You Look Like Someone I Knew
Word spread through the entire military compound by that afternoon. Three versions circulated:
First: “Commander Lu stormed the Political Department and gave Director Qin a dressing-down he’ll never forget.”
Second: “Commander Lu said Comrade Su is his—anyone who touches her answers to him.”
Third, and most widely told: “Commander Lu looked Director Qin in the eye and said eight words: ‘Su Qing is mine—Lu Zhanye’s.’”
The third was true—though embellished beyond recognition as it passed from mouth to mouth.
“I heard Director Qin almost knelt right there!”
“When he says ‘mine,’ does he mean ‘under my command’… or ‘my woman’?”
“What do you think?”
The whole compound buzzed.
Lin Wanqing sat in the guesthouse all afternoon. Her cup of tea went cold, was reheated, and went cold again.
The review had been canceled. Worse—Lu Zhanye had turned it into a public declaration of protection. Now everyone knew: Su Qing was under his wing. Cross her, and you cross him.
Clang. She slammed the cup down hard, tea sloshing over the rim.
She pulled out Su Zhirou’s letter and read it again: “Su Qing may not be the Su family’s biological daughter—she could be the heir to a powerful clan.”
Political investigation was dead. But her origins? There was still leverage there. If she truly came from a great house—why had she ended up in an ordinary family? There had to be a secret. And secrets were weapons.
Lin Wanqing smoothed out a fresh sheet of paper and wrote back:
“Dig deeper. Find what happened the year she was born. Which hospital was involved? Who handled the records? I’ll cover all costs. And once you have proof—I’ll get you that city transfer.”
She sealed the envelope. For now, she swallowed her pride. But only for now.
Meanwhile, the jeep pulled out of the compound. Su Qing had not spoken a word the whole ride. Neither had Lu Zhanye.
One hand rested on the wheel; the other hung near the edge of the seat between them. Su Qing leaned against the window, watching gray farmland blur past. Only the hum of the engine and the crunch of tires on dirt broke the silence.
She glanced sideways at him. His jaw was set like carved stone, his gaze fixed hard on the road ahead. And the tips of his ears—were bright red.
She looked back out the window.
The jeep stopped at the entrance to the youth settlement. Su Qing opened the door and stepped down.
“Su Qing.”
She turned. He kept his eyes on a smudge of dust on the windshield.
“Are you free tonight?”
She blinked. Every time he’d come to see her before, he’d hidden behind clumsy excuses—“just passing through,” “my head hurts,” “need to discuss work.” This was the first time he’d asked plainly, no pretense at all.
“Yes.”
One word. She closed the door quickly and walked away, not daring to look back.
That night, no soft three-short-two-long tap came at her window. Instead, she found the jeep waiting at the lane’s end.
Lu Zhanye leaned against the hood, wearing a faded dark gray cotton jacket. His cap was gone; the night breeze ruffled his cropped hair. He pulled a greaseproof paper parcel from his pocket and held it out.
Before opening it, Su Qing caught the scent: caramelized brown sugar, rich and warm.
“Brown sugar rice cake,” he said quietly. “The canteen auntie made it—asked her to save a portion.”
Three neatly cut squares steamed through the paper. In these lean years, brown sugar alone was a luxury.
“It’s not a holiday, is it?” she asked.
He didn’t answer right away. “You didn’t eat breakfast this morning.”
Her fingers tightened around the parcel. She’d been called away before dawn—he’d noticed.
“Filling,” he added, as if reporting a mission. “High calories.”
Su Qing bit into the cake. Soft, sweet, the warm tang of molasses melting on her tongue. After chewing twice, her throat tightened. Since she’d woken anew, everyone had schemed against her. Only this man—who’d clumsily stitched gloves, climbed walls claiming he was “just passing,” and banged his fist on the table to shout she is mine—had gone out of his way to beg a sweet cake for her, simply because she’d missed a meal.
She bit down hard, swallowing the lump in her throat.
“Have you eaten?”
“Not hungry.”
The moment he said it, his stomach gave a loud, untimely rumble.
Su Qing stifled a laugh, broke the cake in half, and held it out. “Your stomach just told on you.”
Lu Zhanye hesitated two seconds, then took the half.
Side by side beneath the moon, they ate rice cake. He finished quickly in three bites; she nibbled slowly, savoring every crumb like something precious. The moon was bright, the wind sharp—but standing next to him, she felt no chill.
When they were done, Su Qing wiped her mouth. “Lu Zhanye—tomorrow I’m meeting someone.”
His brows drew together.
“The man from the black market—Mister Chen. He said I look like someone he knew. I need to find out who.”
“No.” The word came out like a reflex.
“I have to go. It might be the first real clue about my past.”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Commander Lu showing up at the black market? In uniform?”
“Plain clothes.”
She looked him over—six-foot-four, shoulders broad enough to block the whole doorway. Even in a sack, he’d still look like a soldier. “You blending in? That’s like a tiger walking into a henhouse and telling everyone ‘don’t worry, I’m just a really big hen.’”
Lu Zhanye went silent for three seconds. His ears burned—whether from embarrassment or the “big hen” remark, she couldn’t tell.
“Take this, then.” He bent to pull a dagger from under the seat—palm-length, in a worn black leather sheath.
“Yours?”
“Used to be.” Used to be meant he’d carried it in combat.
Su Qing slipped it into the inner pocket of her jacket, right over her heart. Then he pulled out something else: a pair of gray hand-knit gloves, the stitches crooked and uneven. They’d been washed—but still looked terrible.
“Put them on,” he said.
Just two words—but she heard what lay beneath: Go meet a stranger… wearing mine.
She smiled, bowing her head. “Got it, jealous pot.”
“…Who’s a jealous pot?”
“You.”
Lu Zhanye pressed his lips tight and turned his face away—all the way down to his neck was flushed bright red.