Steam rose from the old-fashioned stove.
Stone sat on a wooden stool, adding firewood, while Sixteen dropped Rhodiola rosea into the rice porridge.
Stone’s brow twitched as he watched. “Isn’t she getting better? Put less in!”
Sixteen replied, “Seventh Brother told me to.”
Stone threw a handful of branches into the stove, the firewood crackling. He jumped up, walked over to Sixteen, and unwrapped the paper package. “Damn it, that little brat took some for Maiduo again.”
“I saw what he gave Maiduo, not much,” Sixteen said, adding more to the pot.
Stone jumped up and down as if his flesh had been cut. “That’s enough, that’s enough! The rest isn’t enough to sell.”
Funds were tight, and the team often sold medicinal herbs to supplement their income. Stone managed the accounts, and what went into the pot was money—so of course he felt the pinch.
Sixteen stopped and said, “Stone, she needs to be better before we can take good photos.”
Stone wasn’t interested in listening and snatched the package back.
Sixteen pressed on. “Her photos can be used for publicity, to hold exhibitions in big cities. The money earned will go to the nature reserve. Then the higher-ups will increase our funding.”
Stone’s eyes lit up. “Why the hell didn’t you say so earlier?” He unwrapped the package again and tossed more into the pot.
From now on, he thought, he’d have to raise Cheng Jia like a sheep; once she grew, he could harvest her wool.
The wooden door creaked open.
Cheng Jia woke, opened her eyes, and saw the dimly lit room. Peng Ye entered, carrying a bowl of porridge.
“Awake?” He glanced at her, placed the bowl on the bedside table. “Drink it later.”
He set it down and turned to leave.
“I can’t get up,” Cheng Jia said.
Peng Ye paused, returned, reached into her blankets, and supported her back to help her sit.
She was lighter than she looked, pale, lips dry, eyes downcast, not as sharp as usual.
His hands were steady but cold. Cheng Jia frowned.
“Are you feeling unwell?” Peng Ye asked.
“Your hands are too cold.”
“It’s my fault for not warming them up first.”
“….” Cheng Jia chuckled softly.
Peng Ye ignored her, silently placing a pillow behind her back. His chest and arms enveloped her, carrying a simple soapy scent.
Her cheek “accidentally” brushed his chin—hard, warm, unlike his hands.
Peng Ye’s face stiffened. He bent, turned his head to look at her. They were close, his eyes silent. Cheng Jia looked back calmly, confident, unembarrassed.
He pulled the pillow back, released her, picked up the bowl. “Eat this.”
Cheng Jia took it and brazenly touched his hand. Rough skin, hard knuckles.
Peng Ye stared, exhaling slowly through his nose, teeth clenched.
Cheng Jia’s expression was open, honest. She scooped porridge, drank. Warmth soothed her stomach. “Who made this porridge?”
“Shi Tou,” Peng Ye said.
“What kind of pot did he use? It’s cooked so well.” She marveled at the perfect blend of rice and water. “I’ll buy one too.”
“An iron pot,” Peng Ye replied.
“….” Cheng Jia had thought it was some brand of rice cooker. “An iron pot?”
Peng Ye gestured broadly. “The most traditional iron pot and stove.”
Cheng Jia nodded. “The supermarket doesn’t sell this.”
Peng Ye said nothing.
“Am I suffering from altitude sickness?” she asked.
“And a bit of pulmonary edema,” he answered.
“Oh, no wonder you had a nosebleed.”
“….” Peng Ye was speechless. She really had the nerve to bring that up.
If he hadn’t noticed and kicked open her door, she might have been daydreaming forever.
He seemed unwilling to linger. “Take care and rest. The oxygen tank is here.”
Cheng Jia swallowed porridge. “Sangyang Nima said you can hear the wind. How do you do that?”
“A feeling.” His answer was perfunctory.
“You can fool a child like that,” Cheng Jia said. “You know meteorology. Where did you learn it? Which university?”
Peng Ye looked at her, smiled without smiling. “University?”
“Yeah, a feeling.”
“A feeling?”
“Yes, a feeling.”
Peng Ye chuckled, pulled up a chair, leaned closer. His smile faded. “What are you after?”
Tall, looming, he blocked the light.
Cheng Jia looked up, silent.
His eyes were dark, calm. “What do you want from me?”
“I’m a photographer.”
“I asked what you want from me.”
Her cheeks tightened, lashes trembled, then steadied. “Your body.”
Peng Ye was speechless. Her bluntness would scare most men. But her expression was straightforward, almost reverent.
“I want a set of photos. Your body.”
Her gaze was clear, calm, undesiring—like an art lover admiring the Mona Lisa.
Outside, wind and hail battered the inn.
Peng Ye stared silently, then said, “Finish your porridge and rest. Don’t do anything inappropriate in the future.”
Cheng Jia’s tone cooled. “I’ll return that to you verbatim.”
Peng Ye narrowed his eyes, lamplight shadowing his face. “You really know how to hold a grudge. Do you want me to bring up what you did when you had a nosebleed?”
“I’m not the kind of woman who doesn’t take responsibility.”
“….”
“Besides, I’m not talking about that. Later, when I wasn’t around, you searched my room.”
Peng Ye frowned. “When?”
“After I left this morning, before I checked out.”
“No.”
“You didn’t break into my room to search for things because you couldn’t get clues from me?”
“No.”
“Then it was one of your men.”
“No.”
Sixteen had asked if she should be handed to the police. Peng Ye had said “forget it.” If she was taken, she’d be a target for Black Fox. He thought: if he couldn’t protect her, he shouldn’t involve her.
“They won’t,” Cheng Jia laughed lightly.
“Did someone break into your room?” Peng Ye asked.
“The things look the same, but they’ve been touched.”
“I’ll ask Sixteen and the others later.”
“Do you believe they didn’t break in without your knowledge?”
“Yes.”
“You trust them quite a bit.”
“We’ve been through thick and thin together, of course.”
“I noticed your off-road vehicles are strapped with sheepskin,” Cheng Jia said.
“Yes.” His expression shifted. “An accidental find.”
“This line of work must be tough.”
“It’s alright.”
“You’re always stationed in the no-man’s-land?”
“More or less.”
“Aren’t you lonely?” she asked softly.
“….”
Peng Ye pursed his lips, glanced at her. She leaned back, aloof, but he knew her words carried implication. Tonight, she only cared about his answer.
The wind surged, the lamp flickered. His shadow swayed across her face.
“Just put the bowl on the cupboard after you’re done,” he said finally.
This time, he left, closing the door.
Outside, he lit a cigarette, wondering why leaving felt so difficult.
Downstairs, Sixteen and the others cooked, rice aroma filling the air.
“Is she awake?” Nima asked.
“Yes,” Peng Ye said.
Sixteen noticed his expression. “What’s wrong?”
“After we left, someone searched her room at the inn.”
“202?”
“Yes.”
“Brother, what do you suspect?”
“Her things were searched and rearranged. Not burglary. Cautious.”
Stone looked up. “You think it’s Black Fox?”
“Black Fox killed Ji Yun the night before. He knew Ji Yun wasn’t in 202, but 203. Other guests were in 202.”
“That makes sense.”
“Then why search Cheng Jia’s room the next day?”
Silence. Then Sixteen slapped his forehead. “Cheng Jia has what he wants!”
“That’s the only explanation,” Peng Ye said.
“But how could Sister Cheng Jia have what Black Fox wants?” Nima asked.
“For now, we can only confirm she met him,” Peng Ye said.
“Black Fox is cautious. She probably didn't see his face."
Peng Ye smiled faintly. “If she had, she would be dead by now.”
Sixteen said, “Now she’s one of our comrades. She didn’t say anything last time, but maybe she’ll tell us this time. Perhaps she can give us other clues. Brother, why don’t you go ask her again?”
Peng Ye didn’t answer immediately. He really didn’t want to ask her. Talking to that woman gave him a headache.
He walked to the kitchen door, pulled out his phone, and saved Cheng Jia’s number.
Sixteen came out, hooked her arm around his shoulder.
Peng Ye: “Something wrong?”
Sixteen whispered, “Brother, what do you think of her?”
“….” Peng Ye asked, “Who?”
“The photographer.”
“….”
Sixteen actually wanted to ask if something was off between them. He and Peng Ye had been brothers for years, and his instincts were sharp. He had noticed the strange trail of blood from the bathroom to Cheng Jia’s door, and he sensed Peng Ye’s coldness toward her—probably dislike.
But he couldn’t directly ask if Peng Ye had a problem with Cheng Jia. Sixteen thought it might be because Cheng Jia had been too aggressive during the breast-touching incident that day.
“Brother.”
“Hm?”
“What do you think of Cheng Jia?”
Peng Ye turned to look at him. “What do you mean?”
“Shi Tou thinks she has a strange temper, but I think she’s quite interesting.”
Peng Ye lowered his head, saving the number, frowning slightly—the character “Jia” in Cheng Jia’s name was hard to find.
Sixteen kept her arm around his shoulder, casually asking, “Brother, would you like this kind of woman?”
Peng Ye said, “Am I looking for trouble?”
Before he finished speaking, light footsteps sounded behind him.
Peng Ye recognized them but didn’t look up.
Sixteen was startled, quickly looked over with a smile.
Cheng Jia, wearing only a long shirt, carrying a rice bowl and a camera, walked past them without glancing at either man and went into the kitchen.
Peng Ye was looking down at his phone when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the hem of her shirt flutter past—white and light blue stripes, revealing a glimpse of her long, pale legs. She was barefoot in high heels, a black snake tattoo curling around her fair ankle.
Peng Ye finally found the character “Jia” and saved her number.
Just then—bang, bang, bang—someone pounded loudly on the inn’s door.
It was 9 p.m.
The group exchanged glances. Silence fell, broken only by the bubbling rice in the pot and the howling wind outside.
On a stormy night, who would venture into a tiny village in a deserted area, a place not even marked on a map?
NEXT
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