managed to slip his mind that he’s supposed to hold a lecture tomorrow.

That call, mercifully, goes even faster. Phone successfully discarded… somewhere, Shen Yi drifts off again. No point trying to stay awake when he can hopefully sleep the worst of it off.

Next thing he knows, a loud banging drags him back to wakefulness and the midday sun is sitting right in his face. Turning over, he hopes the banging will just stop if he ignores it, but it’s being so persistent his poor head wants to try and split open.

Slowly, he drags himself to his door.

Du Cheng’s fist is still raised, clearly ready to keep on pounding against the hapless door until Shen Yi reacts.

“What are you doing here?” Shen Yi squints at him through bleary eyes. He isn’t particularly presentable, but that’s Du Cheng’s problem right now. “Is there a case?”

Du Cheng looks him over in a way that would normally be insulting but right now only makes Shen Yi more conscious of his feverish state.

“No case. Li Han said you sounded like death warmed over on the phone, so I dropped by.”

Shen Yi is having trouble following the conversation. He had called Du Cheng, hadn’t he? What does Li Han have to do with anything?

“You’re just going to catch whatever it is,” Shen Yi mumbles, but he’s hardly going to try and bar the way when Du Cheng shoulders forward. Du Cheng can bowl him over easily on a good day, much less a day he has trouble walking straight.

“I’ve got a strong constitution,” Du Cheng claims, and starts unpacking a bag in Shen Yi’s kitchen.

Shen Yi stands there, staring at the tissues, soup cans (why would he need five of those?), disinfectant, over the counter cold medicine and assorted other remedies that start stacking up on his counter, feeling vaguely glad that he cleaned the kitchen a couple of days ago. Xiaoxuan winds around his legs, and he reflexively leans down to pick her up, only to find himself sitting on the floor a few confusing seconds later. Xiaoxuan immediately jumps into his lap, looking well pleased with this situation. She’s a warm purring comfort in his arms, which gives him the strength to return Du Cheng’s raised eyebrow with a bland ‘nothing to see here’ look.

“Cats,” Du Cheng mutters, once again making no sense at all.

“Don’t you have work?” Shen Yi asks, scratching Xiaoxuan under the chin. It’s definitely daytime – surely there should be work.

Du Cheng scoffs. “I wouldn’t get a moment’s peace if I went to the office without concrete news about how you’re doing.”

Shen Yi’s confusion must be visible on his face – it’s just a cold, or the flu, maybe; what is everyone so worked up about – because he sighs and adds, “You keep worrying everyone by getting abducted or locked in freezers, Shen Yi. They’ll settle down again once a bit of time has passed. We know this is just a cold.”

It’s a bit hard to follow the logic from ‘just a cold’ to ‘Du Cheng has to come check on him’, but Shen Yi is pretty certain he’d be having the same trouble if he didn’t currently have a fever.

Abruptly, he’s too tired for this.

Plopping Xiaoxuan down on the floor, he levers himself up, and says, “I’m going back to bed. Do what you have to do.”

He leaves before Du Cheng can muster a counterargument; or maybe he didn’t want to and was really just here to deliver half the corner store.

“I’ll take your spare key and lock up behind myself!” Du Cheng calls after him, just before the bedroom door closes.

Shen Yi waves an arm no one sees, and crawls back under the covers. This time, he remembers to drink the water before he falls asleep.

His phone buzzing angrily near his ear wakes him up next. With a bit of bleary squinting, he makes out the last of the slew of new messages.

Lin Min: I hear you’re at death’s door

Shen Yi stares at the message, wondering when the people in his life created such an efficient gossip network.

              沈翊:  It’s just the flu

              林敏: Maybe it’s the fact that you called in sick to work. You never call in sick to work

He frowns down at the screen.  

              沈翊: I don’t usually have the flu

              林敏: Your students are pining for you, and complaining that your replacement is too
                harsh

It’s a mystery how he can have invited Lin Min as a guest speaker one time and she somehow ended up talking to half the students in the class. Her current informant is probably Zhang Ming – a mature student who runs some kind of popular art Weibo account.

              沈翊: Positive reinforcement leads to better results

              沈翊: Are you going to keep bugging me or let me sleep this off

              林敏: All right, all right, Mr Sleepyface, I’ll leave you to it

Stuffing the phone back under the pillow, Shen Yi groans quietly.

When his phone rings again only a few hours later, Shen Yi gives serious thought to throwing it out the window.

“What?” he barks as soon as he sees the name on the screen.

“There’s a package outside your door,” Du Cheng says, sounding entirely unfazed by Shen Yi’s tone of voice. “You should pick it up so I can get Jie off my back.”

“You already brought me half a store,” Shen Yi mutters, but he still shuffles out of bed, hanging up on Du Cheng as he goes.

There’s indeed a package sitting on his doorstep. Shen Yi counts it as an improvement that he doesn’t get dizzy bending over to pick it up, though the package feels heavier than he suspects it actually is.

As it turns out, Du Qing did not send him food and half a pharmacy like her brother. Instead, he finds an assortment of items that is aimed at… well. Comfort. There’s some of his favourite candy, an eraser in the shape of a white a cat that probably doesn’t work very well – these novelty erasers never do – but looks cute, a pot with a succulent, something that takes him a while to identify as bath salts, a new feather toy for Xiaoxuan (who does not need toys, given her fascination with Shen Yi’s brushes), and a beautiful leather-bound notebook.

Shen Yi stares quietly down at the box and its contents, heart heavy with the sheer thoughtfulness on exhibit. Much as Du Cheng jokes about it, Du Qing is really on another level to them all.

Leaving the rest for now, he carefully brings the succulent and the notebook to his bedside table. Then he pulls up Du Qing’s WeChat.

              沈翊: Thank you

(5)

Shen Yi sees the man coming towards him, hands in his pockets, but he has the wrong kind of build for the person they’re searching for, so Shen Yi only takes a step to the side to let him pass.

His body registers an impact, there’s a whisper in his ear – “The white king sends his regards” – but as he falls, his focus is entirely on the horrified shock on Du Cheng’s face, twenty paces away and starting to run.

Then the pain hits and Shen Yi’s brain dissolves into white static. Drowning is painful, but in a very particular, constricting way he has come to be familiar with – this is different, white-hot agony spreading from a specific point until it feels like the rest of his body doesn’t exist.

The next thing he’s distantly aware of is hard ground beneath him and hands, Du Cheng’s hands?, above. Those hands find the source of Shen Yi’s pain and press. The noise that escapes his mouth sounds barely human through the rushing in his ears.

“Stay with me, Shen Yi. Stay with me!”

This might be in the running for hardest thing Du Cheng has ever asked of him. He keeps his blurry gaze on Du Cheng’s face, the strong nose, the scar over his eyebrow, but there’s too much pain and too little anchoring him to his body.

Even awash with pain, he thinks that he has never heard Du Cheng’s voice like this. “I can’t lose you like this too.”

“Du Cheng…”

There’s no end to that sentence.

Water in his head, gentle waves sloshing to and fro, until all orientation is lost. Adrift on currents he has no control over. Is he drowning again?

Consciousness returns in a dribble, bits and pieces of sensation and thought piecing themselves together until Shen Yi is aware of himself as a person again. After that, the hospital room doesn’t come as much of a surprise. Nor does the echo of pain from his midsection, deadened by what he assumes are some very strong painkillers.

Moving his arm a little lets his hand find a patch of gauze over the source of pain and something hard attached to his chest that presumably tracks his vitals. An iv-line snakes its way out from his other arm. It all adds up to… something his mind is still shying away from. Except he doesn’t want to remain comfortably ignorant. Once was more than enough.

Du Cheng’s horrified face flashes through his mind.

Shen Yi!

There had been a knife in his stomach, blood trickling to the ground.

Shen Yi keeps breathing. Of course Du Cheng had been horrified, forced to watch this mirror of Captain Lei’s death with his own eyes.

Except Shen Yi, apparently, isn’t dead, and from what he gathers from the nurse and doctor who sweep into his room not long after, he isn’t likely to need joss paper burned for him after all.

Du Cheng visits as soon as Shen Yi is moved out of the ICU and visitors who aren’t family are allowed to drop in. Which makes him Shen Yi’s first visitor – he could’ve asked to call his mother, but they definitely aren’t at a point in their recovering relationship where he’d want her to see this or derive any comfort from her presence – and he welcomes the distraction.

For a long while Du Cheng just sits there, mouth closed and brow furrowed. Shen Yi feels no need to break the silence, content to wait him out.

“That was close,” Du Cheng eventually says.

Shen Yi hums an agreement. When Du Cheng doesn’t add anything else, he says, “You got there in time. I’ll recover.”

Du Cheng doesn’t disagree. They’re both too used to dealing with dead bodies to ask for more than that.

“You’ll have to take it easy for a while.” Du Cheng’s gaze flicks to Shen Yi’s blanket-covered torso. “Stab wounds hurt like a bitch.”

“I noticed,” Shen Yi says, dry. His eyes narrow. “It won’t impact my work.”

Du Cheng holds up his hands in exaggerated innocence. “Wouldn’t dream of thinking otherwise. The great Shen-laoshi is integral to the work of our station, after all.”

Shen Yi’s lips twitch. This is one of the things he appreciates about Du Cheng; it’s not that he doesn’t feel protective over his team, but he accepts their competence and choices.

“Doesn’t mean you shouldn’t brace yourself for some mothering from Fei-jie when you get back to the office. She’s been telling everyone she’ll bring you restorative foods.”

He carefully doesn’t wince. “I’m sure they will be. Restorative.”

Shen Yi can see the way Du Cheng braces himself, the way lurking pain prepares to come out, a second before Du Cheng says, quietly honest and raw in a way that scrapes over Shen Yi’s nerves, already exposed in this hospital room, “It’s been a scary few days.”

The way Du Cheng is looking at him from beneath lowered brows, head hanging slightly, reminds Shen Yi suddenly and violently of a puppy, waiting to see how their master will jump.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” Shen Yi says lowly, because that much is certainly true, however little he could’ve done to avert the situation. But he doesn’t want to have this conversation yet, not when every beat of his pulse heralds a return of pain that’s getting sharper as medication is decreased, and all his defences are in tatters around him. So then he smiles, a little, and adds, “And I’m glad I don’t have to entrust you with the care of Xiaoxuan and Guishen.”

Du Cheng pauses, eyes keen on Shen Yi’s expression, then allows him the switch in topic. “I don’t have space for pets.”

“Why do you live in such a small apartment? You could certainly afford better.”

“I don’t need anything bigger.” Du Cheng shrugs. “Besides, it’s a good location, and secure.”

Looking at the dark circles under Du Cheng’s eyes, the rumpled clothing, the shadow in his eyes that Shen Yi might feel guilty about if there’d been anything he could’ve done to avoid the current situation, it doesn’t look like Du Cheng has actually been home since Shen Yi got injured.

Shifting a little under Shen Yi’s gaze, Du Cheng huffs. “What.”

Shen Yi takes a deep breath. Part of him doesn’t want to know, still, but mostly he’d rather not be ignorant. “Are you working on my case? I can sketch the attacker’s face.”

“No need.” Du Cheng doesn’t look particularly pleased. “We caught the bastard two days later. There was a nearby security camera.”

“And?”

“Dead end. He was paid to kill you, but he isn’t saying anything beyond that.”

His fingers twitch restlessly under the blanket. “He gave me a message.”

Du Cheng’s gaze sharpens. “He talked to you?“

“Just one sentence: ‘the white king sends his regards’.”

“The white king,” Du Cheng repeats, a deep line between his brows.

“When I was baiting him, I played chess with Chen Zhou. I was black, he was white.”

A storm darkens Du Cheng’s expression. “He did seem like a man who hates to lose.”

There’s no need to agree with a statement as self-evident as that.

“We’ll just have to make sure he can’t try again,” Du Cheng pronounces, voice rising decisively.

There’s no way for Shen Yi to physically slump further back in the bed, but perhaps the tired relief in his voice makes up for it. “I’ll leave that part to you.”

When Du Cheng leaves the room five minutes later, Shen Yi already on the edge of sleep, his strides are solid and long.

It’s the first late night at the office Shen Yi has been allowed. Not that he was officially barred, but some way or other someone always came and dragged him away from work at a reasonable hour ever since he returned to duty.

Shen Yi let them. He’s well aware that he frightened his friends, and thus decided that as long as they don’t interfere too much he can let them fuss a bit if it makes them feel better.

The light in Du Cheng’s office is still on. Shen Yi opens the door and slips inside without knocking, unfazed by the raised eyebrow that greets him.

“What would Zhang-ju say?” Du Cheng asks pointedly, but Shen Yi can read the amusement underneath.

He smiles. “I still knock on her door. And it’s far past working hours, Du Cheng.”

“Begging the question why you’re still here.” Du Cheng frowns at him in the exact same way everyone has taken to doing when they’re transparently worrying about his health. If they keep going with that much longer, Shen Yi may come to dislike that look – it’s not that he doesn’t appreciate the sign of care, but it’s been weeks now and normality still a little elusive.

Unlike Du Cheng, Shen Yi tends not to come at topics as straightforwardly as can be. Yet, now that he’s on less shaky mental and physical footing, the conversation Du Cheng tried to start in the hospital and had then allowed to be diverted into shallower waters haunts him.

So does the look on Du Cheng’s face when Shen Yi fell, body ahead of his mind in recognising injury.

He may not have been able to face this conversation while lying in a hospital bed, but over the last few days he has come to the conclusion that they should nonetheless have it; a little bit of closure that would otherwise stay missing for Du Cheng.

So Shen Yi sits down in front of Du Cheng’s desk, ignoring the slight tug at new scar tissue that more or less any large movement occasions. “To talk to you.”

Du Cheng’s writing hand pauses. He sets the form aside, expression a little wary.

“How are you?” Shen Yi asks simply.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” Du Cheng asks after a moment’s pause.

Shen Yi doesn’t shift, doesn’t cross his arms, only keeps watching Du Cheng steadily. “You have. And now I’m asking you.” His voice gentles. “You witnessed me being stabbed, Du Cheng. In a similar place as Lei-dui once was.”

Du Cheng’s expression twists. “I wasn’t there to witness that.”

“But you saw the body, the wounds. You must have imagined how it played out.”

The ensuing silence is answer enough. Shen Yi looks aside to give Du Cheng a little privacy.

“I’m sorry you had to see it.”

“I was too late both times!” Du Cheng bursts out. His hands have balled into fists on the desk.

“No,” Shen Yi refutes quietly. “You saved me. If you hadn’t come when you did, he might have stabbed me more than once. I might have bled out. The ambulance would have arrived later. You changed the outcome.”

Du Cheng shudders, breath loud in the still air. Shen Yi watches as he pulls himself together again, not entirely smoothly but resolutely.

“The outcome…”

Shen Yi nods.

Du Cheng’s gaze goes to Shen Yi’s stomach, but the look in his eyes isn’t as turbulent as it has been. And, finally, tension seeps from his frame. His hands unclench.

Though glad for the change – one conversation is never going to heal all wounds, but he has learned by now that small changes, too, are worthwhile to pursue – Shen Yi remains quiet.

Eventually Du Cheng breathes out, meets openness with openness.

“Thanks.”

Shen Yi smiles, eyes crinkling. “Ready to go home and sleep, then, Cheng-dui?”

Snorting quietly at Shen Yi calling him by his title (they never discussed it, the fact that from the beginning Shen Yi hadn’t, even though as part of Du Cheng’s team, technically subordinate for all that he’d stood apart, he really should have), Du Cheng stands.

“I suppose I am.”

( 1)

It’s a little unusual for Shen Yi and Du Cheng to be called to Bureau Chief Zhang’s office at the same time, so they exchange questioning looks while Shen Yi knocks on the door.

“Come in,” Bureau Chief Zhang calls, and immediately hands them folders. “Have a look through these.”

Shen Yi and Du Cheng exchange another glance before obediently setting to. Figuring she probably doesn’t want to sit around watching them read everything in detail, Shen Yi skims the information: an influential businessman visiting from Shanghai, where he’s under investigation for corporate fraud; Shanghai police wants to know who in Beijiang he’s consorting with while he’s here, in case there are other people implicated that they’re currently unaware of.

Next to him, Du Cheng whistles quietly. He’s probably got to the part about how much the guy is worth.

The dossier ends with a brief description of a high society charity gala the suspect is expected to attend this evening – exactly the kind of occasion where the rich and powerful get together and make deals that would make mere mortals weep.

Shen Yi lowers the dossier. He’s not entirely sure what he’s doing here – this doesn’t sound like a case that needs a sketch artist’s expertise. But Bureau Chief Zhang is watching him in a distinctively evaluating manner.

Once Du Cheng puts the folder down as well, she turns to him.

“How would you evaluate Shen Yi’s chances going undercover at this charity gala?”

Curious himself, Shen Yi watches Du Cheng’s expression. He doesn’t look thrilled with the question, but there’s no hesitation before he answers.

“Aside from his lack of formal training in the area, he’s a good candidate.” He doesn’t even sound pained when he says it; he must actually think Shen Yi is capable. “Shen Yi is calm under pressure, observant, and has a good eye for body language.”

When Bureau Chief Zhang looks at him next, Shen Yi shrugs minutely. “Even if I don’t know the people, I’ll be able to sketch them afterwards.”

“I agree it would be preferrable if he had the training,” Bureau Chief Zhang says, “but we’re pressed for time and the operation won’t require any contact with the mark. In fact, you need to blend in and not make waves while you observe. Which is why we didn’t think you were the best option, Du Cheng.”

Du Cheng grimaces. “I’m just not made for hobnobbing, however much Jie tries.”

“And why not anyone else in the team?” Shen Yi asks, more out of curiosity than because he thinks he’s a bad choice. ‘Hobnobbing’ isn’t exactly his comfort zone either, but Du Qing has dragged him to a few more parties since the first one, delighted to have found someone who doesn’t always say no, and they’re all pretty much the same kind of thing.

It’s Du Cheng who answers. “Most of them don’t have any more experience than you do, and you’re…” He clears his throat. “Handsome. Sending anyone female will just mean that they have to fend off advances for half the evening.”

There’s a smile twitching at the corners of Bureau Chief Zhang’s mouth.

“That’s decided then. You have until seven to prepare.”

Preparation apparently amounts to Du Cheng calling in the big guns. Three hours later, Du Qing sweeps into the station, carrying two garment bags. Shen Yi eyes them with some trepidation, but lets himself be shooed into his office, resolving to get revenge for the repressed glee in Du Cheng’s expression later.

“All right,” Du Qing says, all business-like as she looks him over in a way that wouldn’t be out of place while inspecting a vendor’s items at the market, “you don’t look like you put on any weight, these should fit you.”

Shen Yi’s original resolution to just let her do what she wants with minimal input from him flies out the window the moment she unzips the first garment bag. The suit inside is a lurid red, verging on pink, and about as eye-catching as they come.

Whatever his expression is doing – abject horror, presumably – Du Qing takes one look at it and tsks. “You’re right, this one might be a bit much. I didn’t have time to be choosy, you know – it’s bold colours this season.”

She sets the garment bag aside. Shen Yi eyes the remaining one like it might bite him.

A first glance creates relief. White, he can deal with.

Then doubt sets in.

“Where’s the shirt?” he asks.

The suit jacket is a little boxy, with prominent shoulders, but otherwise looks fairly normal – same for the trousers – but there’s no dress shirt in sight, only something that looks more like an undershirt than anything else, with quite a low neckline.

Du Qing points at the undershirt. “It’s the kind of party you show some skin at, Shen Yi.”

“No,” Shen Yi says. Du Qing’s eyes widen at the unexpected forcefulness. “The suit I can deal with, but I’m wearing a dress shirt.”

Or at least something that won’t expose half his chest. The mere thought makes him want to shudder.

“It really is normal – ”

“No.”

He knows the difference clothes and accessories can make. As an artist he is well aware of impact, of hiding behind flash, of dazzling. But on this he won’t budge.

She sighs, raising her hands in defeat. “All right. But you need to leave a couple of buttons undone to show off the necklace.”

Two hours later, a harried assistant has dropped off a tailored shirt, Du Qing has done something with make-up brushes he would be far more interested in if it hadn’t been aimed at his own face, and attacked his hair with a gel that made it fall “more artfully into his face” (her words). A two-stringed, glittery necklace is sitting close to his throat, there’s a golden Rolex on his wrist, and one of his earlobes is trapped by a small magnetic diamond stud that’s probably worth more than he makes in a year. With the white suit jacket, white slacks, and a subtly lilac dress shirt, it’s certainly the kind of outfit Shen Yi would never otherwise wear. Which, he supposes, is rather the point.

“You’ll do,” Du Qing finally says, after some last fussing over his hair. “No one at that party will even suspect you don’t belong there.”

Shen Yi feels the fabric of his sleeves. “I don’t want to know how many years of my salary I’m wearing right now, do I.”

“Don’t worry about it.” She gently pats his cheek. “Just try not to spill anything on yourself.”

Taking a couple of steps back, Du Qing winks. “And enjoy everyone’s faces when you walk out that door.”

He only just suppresses a wince.

There is resounding silence in the bullpen when he walks past. Li Han’s mouth is open. Jiang Feng looks more befuddled than ever and that’s saying something. Du Cheng is – staring.

Because he might as well and the likelihood of ever living this down is low, Shen Yi gives them a cheeky little wave. Only when the elevator doors close after them does Du Qing burst into laughter.

After a moment, Shen Yi asks, “Isn’t Du Cheng meant to wait outside the venue?”

“He’ll get himself together,” Du Qing manages in between giggles. She delicately dabs at her eyes. “You are going in a limousine.”

In the car, Shen Yi goes over the scant brief on his undercover persona. Given his inexperience and the time constraints, they’ve opted to make it as easy for him as possible, so he’s posing as a rich socialite with an interest in art and donating to charitable foundations – the latter of which got him an invitation to this party. Gala. Whatever it is.

All he needs to do there is not draw attention and keep an unobtrusive eye on Director Chang.

“Nervous?” Du Qing asks.

She’s sitting next to him, though she won’t exit the limousine upon arrival.

Shen Yi shrugs. He certainly isn’t comfortable, but to call him nervous would be pushing it. “I’ll have to find appropriate mannerisms,” he says, instead of trying to explain that kind of thing is certainly not what he fears most.

With her head cocked, Du Qing looks uncannily like Du Cheng when he’s putting clues together. “You do impassive and remote well. That’ll do you fine.”

He wonders whether that’s a compliment or a criticism.

If Shen Yi weren’t quite content with passing the time people-watching, he would’ve been bored out of his mind by now. He dutifully made a few rounds upon arrival – after noting that Director Chang was nowhere to be seen yet – which meant exceedingly inconsequential small talk, mostly consisting of him side-stepping questions about his identity and why they had never seen him at an event like this before. Also pretending that he didn’t notice several considering looks from women in his age range. Then he’d taken a turn around the small exhibition of up-and-coming local painters, most of whom Shen Yi knows at least by name – this would be a worry if he didn’t also know that none of them could possibly afford to come to a party like this unless it’s explicitly about art patronage – and now he’s keeping an eye on Director Chang from a convenient seat on the upper level. A small notebook is filling with notes to himself about the people the man has interacted with so far, in a shorthand other people would struggle to decode at a glance.

If this is what undercover work is usually like, Shen Yi won’t be lining up for a second round. It might be more exciting if he were trying to eavesdrop on Director Chang’s conversations, but he was explicitly told not to do that. Which also means that when the man disappears through one of the inner doors with a balding man in his fifties, Shen Yi doesn’t make an attempt to follow.

He doesn’t have long to stew over it. A man approaches up the stairs, clearly heading towards him. He’s middle-aged, hair surprisingly long, outfitted smartly but not as obviously expensively as Shen Yi is. His face is unremarkable, but symmetrical.

He settles in the chair opposite Shen Yi.

“I don’t think I’ve seen you at one of these events before?”

Shen Yi takes a sip of his sparkling apple juice, then tips the glass in the other man’s direction. “I don’t usually indulge.”

Curiosity flashes in the man’s eyes. “And tonight?”

“It was pointed out to me that I should get out more,” Shen Yi says with a faint smile.

The man laughs, with an easy conviviality that Shen Yi thinks is mostly real. That doesn’t mean he isn’t waiting to find out why he was approached – this encounter doesn’t feel the same as the greetings earlier.

Leaning back in his seat, the man who still hasn’t introduced himself, nods towards the nearest painting. “You spent some time looking at the exhibition. Was it worth the trip?”

Art, then. Interesting.

“It was a highlight. I have an interest in art.” At least in this, Shen Yi doesn’t have to pretend, and with Director Chang still gone, there’s no reason for him not to engage. “I wasn’t expecting to find an exhibition here tonight, but there are some very promising pieces. The brushwork on that seascape” – he points at the painting in question, distant though it is from here – “shows a very light touch.”

If Shen Yi had had any thought of liking the other, then his clear disinterest in the topic of local artists would likely have put paid to that.

“Are you a collector, then? You seem to have an eye for it.”

He takes another sip of juice, considering. The agenda behind being approached starts to take shape.

“I have a small collection,” Shen Yi murmurs. “I would not presume to call myself a collector.”

A hint of triumph enters the man’s eyes, there and gone. His tone is casual. “Are you at all interested in Western art?”

Shen Yi raises a lazy brow. “Few people aren’t. For myself, I find plenty of talent and beauty among Chinese artists.”

The conspiratorial smile he finds aimed at him makes his skin crawl. “But?”

“But naturally there are some names anyone would like in their collection,” he plays along. He’s almost certain he’s run into a con of some sort. Professional art brokers worth their salt have no need to approach clients – clients come to them.

With Director Chang still absent, he might as well see if he can get enough clues to rumble it.

“I have a network of connections in Europe. Whenever something good comes into their scope, I buy it. You should come look at my stock some time.”

Shen Yi is considering whether to ask about the kinds of paintings and artists represented, when the phone in his jacket pocket rings. Murmuring an apology, Shen Yi turns away for a semblance of privacy and accepts the call.

“He’s gone,” Du Cheng says in his ear. “The driver will pick you up in five minutes.”

He hangs up before Shen Yi can reply, and he doesn’t hide his small sigh. “It seems I am needed at home. If you will excuse me.”

“Here.” The man holds out a business card. “Call me if you want to see what I have in stock.”

Shen Yi nods, takes the card, and briskly makes his way down into the main hall and out to the drop off and arrival zone in front of the hotel. No one interrupts him – a purposeful walk and lack of real acquaintances in the room makes sure of that.

The limousine appears right when Du Cheng said it would. Shen Yi gets in, careful not to ruffle his overly expensive clothes. They drive two blocks, and then Shen Yi gets out again, only to slide into the passenger seat of Du Cheng’s jeep instead.

“Director Chang left?”

Du Cheng seems to be avoiding looking directly at Shen Yi. Or Shen Yi’s outfit, more likely. He’d managed to mostly forget about it while at the party, where he did indeed not stand out.

“Jiang Feng saw him and another man go out a back entrance. Seems like he wasn’t there for the party.”

“It wasn’t a very edifying one,” Shen Yi says straight-faced, eliciting a soft snort. “I can sketch the man he left the ballroom with – Jiang Feng can verify whether it’s the same person.”

Du Cheng nods as he puts the car in gear and starts driving. “How many others did he talk to?”

“Excluding greetings, eleven briefly and five for longer than two minutes.”

“Long night ahead,” Du Cheng observers. “Go to sleep, Shen Yi. I’ll get you back to the office.”

Shen Yi blinks eyes that want to be lulled into closing already. “There’s another matter. I was approached by an art broker. I’m almost certain there’s something illegal involved, either in the acquisition or in the paintings themselves.”

He fishes the business card out of his jacket pocket and holds it out. The streets are quiet and make for easy driving, but Du Cheng doesn’t take it. Instead, he seems to be casting Shen Yi an incredulous look.

“You went in there to keep an eye on one suspect and managed to acquire a second, entirely unrelated one?”

Shen Yi blinks again. “I did keep an eye on Chang-zong.”

“Never mind.” Du Cheng takes the card. “Go to sleep. We can get started on this tomorrow – there shouldn’t be any hurry with your art fraud buddy.”

“Not a buddy,” Shen Yi says, a little viciously, because art fraud hits him in places that’ll never quite harden the way everything else about him has and Du Cheng should know that by now, but his eyes are already drifting closed.

The disquietingly expensive watch on his wrist tells Shen Yi that Du Cheng must’ve taken the longest possible way back to the office, but his eyes feel rested so he doesn’t comment. At this time of night, at least, there are fewer people around to stare at his outfit, and they make it back up to their floor unmolested.

“I’ll get the sketch of who I think he left with done first,” Shen Yi tells a waiting Jiang Feng, whose gaze keeps slipping to Shen Yi’s neck.

“Huh? Oh yeah, that’d be good.”

Jiang Feng casts a helpless look in Du Cheng’s direction.

“I’m surprised you managed to get Li Han out of the office,” Du Cheng mutters, as he trails Shen Yi down the corridor.

Dimly, Shen Yi hears Jiang Feng say, “Apparently He Rongyue dragged her out,” and resolved to buy He Rongye lunch at the next available opportunity.

“Will you wait around?” Shen Yi asks Du Cheng, reaching for his pencils on automatic before remembering the amount of white he’s wearing.

Scowling slightly, he unclasps the watch – so big it’d just get in the way on his wrist – and leaves it on the desk next to the pile of candies that’ll probably be reduced by at least one before Du Cheng leaves his office again. Next, he shrugs out of the suit jacket. Du Qing left some supplies, so he arranges the jacket in a garment bag, and stands on tiptoes to hang the thing from the highest rung of a shelf. The motion tugs at the new scar in his abdomen, giving him the briefest of pauses before he goes to sit behind his drawing desk. There’s no pain anymore, but he isn’t used to the way more than minor scar tissue behaves yet – all his previous scars were decidedly psychological.

He doesn’t look at Du Cheng to see if he’s caught the moment.

“I’ll go keep Jiang Feng awake,” Du Cheng says, voice neutral. “I want this case back with Shanghai police as soon as possible.”

Shen Yi nods, undoing shirt buttons so he can fold the sleeves up to below his elbow. Sketching with pencils – and even charcoal sticks – isn’t as messy as painting tends to be, but he’d rather avoid having to explain graphite smears to Du Qing.

Pushing at his gelled fringe so it’s a little more out of his eyes, Shen Yi arranges a fresh piece of paper and gets to work, only half paying attention to the way Du Cheng’s footsteps stop halfway to the door before resuming.

It’s easy to get an appointment with Huo Daxu (according to the business card – a search of their database quickly revealed no such person exists); all it takes is one phone call during which Shen Yi pretends to be interested and a little in awe of the man’s art brokering ability.

Standing in a storage container in black slacks, a black turtleneck, a pretty, segmented bracelet – and where does Du Qing keep pulling all these items of jewellery that fit him from anyway? –  a day later, Shen Yi knows immediately that the paintings can’t be the real deal. If this man truly had such priceless masterpieces, the space where they are kept would be temperature controlled, meticulously arranged, with much more security than a simple lock.

Huo Daxu gestures expansively. “Have a look, Shen-xiansheng. The Rembrandt over here is my best piece.”

Curious despite himself, Shen Yi steps forward to peer at the supposed Rembrandt. It’s ‘The Rich Fool’, which is ironically appropriate.

It looks like the original, when not examined too closely. Whoever painted it truly has an eye for detail, as any forger must. From up close, however, the brush technique is blatantly different from Rembrandt. Shen Yi also happens to know that the original painting is in an art gallery in Berlin.

“It’s a pretty good forgery,” Shen Yi says casually, leaning back. “But done by someone who has never seen the original. You would’ve done better with less well-known painters.”

“Excuse me?” Huo Daxu draws himself up to his full, not particularly impressive height. “What kind of spurious claims – ”

Shen Yi raises an unimpressed brow. “Did you think it wouldn’t be obvious to anyone well-versed in art?”

He can see the moment Huo Daxu folds. Shen Yi didn’t expect a fight and he won’t get one. The man turns and heads for the only door – outside which Du Cheng is waiting. Shen Yi is content to stand back and let that play out, tugging out the sleeves of the turtleneck until they cover a little more of his hands. Now that the confrontation is past, awareness of the thin layer of turtleneck between him and everything else prickles down his spine. Soon he’ll be back in his usual layers, no more expensive jewellery and styled hair. Maybe then Jiang Feng will be able to look him in the eye again.

He can’t wait.

As soon as Huo Daxu divulges the name and address of his forger, Shen Yi is moving. He knows it’ll take Du Cheng a while to wrap up and get around to heading out – there’s no need to rush in a case like this, where no lives are at risk – and there are some things Shen Yi needs to know for himself.

Forgery, in many cases, is a soulless art; the recreation of something that already exists, for the sole reason of making profit. A forger may well take pride in how closely they can match the original, but there’s no spark.

Yet, when he’d looked at the painting in the storage unit, he’d seen love in it, and he wants to know why.

When Shen Yi knocks on the door, he finds it opened by an elderly lady, white hair brushing her shoulders and framing keen eyes.

“How can I help you?”

He shows her his badge, and still there’s no trace of fear in her expression. Something in him unwinds; this is not the behaviour of someone who knows they’re involved in illegal activities.

“I have some questions about Huo Daxu,” he says quietly, and she waves him in.

It’s a small apartment, half of it taken up by painting supplies and an easel of considerable size.

“Oh, Xiao Huo?” She frowns. “What has he done? He’s never struck me as a troublemaker, Officer.”

“Shen Yi,” he says, remembering that he’d failed to properly introduce himself earlier. He settles in the one free chair at her gestured insistence. “How do you know Huo Daxu?”

She heads to the kitchen, just a small area of the open living room. “My daughter introduced us. They dated for a while, but it didn’t work out. We kept in touch because he’s interested in art. Tea?”

Shen Yi demurs.

“I’ve always loved painting, but I simply can’t paint anything original however hard I try. If I don’t have some template to go off of, it’s all just… aimless. Not a bone of creativity in my body, I fear, which rather amused many people. But he was always kind about it; said he liked the recreations I did. I’ve given him a few over the years.”

His heart is sinking, all suspicion turned into an aching kind of sympathy for the betrayal she is about to face.

“Do you know what he does with the paintings?”

She waves a hand, smiling a little. “He says he hangs them in his mansion. He’s got a big place, you know, full of empty walls. He wouldn’t be able to afford the originals, but he says having my recreations is almost as good.”

Shen Yi swallows, looking away from that smile. “I’m sorry, Li-taitai. He wasn’t telling you the truth. Huo Daxu has been selling your work, pretending they are the originals. I confirmed it today.”

He can almost hear the splintering. She stands frozen, hand clenching around the counter-top, face bleaching white.

“What did you say?”

There’s no need to repeat the words that he knows she heard with utter clarity, so he remains quiet, letting her absorb that truth.

Eventually, she sags. “Are you sure?”

He nods. “I’m sorry.”

“Are you an artist?” she ask quietly, searching his face. “It seems you… understand.”

“I am.” He knows there’s no joy in his small smile. “My art was used… badly, once, though my fault in that was greater. I left the art world, after that.”

Eight years later, he knows he’ll never fully forgive himself for being complicit in the murder of a good man. The majority of the blame may lie with those who used his innocence and used his art to do something so abhorrent, but he does bear part of it – because he hadn’t asked. Hadn’t thought. Hadn’t cared enough, beyond the thrill of the challenge and getting to show off his talent, as he’d been taught he should want to. He still refuses to use the pain that resulted from that lack of care for creative ends, no matter what Lin Min said at the time, but that’s hardly enough to wash it away entirely. Not even dismantling the human trafficking ring responsible once and for all was enough for that.

Mrs Li sighs quietly. “Then you do understand. What happens next?”

“You’ll be asked to come to the police station. Just tell them the truth, what you’ve just told me.” His gaze gentles. “There’s nothing wrong with copying someone else’s painting, as long as it’s not then sold. If you didn’t know and received no money, you will face no trouble from the police. They will merely verify your claims.”

She nods, composure returning.

When Du Cheng and Jiang Feng arrive a few minutes later, they interrupt a calm but pleasing discussion of Beijiang’s art world

( – “oh, that Shen Yi! Of course I’ve heard of you – )

and Shen Yi steps out of the building at Mrs Li’s side, a quiet presence he hopes will offer her some comfort. There had been none for him eight years ago – it feels only right for that to change.

***