Zhen Nuan slipped her phone into the pocket of her white coat and reached for her keys. As she pushed open the door, something felt off. She paused and noticed two paper bags neatly placed on the windowsill.
Curious, she hurried over and opened one. Inside was a cup of green tea and a slice of cheesecake—still warm.
The packaging was identical to the one Yan Han had given Qin Shu earlier. So, the captain was treating the overtime team?
Zhen Nuan smiled faintly, holding the cup in both hands as the steam brushed her face. She really liked the atmosphere here—quiet, diligent, and kind.
Just as she stepped inside, a familiar voice called out behind her.
Guan Xiaoyu, also in a white coat, approached with a cup of tea in hand. “Nuannuan beauty, have you picked up Jiang Xiao’s clothes? I want to take them for inspection.”
“Yeah, it’s done.”
The two entered the anatomy room together. Seeing everything running smoothly, Guan Xiaoyu asked, “Getting used to the place? Professor Zheng’s still in a meeting, otherwise he’d walk you through it.”
“I’ll manage,” Zhen Nuan said, her tone steady. “The C-Lab is beyond anything I expected. They even have an X-ray and CT room for verifying injuries after autopsies. Professor Zheng told me not to rely on them too much, though—self-examination still matters most.”
“C-Lab really is top-tier,” Guan Xiaoyu said with pride. “Captain Yan has high standards. Since he took over, we’ve upgraded every year. Nothing but the best.”
Zhen Nuan blinked, surprised. “All that… because of Captain Yan? Wouldn’t that cost a fortune?”
“Rumor has it he even covered some costs himself,” Guan Xiaoyu said with a shrug. “Xu Simiao ran the numbers—our annual 30-million allocation wouldn’t be enough for all these upgrades.”
“The chemistry lab alone looks brand new,” Zhen Nuan said, recalling her visit upstairs. “I saw Qin Shu there. What does she do?”
“Artist.”
“Artist?”
“It’s her nickname. She studied painting and sculpture. Now she sketches suspect portraits. Not a busy role, so she helps with trace analysis. She’s brilliant at forensic reconstruction—talk to her sometime.”
Zhen Nuan nodded, impressed. Forensic sketching—rebuilding faces of the unknown from bone and decay—was both art and science. “That’s incredible,” she murmured.
“But you made a small mistake,” Guan Xiaoyu added. “Fingerprints should’ve gone to me. You only ask her when things get complicated.”
Zhen Nuan hesitated. “But she seemed quite skilled.”
“She is. Just… a bit too eager. Whenever we get light cases, she volunteers. A workaholic artist.”
Zhen Nuan smiled guiltily. Everyone here was so dedicated. Remembering Yan Han’s earlier scolding, she promised herself to do better.
“Nuannuan,” Guan Xiaoyu teased, “are you scared of dissecting corpses?”
“No.” Zhen Nuan shook her head earnestly. “In anatomy class, when I couldn’t find a nerve, I wished the corpse could tell me where it was.”
Guan Xiaoyu froze, blinking. “You’re… unusual. But hey, at least corpses don’t fight back.”
“Unless,” Zhen Nuan said thoughtfully, “something unexpected happens.”
“Unexpected?”
“One time in class,” Zhen Nuan said, “a surgeon tossed a piece of fat, and it landed in a laughing student’s mouth.”
“…What?!” Guan Xiaoyu burst into laughter. “You’re hilarious!”
Zhen Nuan tilted her head, confused. “Was that funny?”
“Absolutely.” Guan Xiaoyu wiped a tear, still grinning.
“Oh, and I made keychains out of bones once,” Zhen Nuan said cheerfully. “Want one?”
“Wait—the one on your keys—is that human bone?”
“Yes.”
Three imaginary crows flew over Guan Xiaoyu’s head. “Let’s… talk about that later,” she said, edging toward the door.
Before leaving, she glanced at the autopsy table. “Hey, were the victim’s eyes swollen before?”
Jiang Xiao’s corpse now had dark bruises around the eyes—panda eyes.
“The assistant said they appeared about an hour after death,” Zhen Nuan replied.
“Beaten before she died?”
“I’ll confirm.”
“Good luck.” Guan Xiaoyu waved and slipped out.
…
Night draped itself over the city.
A European-style villa in Dongcheng shimmered beside a still lake, lights glinting off the water like oil paint. It was Shen Zetian and Dong Sisi’s wedding night.
The master bedroom overflowed with roses. Dong Sisi sat before her mirror in sheer silk pajamas that hugged every curve. Shen Zetian stepped out of the shower, his gaze darkening as it lingered on her reflection.
He moved closer, hands tracing her waist, his breath heavy with desire. She smiled in the mirror—a calm, satisfied smile.
This man, handsome and sharp, was finally hers.
He undressed her with ease, and she responded, her fingers sliding through his damp hair.
For love, and for power—she could accept his flaws.
Shen Zetian was perfect, except for his faithlessness. But in a world of ambition, perfection was an illusion she could live with.
Their marriage wasn’t built on affection alone. It was strategy, alliance, and dominance. She wanted his power; he wanted her beauty and her name.
And yet… somewhere in her cold heart, she did love him.
As passion rose, her voice broke the silence. “Your lover of five years dies, and you come to me?”
His movements grew rougher. “She didn’t have your body, your voice, or your fire.”
Dong Sisi’s smile stiffened. She forced a laugh, though her heart trembled. “Aren’t you sad she’s gone?”
“Relieved,” he whispered.
“Why?”
“She dreamed of being Mrs. Shen.” His tone dripped disdain. “You are. She never could be.”
Dong Sisi’s breath caught. The heat of their bodies clashed with the cold inside her chest.
Later, as they lay tangled in silence, she said softly, “That misunderstanding that ended things between you and her—it was my doing.”
“I know.”
She froze. “Then why…”
“I was tired of her.” His voice was lazy, emotionless. “Women who pretend devotion while craving luxury—they’re the worst kind.”
Dong Sisi turned her face away, eyes empty. He was cruel, calculating, and yet… she still wanted him.
…
Winter crept closer; the mornings bit with cold.
Zhen Nuan wrapped her scarf tightly as she dashed toward the Public Security Bureau. She’d stayed up until three finishing Yan Han’s report and was now racing against the clock.
The elevator doors were closing when she shouted, “Please, wait!”
They reopened—and she froze.
Yan Han.
He stood there, unreadable, flipping through papers.
Zhen Nuan swallowed hard and stepped in. The air felt tense, her scarf too warm. She tugged it loose, static crackling through her hair.
“Tie your hair when you work,” Yan Han said, tone crisp and professional.
Zhen Nuan blinked. “Oh… yes, Captain.”
She fumbled for a hair tie and gathered her hair up. Silence pressed in, broken only by the hum of the elevator.
Then his voice again—lower, but softer. “Did you sleep well last night?”
“Uh… not really.”
“You’ve got dark circles.” He looked up briefly before returning to his papers.
She caught her reflection—indeed, two shadows under her eyes. “Guess staying up late shows fast,” she murmured.
“You’re not used to it yet,” he said flatly. “You’ll adapt.”
The warmth she’d felt seconds ago vanished. She sighed quietly as the elevator dinged open.
Yan Han stepped out without looking back. “If you’re late, your bonus gets docked.”
Zhen Nuan stood in the elevator, feeling disheveled and alone.
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