The day we received notice of the task force transfer, rain poured outside the window for eight straight hours.
Municipal Police Headquarters, third-floor conference room, two o’clock sharp in the afternoon. The moment I pushed open the door, the room was already packed—personnel from economic crime, criminal investigation, and technical investigation squeezed along both sides of a long conference table, resembling some strange alliance. Zhou Qiming sat at the far end; the tea cup in his hand drifted with steam. Seeing me enter, he merely raised his chin, gesturing for me to sit beside him.
I sat down, placed the USB flash drive on the table, and said nothing.
Zhou Qiming cleared his throat: “The money laundering case involving Hengyuan Real Estate Company is a Ministry-supervised key case. Originally an economic crime investigation matter, it involves too broad a scope—seventeen shell companies, three underground banks, two overseas accounts, and six broken fund chains. The Ministry decided to consolidate the cases for joint investigation.”
“Consolidating the case is no problem,” Old Wu from Criminal Investigation frowned, “but who will be the primary lead on the economic crime side?”
Everyone’s eyes shifted toward me.
I stayed still.
Zhou Qiming coughed: “Comrade Shen Lihan will lead the economic crime portion, with Criminal Investigation assisting.”
Old Wu looked as if he wanted to speak, but ultimately refrained. I swept my gaze across the opposite side and noticed an extra person sitting in the corner—Wen Ruzhou.
She sat on the Technical Investigation side, a laptop open in front of her, seemingly intent on reviewing some documents without raising her head. Yet I knew she had sensed my gaze—because her shoulders tensed slightly, if only for a fraction of a second.
That was last week.
Now, the Hengyuan case had been running for twelve days.
Over these twelve days, I lost three pounds, lost handfuls of hair, and reviewed financial accounts until my retinas nearly detached. Hengyuan Real Estate’s books were even messier than I had imagined—on the surface, it was a mid-sized real estate company with full qualifications, compliant projects, and a beautiful tax record. But digging deeper, every large inflow and outflow of funds resembled navigating a maze; seventeen shell companies swapped funds back and forth among themselves. Today funds transferred from Company A to Company B, tomorrow from Company B to Company C, and ultimately Company C’s legal representative turned out to be a sixty-year-old elderly woman living in the countryside who reportedly had never even seen a bank card.
A textbook three-tier laundering setup.
The first tier: Cover through genuine business. I examined Hengyuan’s financial statements over the past five years; the revenue curve was perfectly painted, with every project’s payment collection timing matching contract milestones flawlessly. Too perfect—so perfect it raised suspicion.
The second tier: Shell company transit. I had people track the fund flows, discovering that massive amounts of Hengyuan’s construction, material, and consulting fees flowed into these shell companies, which then transferred them further down, rendering the final destination of funds a mystery.
The third tier: Cross-border transfer. The two overseas accounts I located were registered in the Cayman Islands and Singapore, respectively. Once money entered, it sank like pouring into a bottomless pit, untraceable from then on.
Navigating down through these three tiers, even an experienced auditor would need at least three months to investigate. Let alone the fact that we didn’t have that much time at all.
Pressure from the Ministry grew heavier day by day. Zhou Qiming had talked with me twice, hinting that this case needed a rapid breakthrough.
I understood his meaning. Eyes from above were watching; solving this case meant political achievements, maintaining financial order, and preserving social stability. Failing to solve it meant the Economic Crime Investigation Detachment was incompetent, and that our team was merely drawing a salary while doing nothing.
Yet I didn’t care about political achievements.
What I cared about was the truth.
The web behind Hengyuan Real Estate was larger than I had envisioned. Digging down along the money trail, I faintly caught sight of familiar elements—certain operating techniques and patterns in cash movement shared an indefinable connection with the case my father handled fifteen years ago.
That sent a chill down my spine.
So when I walked into the task force office and saw Wen Ruzhou hunched over a desk drawing a diagram, my footsteps instinctively came to a halt.
What she was drawing was a fund flow chart.
No, not “a” chart. It was over a dozen charts—A4 paper taped together along the edges, spanning across the entire table. Red arrows marked cash flows, blue circles indicated abnormal nodes, and black ink filled the margins with annotations. Sweeping my gaze across, I saw words like “suspicious,” “pending verification,” and “abnormal” densely scattered throughout the diagram.
And she was still adding content to it.
“What is this?”
Wen Ruzhou didn’t raise her head, her pen moving without pause: “The Hengyuan case fund flow chart you wanted.”
“I meant this,” I walked over, pointing at the stacked sheets of taped A4 paper.
“Oh,” she finally raised her head, dimples showing in a faint smile, “the paper wasn’t big enough, so I had to piece it together like this.”
Instead of picking up her banter, I leaned over to study the chart in detail.
Three seconds later, I realized one thing.
This chart was clearer than mine.
Not “about the same,” but “clearer.” The fund chain I spent twelve days drawing was crystal clear on her chart. Every tier of circular transfer, every node, every abnormal fund entry was color-coded by her. Beside certain critical nodes, she had even written annotations—not simple labels of “suspicious,” but explicit notes stating: This company’s registration date differs from Hengyuan’s project approval date by only three days; joint cross-check recommended.
My finger stopped on a particular money trail.
“This,” I pointed at that node, “how did you discover it?”
“Discovered it while checking business registration records,” she stood up, stretching her arms, “A payment for Hengyuan’s material fees flowed into a company named ‘Mingda Building Materials’ for the amount of 3.2 million yuan. I checked Mingda’s background and found it was registered only last year with a registered capital of just 500,000 yuan. Furthermore—”
“Furthermore?”
“Furthermore, its registered address shares the same industrial park as a subsidiary of Hengyuan, yet the building and room numbers are completely different,” she smiled faintly, “It’s either a coincidence, or someone deliberately created a connection. I lean toward the latter.”
I said nothing.
She continued: “Tracing upward from Mingda, I uncovered ‘Yingke Consulting’ and ‘Huaxin Trading’ as well. Over the past two years, these three companies collectively received nearly forty million yuan from Hengyuan, yet their records of business transactions are virtually zero. Financial statements indicate they are operating at a loss, yet the tax bureau records no anomalies whatsoever. Either they are genuinely operating at a loss, or the accounts were cooked balanced.”
“You think it’s the latter?”
“Captain Shen,” she looked at me, the warmth in her eyes dimming slightly, “I’ve worked in auditing for six years. Genuine losses versus fake losses—I can tell with a single glance.”
That sentence left me silent for three seconds.
I recalled how I viewed her when she first arrived. Five minutes late, smiling cheerfully, speaking softly—looking like a wealthy young lady who had never suffered hardship. At the time, I assumed she was just a second-generation privileged youth here to pad her resume, transferred from the Audit Office to gild her credentials before being promoted away two years later.
I thought I judged accurately.
Now I realized I might have been blind.
“How long did it take you to draw this?” I asked.
“Three days.”
“Three days?” I frowned, “What were you doing for the first twelve days?”
“For the first twelve days,” she tilted her head, “I was waiting for you to assign me tasks.”
I caught the underlying meaning in her words.
It was I who hadn’t assigned her tasks.
Over those twelve days, I had her organize case files, cross-check data, and run errands delivering materials—all peripheral tasks. Core lead tracking and fund flow analysis were things I didn’t let her touch. Not out of distrust, but…
Out of a desire not to let her get involved too deeply.
This case held ties to the old case from fifteen years ago. And I hadn’t figured out what was inside that web, how large it was, or how deep it ran. Before I could read the cards in hand, I didn’t want anyone—especially someone who walked close to me—standing on the edge of that web.
Yet now I had to admit that I had underestimated her.
“This chart,” I straightened up, “I’ll review it again.”
I spent an hour examining the fund flow chart she drew from start to finish.
The conclusion: What she accomplished in three days was far more detailed than what I had done in twelve.
Not to say I didn’t perform well—I was indeed faster than her at tracing cash flow, and my analytical logic was sharper. Yet she possessed something I lacked: patience. Extreme patience. She could record every account entry, every figure, and every date, then piece them together like a jigsaw puzzle to ultimately render a complete chart.
Whereas I was solely focused on chasing forward, forgetting to stop and see where I had walked.
This was likely the greatest difference between her and me.
“We hold a meeting later,” I rolled up the chart, “You will present.”
She froze for a moment: “Me?”
“What, don’t dare?”
“No,” she blinked, as if processing the news, “Captain Shen, you are the primary lead on this case, while I’m just playing support. Having me present the fund flow chart at the detachment meeting—is that appropriate?”
“It’s appropriate.”
I didn’t explain why it was appropriate.
Yet the way she looked at me changed—not with that obedient, compliant smile, but with a light I couldn’t quite decipher. As if confirming something, or perhaps weighing something.
“Alright,” she said, “then I’ll prepare.”
“Mm.”
I turned to leave, taking two steps before halting again.
“Wen Ruzhou.”
“Mm?”
I paused, not turning around: “The chart was drawn well.”
I heard her let out a soft laugh—a laugh so light it was almost imperceptible, yet it made the back of my neck feel slightly warm.
“Thank you, Captain Shen.”
Saying nothing further, I pushed open the door and stepped out.
The evening detachment meeting lasted three hours.
I was the main speaker covering the case details, but when it came to the fund flows, I yielded the floor to Wen Ruzhou.
She stood before the projection screen with a laser pointer in hand, her posture as composed as if delivering a report at the Audit Office. I noticed she hadn’t used my hand-drawn draft, but had printed an even larger one—her taped-together A4 sheets from the afternoon were clearly not clean enough, so she spent time reorganizing it into formal presentation material.
I sat below, listening to her present.
She explained with great clarity. Every cash flow, every abnormal node, and every interconnected relationship was anchored by supporting data. I noticed that while she spoke, Zhao Feng kept his brow furrowed—he was an experienced economic investigator in the detachment, exceptionally sensitive to numbers. I guessed he was thinking: When did this young girl get so capable?
Or perhaps he was thinking of something else altogether.
When the meeting concluded, Zhou Qiming delivered the summary remarks, the core message being: Dig deeper, break through as quickly as possible.
After adjournment, everyone departed one after another. I remained in my seat without moving, watching Wen Ruzhou pack up the projection equipment.
“Captain Shen, not leaving yet?” Zhao Feng asked as he passed by me.
“In a bit.”
He glanced at me, then looked toward Wen Ruzhou’s direction, said nothing more, and left.
Once everyone else had gone, I stood up and walked over to help her unplug the projector cables.
“I’ll do it.”
She froze briefly, then stepped aside with a smile: “Thank you.”
I squatted down to neatly coil the cord and unplug it. She stood beside me, holding that fund flow chart, looking down at it.
“Still questions?” I asked.
“No,” she shook her head, “just feeling… quite magical.”
“What’s magical?”
“When I first arrived, didn’t you send me to the archive room to organize old cases?” She smiled faintly, “Back then I thought you were banishing me to the frontier, never letting me handle real work for the rest of my life.”
I didn’t pick up the statement.
“Yet after how long,” she tilted her head to look at me, “you have me presenting the fund flow chart at the detachment meeting.”
“Your professional skills are strong,” I straightened up, “use talent where it fits.”
“Just that?”
“Just that.”
She stared at me for two seconds, then smiled: “Captain Shen, I’ve noticed your way of complimenting people is truly unique.”
“I didn’t compliment you.”
“You did,” she said, “You said ‘the chart was drawn well.’ In your dictionary, that’s already the highest level of praise.”
I nearly choked on my own breath.
“Who taught you that?”
“No one taught me,” she packed up her chart, turning to walk toward the door, “I guessed.”
“Wen Ruzhou.”
She stopped in her tracks and turned back.
I stood in place, still holding that projector cord: “Starting tomorrow, you follow me to run down the leads on Hengyuan.”
Her eyes lit up.
“Really?”
“Mm.”
“…Alright.”
She turned and left, her steps lighter than when she arrived. Standing in the empty conference room, listening to her footsteps gradually fade into the distance, I suddenly felt something stir in my chest.
Very light, very faint, like something breaking through the soil.
I took a deep breath, pressing that thought back down.
Returning to the office, I spread out the chart drawn by Wen Ruzhou on the desk and stared at it for a long time.
Night grew deep; no sound remained in the corridor. The lights in the adjacent office had gone out, leaving mine as the sole illuminated room on the entire floor.
I pulled out my phone and sent a message to Zhou Qiming: Did you know Wen Ruzhou’s mother is Wen Manhua?
Five minutes passed before he replied: I knew.
I asked no further.
Zhou Qiming was a man slippery as an eel. He knew many things, yet never voiced them outright. Unless you asked him directly on point, he would only give an ambiguous answer.
Yet that single message was enough.
He knew Wen Ruzhou’s background, yet still assigned her to my team. He knew the Hengyuan case might involve Manhua Group, yet still pushed Wen Ruzhou onto this card table.
What was he betting on?
I couldn’t fathom it.
Yet one point was crystal clear to me: The fact that Wen Ruzhou was Wen Manhua’s daughter was something she would eventually have to face. Not facing me, but facing herself.
When the money laundering investigation reached its end, it would be impossible not to investigate Manhua Group. And once Manhua Group surfaced, Wen Ruzhou would be forced to make a choice.
When that time comes, how will she choose?
Gazing at that fund flow chart—those red arrows, blue circles, and dense annotations—I suddenly felt they didn’t resemble cash flows, but rather a web.
Everyone was a node on this web.
Including Wen Ruzhou.
Including me.
That night, I stayed in the office until two in the morning before leaving.
Stepping into the elevator, a memory suddenly crossed my mind.
Earlier at the detachment meeting, after Wen Ruzhou finished presenting the fund flows, I spoke a sentence in front of everyone.
I said: “Wen Ruzhou’s fund flow chart is clearer than mine.”
The moment I said it, I regretted it.
That sentence carried too much weight. In front of the entire detachment, in front of Zhou Qiming, and in front of anyone who might hear, I publicly praised a subordinate’s professional competence—and this subordinate happened to be the person I backed most strongly in the detachment.
Everyone saw it.
I cared about her.
Yet I myself hadn’t figured out what this care truly meant.
The elevator doors opened, and I walked out.
The window at the end of the corridor was open; the night wind blew in, bringing the chill of late autumn.
I stood there, looking out at the city lights, suddenly feeling a strong urge to smoke a cigarette.
But I brought no cigarettes.
I stood there for a long time, until the wind turned my fingers stiff.
Then I returned to the office, picked up that fund flow chart, and reviewed it once more.
Every node, every line, every annotation.
The chart she took three days to draw—it took me an entire night to truly comprehend.
I locked this chart into the deepest drawer.
After arriving home that night, I had a dream.
In the dream I was still fifteen, standing at the entrance of my father’s workplace. The bank building cast a long shadow under the setting sun; the entrance was crowded with people—uniformed officers, plainclothes detectives, reporters, and onlookers.
My father was escorted out by two men, his head lowered, a dark stain on his white shirt.
I wanted to call out to him, but my throat felt blocked by something.
He raised his head and glanced at me.
I remember that gaze to this day. Not fear, not anger, but a very quiet despair. As if saying: Child, I’m sorry.
Then I woke up.
Four in the morning; it was not yet light outside the window.
Lying in bed, I stared at the ceiling without moving for a long time.
My phone lit up.
A message had arrived.
Sent by Wen Ruzhou, containing only two words: “Morning.”
Followed by a photo—her windowsill at home, a cup of coffee placed on it, against a sky just revealing its first faint light.
The timestamp was 4:03 AM.
I stared at that photo for a long time.
Then I replied with three words: “This early?”
She replied instantly: “Can’t sleep. What about you?”
Looking at the screen, my fingers hovered over the keyboard.
Ultimately, I replied with nothing.
Yet I saved that photo.
Stored in the deepest folder of my phone’s photo gallery.
The folder was named “Pending Investigation.”
Yet I knew that nothing inside this folder had anything to do with cases.