Capture

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1907, SOS.

The letters and numbers were scrawled in a shaky hand, clearly left in haste and secrecy amidst chaos. Instantly, I thought this might have been written by He Ping with his finger on the coffee table; there had been a thin layer of dust, and if you wrote on it with your finger and then breathed some warm air over it, the letters would appear—a trick I often played as a child on mirrors.

But what did this string of numbers and letters mean?

I saw Fang Qinghe and Jin Ze deep in thought, and I too began to ponder. I couldn't help but grumble inwardly; why was He Ping still playing riddles instead of being clear? But soon it dawned on me—He Ping must have left this clue under extreme duress. He only had time to scribble quick, simple numbers and letters, not full Chinese characters. He was likely under surveillance.

SOS—I knew that one. It was a distress signal to call for rescue. So He Ping wanted someone to save him.

As for 1907, I couldn't quite figure it out. It had to refer to a location, or perhaps someone’s code name—a place to go to save someone, or the person to be saved.

At that moment, Fang Qinghe looked at me and asked, "Chen Mu, do you have any ideas?"

I shared my thoughts. Suddenly, Jin Ze spoke up, "1807. Wasn't the apartment above the one where Chen Mu's burial clothes were found numbered 1807? Could 1907 mean the floor above that? Otherwise, He Ping wouldn’t have left us such a random number to puzzle over."

As soon as Jin Ze finished, Fang Qinghe sprang up, and we rushed out of the surveillance room without a moment’s hesitation.

On the way to Zhang Wentong’s apartment complex, Fang Qinghe coordinated with the police and armed police to have their teams follow, but because this operation was so critical, there could be no mistakes. We had to act quickly and quietly, waiting to signal them when we were near 1907—otherwise, if the suspect caught wind and hid elsewhere in the building, even a door-to-door search might not reveal the killer, even if we were standing right in front of him.

As we hurried, I asked Fang Qinghe and Jin Ze, "Are we sure He Ping is in 1907? Have you considered that He Ping is more likely to be a traitor than not? If he is, he could have left this clue to lure us into a trap in 1907. What if there’s an ambush? Even if there’s no trap, maybe he’s trying to draw police resources here as a diversion and commit another crime elsewhere. I know I sound paranoid, but can we really trust He Ping?"

Even Jin Ze, who was driving, turned to glance at me—clearly, they hadn’t considered this. It wasn’t that they weren’t thorough, but as police officers, their first instinct was to trust a colleague.

The car fell into a brief silence. After about half a minute, Fang Qinghe finally spoke, "No, I trust Old He. Even if he’s a traitor, it must be under duress, forced by some unspeakable reason. And even then, he’d still want the case solved. The clue he left must be useful, perhaps even the breakthrough we need. We have to take it seriously."

With that, Jin Ze floored the accelerator, and we soon arrived at Zhang Wentong’s apartment complex. We split up—Jin Ze, young and agile, took the stairs, while Fang Qinghe and I rode the elevator.

This time, there was no repeat of the previous elevator scare. By the time Fang Qinghe and I arrived on the nineteenth floor, Jin Ze was already crouched near the door of 1907—he was fast.

Once we had the area under surveillance, Fang Qinghe gave the order: police and armed police, including snipers, were to take up positions. This was the largest operation I’d ever been a part of. If there truly was a suspect inside 1907, escape would be impossible.

This also showed Fang Qinghe’s deep trust in He Ping—he believed the clue was valid. Otherwise, such a massive, fruitless operation would seriously damage his career.

Once everyone was in position, Jin Ze and another armed officer kicked down the door. I wasn’t professionally trained, so I hung back. Only after the police had secured the place did I approach the doorway.

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Fang Qinghe had gambled and won—there was someone inside.

In the center of the room was a wheelchair, and seated in it was He Ping himself!

He Ping was tied to the chair, blood on his forehead, his gaze vacant and listless—he had clearly been tortured.

Behind him stood the little girl, pushing the wheelchair.

She stood there quietly, like a daughter pushing her father, sweet and gentle.

Dozens of black gun barrels were pointed at her, yet she remained calm. There was no smile or fear on her face, as if none of this concerned her.

Suddenly, He Ping’s body began to tremble. He slowly raised his hand, and I realized he was pointing at me, his lips moving as if he wanted to speak.

My heart skipped a beat—damn it, He Ping, are you trying to get me killed? Have you made me your lifelong adversary?

Quickly, Fang Qinghe stepped forward, reassuring He Ping, "Old He, don’t panic. Calm down. We’ve got this under control. Take your time."

He Ping opened his mouth, and as he did, a chill ran down my spine.

His mouth was full of blood—his tongue had been cut out! He couldn’t speak!

Instantly, the officers tensed, ready to subdue the little girl. But could such a cruel act have really been committed by her?

Suddenly, the girl raised her hand, placing it on top of He Ping’s head.

Her delicate hand grasped his hair and pulled upward. What happened next chilled me to the core.

She lifted off the top of He Ping’s skull, exposing the inside of his head—fresh blood and brain matter clearly visible…

Then, the little girl looked up at me and said, "Big brother, it’s time for dinner."

Hearing this, already filled with horror, I gasped and began to tremble uncontrollably.

The armed police closed in, moving to apprehend her.

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The little girl didn’t resist at all; she let herself be captured, quiet and docile.

Throughout the process, she kept her gaze fixed on me. I would never forget the look in her eyes—strange and unreadable, neither smiling nor afraid. It was the kind of look no child her age should have.

As they escorted her away, she continued to speak to me, "Big brother, this is the meal prepared for you. You’ll like it."

Soon, she was taken away, and He Ping was rushed to the hospital. Fang Qinghe and the others conducted a thorough search of the apartment, but found nothing further—every clue that could have implicated the killer seemed to have been wiped clean.

Still, it didn’t matter much. The biggest breakthrough was already achieved: the little girl had been captured.

Whether she was the mastermind or merely an accomplice, I couldn’t tell. How could such a fragile girl be the ringleader? Yet she was clearly no ordinary child…

That night, Fang Qinghe and his team subjected the girl to an intensive interrogation. I wasn’t allowed to leave the station—not to participate in the questioning, but in case something happened, like with Liu Qinglong, where the suspect would only communicate with me.

Sure enough, that’s exactly what happened. The girl asked to see me.

This time, Fang Qinghe handed me a recording pen, instructing me to record everything, lest I conceal anything as I had before.

I hid the recorder and entered the interrogation room. The girl sat quietly, her large eyes vacant and hollow, as if filled with secrets.

I sat across from her—she remained expressionless.

For a moment, I didn’t know how to question a child like this. After a moment’s thought, I glared at her and demanded, "Tell me, why did you want me to eat He Ping’s brain?"

As soon as I finished, a look of terror flashed in her eyes—exactly like the false Liu Qinglong’s look of fear during my last interrogation.

But this time, she wasn’t looking behind me. She was just staring at me in fear.

Then, word by word, she said, "Big brother, because you are a dead man…"