At the same time, Earl Hotel, Room 1809.
Sunlight squeezed through the gap in the curtains, drawing a golden line on the carpet.
The line slowly moved, crawling across the carpet, over the foot of the bed, and onto the edge of the mattress.
Shen Junyan was awakened by the vibration of his phone.
He frowned, not opening his eyes, and groped around on the nightstand for a while before finding his phone.
The screen lit up, the glaring white light making him squint. He glanced at the screen—seven missed calls, all from his assistant Lu Heng. There were also thirteen unread messages.
He turned off the alarm that went off promptly at 7 a.m. every day, threw the phone back onto the nightstand, and rolled over.
His body felt heavy, as if filled with lead.
His temples throbbed, and the back of his head ached faintly.
His mouth was dry, his throat feeling as if it had been sanded.
Typical hangover symptoms.
No.
Not a hangover.
Shen Junyan closed his eyes, trying to recall last night’s events—the private room, the drinking table, toasts, red wine, and then…
His memory cut off after a certain point, like a videotape forcibly stopped, the following scenes nothing but static and noise.
He remembered returning to his room, remembered feeling very hot, remembered…
Remembered a person.
A woman.
Shen Junyan’s eyes snapped open.
He sat up, the blanket sliding off his body, revealing his bare upper half.
On his pale skin, a few faint scratch marks remained, stretching from his shoulder all the way to his back.
He looked down—there was a red mark on his chest, as if left by a fingernail.
His pupils contracted.
He turned his head, looking at the other half of the bed.
The sheets were crumpled, the pillow bore the indentation of a person’s shape, and a faint, elusive fragrance lingered on the blanket—not the hotel’s shampoo scent, but some floral perfume, so light it was almost imperceptible.
Shen Junyan’s brow furrowed.
He lifted the blanket and saw the smear of blood on the sheets, staring blankly for several seconds.
Then he got out of bed and walked around the room—no one else was there.
When he reached a corner of the room, he spotted a small silver object.
Shen Junyan stepped forward and picked it up—it was an earring.
He placed the earring in his palm, turning it over and examining it several times.
Silver, delicate, with a pearl the size of a grain of rice hanging from it. The craftsmanship was exquisite, and on the back was engraved a tiny logo—that of a jewelry brand.
Not his.
Of course not his.
It belonged to last night’s woman.
Shen Junyan stared at the earring for a long time, his gaze shifting from confusion to scrutiny, then from scrutiny to something indescribable.
Then he clenched the earring in his hand, picked up his phone, and dialed Lu Heng’s number.
The call was answered after one ring.
“Mr. Shen.” Lu Heng’s voice came through the receiver, tinged with obvious tension. “You finally answered. Last night—”
“Check the surveillance footage from last night,” Shen Junyan interrupted him, his voice hoarse and low, carrying the magnetic quality of someone just awakened. “The top-floor corridor, from the time I arrived at the hotel until now.”
“…Surveillance?” Lu Heng was taken aback.
“Yes.” Shen Junyan walked to the window and yanked open the curtains.
Sunlight poured in, filling the entire room with golden light.
He stood in the sunlight, the backlit profile of his face sharp as an unsheathed blade.
“I want to know,” his voice was calm, so calm it betrayed no emotion, “who was the person who entered my room last night.”
Lu Heng acted quickly.
As Shen Junyan’s assistant, he had followed this boss for five years and understood one principle well: when Shen Junyan said “look into it,” it meant “immediately, right now, at any cost.”
Forty minutes later, Lu Heng called back.
“Mr. Shen, the hotel’s surveillance footage…” Lu Heng’s voice hesitated slightly, “has encountered a problem.”
Shen Junyan was putting on his shirt. He was fastening the cuff button with one hand, the phone tucked between his shoulder and ear. At these words, his movements paused.
“What problem?”
“The surveillance footage from the top-floor corridor, from nine o’clock last night to six-thirty this morning… is gone.”
Shen Junyan’s fingers stopped on the cuff.
“Gone?” His voice betrayed no emotion, but after five years with him, Lu Heng could sense danger in that calmness.
“Yes. The hotel’s engineering department said the data appears to have been deleted. It wasn’t a device malfunction—it was manually erased. The corridor, the elevator, the lobby—any surveillance that could have captured footage from that time period is completely clean, with no trace left.”
Shen Junyan slowly lowered his hand from the cuff, turned, and looked at the rumpled bed in the room.
Manually deleted.
Completely clean.
No trace left.
The corner of his mouth curved slightly—not a smile, but an instinctive reaction, like a hunter catching the scent of prey.
“Interesting,” he said.
“Mr. Shen, should we report it to the police?” Lu Heng asked.
“No need.” Shen Junyan walked to the bedside, bent down, and picked up the silver earring from the nightstand, twirling it between his fingers. “The police won’t solve this.”
“Then your meaning is…”
“Check the check-in records. All guests and registered visitors on that floor last night.”
“Yes.”
“And,” Shen Junyan’s voice lowered slightly, “also check the surveillance from the cocktail party held at the hotel last night. See who was wearing silver pearl earrings.”
Lu Heng paused for a moment but quickly understood. “Understood.”
The call ended.
Shen Junyan placed the earring in his palm, his thumb rubbing over the grain-sized pearl.
The surface of the pearl was smooth and warm, with a slight coolness.
Fragmented memories flashed through his mind—soft lips, trembling eyelashes, the strength of fingers tightening around his hand, and the faint, barely audible, suppressed sobbing in the darkness.
He closed his eyes.
Those fragments were too broken, like shattered glass, each piece reflecting a different image, unable to form a complete face.
But one thing he was certain of—
That woman had deleted the surveillance footage before she left.
A normal, accidental woman, after a night of pleasure, wouldn’t delete the hotel’s surveillance before dawn.
Unless she didn’t want to be found.
Unless she knew she might be found.
Unless… she knew him.
He glanced down at his chest—there was a red scratch from a fingernail, slightly raised, like a silent signature.
A complex emotion stirred in his eyes—confusion, anger, and something even he couldn’t quite name.
“Who are you?” he whispered, so softly only he could hear.
No one answered him.
The room was filled only with the hum of the air conditioner and the faint sound of ship horns drifting in from outside the window.
Shen Junyan stood there for a long time.
Then he picked up his suit jacket and walked out of the room.
But his intuition told him that everything that had happened last night would not be so easily forgotten.