In Liu Xun’s view, as long as his bottom line wasn’t crossed, it was fine.
“Thank you for your understanding, Miss Gu.” He nodded, accepting the job.
Liu Xun stood up, put his fisherman’s hat back on, lowered the brim, placed his sunglasses back on the bridge of his nose, and slightly raised the collar of his trench coat. Once again, he became that ordinary middle-aged man who wouldn’t attract a second glance on the street.
“Let’s keep in touch,” he said.
Gu Wangshu nodded.
Liu Xun turned and walked toward the door, then pushed open the glass door and stepped outside. The sunlight stretched his shadow long the moment he stepped out, and soon after, he disappeared into the flow of people at the mouth of the alley.
After Liu Xun left, Gu Wangshu remained seated, not leaving immediately.
Her hand rested on the kraft paper envelope, her fingertips gently rubbing the rough texture of the cover.
The matter with Yang Zhi was even easier to handle than she had anticipated.
People like him, rotten to the core, were effortless to investigate and didn’t require much effort to deal with. As long as these materials were presented to the right people at the right time and in the right place, Yang Zhi would become a self-detonating bomb.
But Zhong Jiming’s situation was far more complicated than she had imagined.
His trip to Hong Kong didn’t seem like a simple business trip.
She picked up her teacup and slowly finished the last sip of Pu’er tea. The tea had cooled somewhat, but it still tasted rich and mellow, with a lingering sweetness.
Uncle Chen poked his head out from the kitchen: “Second Miss, would you like more congee?”
“No need, Uncle Chen.” She stood up, took a few banknotes from her bag, and placed them on the table. Several red hundred-dollar Hong Kong notes, far exceeding the price of a bowl of congee and a pot of tea.
When Uncle Chen came out and saw the money, he waved his hands repeatedly: “This won’t do, this won’t do. You came here for a bowl of congee—how could I take your money—”
“Uncle Chen,” Gu Wangshu interrupted him, her tone gentle but firm, “this isn’t for the congee. Please pass a message to Auntie Chen for me—tell her I’ll visit her in Tsuen Wan in the next few days. And—”
She paused, her gaze turning serious.
“If anyone comes asking about the past again, no matter who they are or what they say, please notify me immediately.”
She took a slip of paper with a phone number written on it from her bag and placed it on the table.
Uncle Chen looked at the slip of paper, then at Gu Wangshu.
“Alright,” he said solemnly, folding the paper carefully and tucking it into his apron pocket, pressing it down to make sure it wouldn’t fall out. “I’ll remember.”
Gu Wangshu put her sunglasses back on, gave Uncle Chen a slight nod, pushed open the glass door, and walked out.
The afternoon sun was blazing, bleaching the stone pavement white.
In the distance came the clanging sound of a tram, mixed with the calls of street vendors and the laughter of children. A double-decker bus passed by the mouth of the alley, its side adorned with a Vitasoy advertisement—red background with white letters—flashing in the sunlight before disappearing.
Gu Wangshu walked along the narrow alley and turned onto Hennessy Road.
The road widened considerably, flanked by dense clusters of signs in both Chinese and English. The neon tubes looked dull and gray in the daylight, waiting for nightfall to light up.
The sidewalks were bustling with people: office workers in suits, middle school students in uniforms, aunties pushing carts, tourists holding cameras. Everyone was in a hurry, everyone had somewhere to go.
The sky suddenly darkened.
Gu Wangshu looked up at the sky. A thick, ink-like dark cloud was rapidly pressing in from the direction of Victoria Harbour, as if someone were pulling a massive gray curtain from one end of the sky to the other.
The humidity in the air rose instantly, stifling and suffocating.
Rain was coming.
People on the street quickened their pace. Some opened umbrellas, others held briefcases over their heads, and a few dashed into the arcades along the roadside.
The newspaper vendor hurriedly covered the newspapers and magazines on his stall with a plastic sheet, muttering complaints about the heavens not giving him a break.
Gu Wangshu continued walking, unhurried as ever.
The Gu family car was parked not far ahead by the roadside. The driver, likely noticing the change in the weather, had already stepped out and was standing beside the car, holding an umbrella and looking in her direction.
She passed by a record store with its door wide open. Music drifted out from the speakers inside, carving out a small, soft space amid the clamor of voices and traffic.
It was Teresa Teng’s voice.
“Whether in sorrow or joy, every day brings new discoveries.”
The gentle singing seemed out of place on this busy, noisy street—more suited to a quiet late night, the kind of song one listens to alone under a desk lamp.
The rain began to fall.
Without warning, it came down in a sudden, rattling torrent. Not the lingering drizzle of a gentle rain, but the fierce downpour typical of southern summers—large, dense drops.
Gu Wangshu stopped walking.
She stood on the sidewalk, neither seeking shelter nor running.
She tilted her head back, removed her sunglasses, and lifted her face slightly, feeling the raindrops land on her skin.
Cold.
One drop, then another, striking her forehead, cheeks, and the tip of her nose, sliding down the line of her jaw and into the hollow of her collarbone.
Her hair quickly grew damp, clinging to the sides of her face. All around her, people were running, taking cover, cursing the sudden rain. Only she remained motionless, standing in place.
A little cold, a little refreshing.
Gu Wangshu thought, this must be what it feels like to be alive.
When she lay in the hospital bed, the windows were always closed. She had forgotten how it felt to have rain fall on her face.
She had forgotten the scorching heat of sunlight on her skin, the tickle of wind through her hair, the cool softness of bare feet on muddy ground.
And now, the rain on her face—each drop clearly telling her: You are here. You are real. You are alive.
She closed her eyes, a faint curve forming at the corner of her mouth.
Teresa Teng’s singing still drifted from the record store, fragmented by the sound of the rain, intermittent, like distant dream-talk.
Across Hennessy Road, a black Mercedes-Benz sedan glided slowly past.
Raindrops streaked the car window, cutting the outside world into countless blurred fragments, like a watercolor painting that hadn’t dried.
Zhong Jiming sat in the back seat, a copy of the Ming Pao newspaper in his hands. He had finished reading it, but the paper remained spread across his knees as his gaze absently drifted to the window.
The rain fell heavily. Pedestrians hurried to take shelter, and colorful umbrellas moved across the gray, misty street.
Then he saw someone.
Everyone was running, everyone was hiding—except for one person standing still.
A young woman in a beige dress, standing on the sidewalk, face upturned, letting the rain pour down on her.
That scene lasted only two or three seconds behind the rain-streaked car window before the vehicle passed by.
But Zhong Jiming’s gaze didn’t follow the car forward; instead, it lingered in the rearview mirror.
He had recognized her.
Though it was just a glimpse, he had still recognized her.
It was the young woman he had encountered at the Shenzhen Nanhai Hotel—Gu Xihe, Wangshu’s cousin.
Over the past couple of days, he had learned quite a bit about the Gu family from Bai Qingyuan, and naturally, he had heard the news about this eldest daughter of Xinda Group’s tragic love affair.
It seemed this young woman was troubled by matters of the heart, he thought.
Standing in the rain without seeking shelter or running away, lifting her face to let the rain pour down—this was something only the young would do.
He sighed.
Ah, youth.