SES Chapter 4

Chapter 4

Chongqing has two nicknames—“Fog City” and “Mountain City”—both honest and straightforward, without a hint of exaggeration.

Mu Dai rarely saw fog, so when she did, she half-joked to herself that maybe her eyesight was going bad from all the flying.

After getting off the plane, Huo Zihong called Mu Dai, offering a subtle peace gesture. Only then did Mu Dai ask, “Why is the address ‘Lao Jiu Hotpot Restaurant’? Are you inviting me for hotpot?”

Huo Zihong’s voice was gentle and soft:
“Just go on time. There will be someone to meet you right at the door. Chongqing has lots of snacks—eat your fill, and you can come back anytime.”

It sounded like the trip was mainly for her to have some fun, with the hotpot place just a side thing.

Feeling relieved, Mu Dai booked a budget hotel near Jiefangbei. The next morning, with time to spare, she went out and rode the Yangtze River cable car.

The cable car was old—it was built back in the 1980s and never really renovated. The cables creaked and groaned, making her heart race with every squeak. When the car arrived, Mu Dai considered backing out, but she was standing near the front, and the people behind her pushed her right on.

“Well, since I’m here, might as well make the best of it.”

The cable car swung gently over the river toward the middle of the Yangtze. Honestly, there wasn’t much to see up there—just a bridge spanning the river, a few boats passing, and a thin mist floating over the water.

Most of the passengers were tourists, whispering among themselves:
“Local people don’t take this ride. There’s nothing to see.”

As they talked, the cable car from the opposite direction arrived. When the two cars passed close by, you could see the passengers clearly—the tourists immediately started waving and shouting “Hi!” and “Hello!” at the people in the other car.

Almost everyone on the other side shouted back, except for one man in a black jacket sitting by the window—he didn’t move at all. Mu Dai also didn’t wave. Naturally, their eyes met for a brief moment.

Then the man reached out his hand and pointed toward Mu Dai’s side.

The cable cars passed in an instant, so it was hard to tell exactly who the gesture was for. But strangely, Mu Dai instinctively felt it was meant for her and, without thinking, reached diagonally backward to grab someone’s arm.

“Ouch!” came a surprised voice.

Turning around, Mu Dai saw a man in his thirties—a bit chubby, with a round face and small, mischievous eyes hidden under heavy cheeks. He was shorter than Mu Dai.

Mu Dai smiled and tugged his arm forward. “Hey, brother, move up a bit.”

People nearby were a bit annoyed by the crowding, but stepped aside when they saw the two were together.

The man’s small eyes darted around, his expression hard to read. Mu Dai reached out her other hand, palm up, offering it in front of him. After a moment’s hesitation, he pulled Mu Dai’s phone out of his pocket.

Without saying a word, Mu Dai took the phone and looked down, pretending to browse the web. The man silently made his way toward the exit.

That brief page of interaction passed just like that.

When they reached the station, Mu Dai planned to wait and see if she could find the man in the black jacket to thank him in person. But stepping outside into the bustling street, she suddenly realized everything from that moment was blurry and uncertain, and she might not even recognize him if she saw him again.

On the way to Lao Jiu Hotpot, Mu Dai called Huo Zihong and took the chance to tell her about the thief she’d encountered. Huo Zihong asked, “Did you yell out? You have to get help to catch him. That way, he won’t scam anyone else.”

Mu Dai patiently explained, “Auntie Hong, strong local forces always control their turf. Even if I shouted, no one might have helped me. And if he got angry and started fighting on the cable car, it would have been really dangerous with the car swaying over the river. Anyway, I gave him enough face—no yelling or fuss—and he got the hint and just gave me back my phone.”

Huo Zihong sighed. “I still think you shouldn’t be afraid in situations like that. You have to stand up and do the right thing.”

Doing the right thing, of course, was correct—but…

Mu Dai felt it was pointless to argue with Auntie Hong and was too tired to try. The thirteen-thousand-yuan incident was the best example.

At the hotpot restaurant entrance, a server was sitting nearby. Remembering Huo Zihong’s words to “give the note,” Mu Dai handed the slip to the server. Sure enough, the server pointed with a stretched-out hand, “Go inside, then turn right to the private room.”

Mu Dai followed the directions and hesitated slightly at the door, but it had to be the right place. A man who looked like he was dressed for a Qing dynasty drama stood up warmly and greeted, “Miss Huo Zihong?”

The others hadn’t arrived yet. Wan Fenghuo, having some free time, began telling Mu Dai about the Luoma Lake case and introduced his line of work.

He pulled out a hairpin as an example—an old silver pin with a cloisonné phoenix at the head. The phoenix’s eyes were inlaid with rubies, and it held a string of white jade beads in its beak.

“For example,” Wan Fenghuo covered the pin with his hand, “three people came to me. One wanted the old silver hairpin with a phoenix, another wanted a phoenix with ruby eyes, and the third wanted the phoenix holding white jade beads. These were three different requests, but I had nothing at the time. So I achieved these three demands and kept an eye out.”

“Then one day,” he withdrew his hand to show the pin, “someone came to sell a pin. Buyer and seller matched up.”

Mu Dai’s quick mind caught on immediately. “So this hairpin is like the info you passed along, and the people coming here now—including me—are all people who had inquired about the Luoma Lake case before?”

She thought it was a bit overblown. “How much money could this make? And couldn’t you just call and let people know? Is it necessary to have people come in person?”

Wan Fenghuo glanced at her. “Only those who think it’s important will come.”

That simple sentence had a deeper meaning to it, and Mu Dai felt a jolt inside. Auntie Hong thinks this is important? Could she know someone involved in the case?

Still, Mu Dai’s curiosity wasn’t that strong. After all, she was just a messenger here to receive information.

Almost at the same time, the other three arrived. One was a thin woman close to forty, with faint eyebrows that looked like they’d forgotten to grow. Her name was Cen Chun Jiao, and she sat beside Wan Fenghuo.

The other two were men. One was Ma Tuwen, about 27 or 28, reeking of alcohol and half-asleep, shirtless except for a vest, with a large tattoo sleeve on his arm. The other was Li Tan, a lean man in his fifties, tall but hunched over, deeply wrinkled and looking worn down.

Wan Fenghuo closed the private room door and turned on the gas under the hotpot. “We’ll eat while we talk. You’ve all already paid the money—it’s been held on our end. After listening to what Cen Chun Jiao has to say, you can decide whether to pay or not. But honestly, the bill will have to be paid, unless… It’s fake news.”

Mu Dai was surprised. So Auntie Hong and the others had already entrusted Wan Fenghuo with the money. This hotpot dinner was a meeting to hear the news before settling the bill. She found it quite novel.

If it were like a casino, everyone would have chips representing their bets, and they’d push a few chips forward after hearing each part—that would be even more interesting.

The hotpot broth rippled slightly, releasing delicate fragrances mixed with the bubbles spilling over. Mu Dai’s appetite kicked in; she made her dipping sauce and reached out to pick some food. As her chopsticks moved, she suddenly noticed she was the only one at the table doing anything and hesitated for a moment, but then kept going.

Ma Tuwen glanced at her strangely. Not because her behavior was odd, but because she was so young and carefree, dressed bright and lively—she didn’t fit in with the rest of them at all.

Cen Chun Jiao’s gaze swept over everyone one by one before she spoke the first words:

“The killer… died five years ago.”

Mu Dai thought this made sense. After more than twenty years, it was normal for the murderer to be dead or have died by accident. She carefully watched the other two men’s expressions: Ma Tuwen was just sleepy, nothing unusual, but Li Tan suddenly looked up, a faint, barely noticeable anger flashing across his face.

Five years ago, I was working as a waitress at a small, low-end hotel near the west suburbs bus station in Jinan. The kind of place where the bedding never got washed, and the guests were mostly poor laborers from all walks of life.

That night I was on the night shift, dozing at the front desk, when suddenly the phone rang. It was room 103—the guest asked me to bring a pot of hot water.

I had seen the guest before. He’d been staying there for over ten days. Except for a quick greeting on his first day, he hadn’t come out since. And he was already very sick when he checked in. We waitresses joked quietly that he shouldn’t stay long; it would be unlucky if he died there.

When I got the call, I felt a chill. His voice was weak and broken, sounding like he was about to pass away.

I took the water pot and the key, knocked on the door—no answer. I used the key to open it and immediately knew something was wrong. His face was dark, his eyes rolled back, lying on the bed, gasping, looking like he could die any second.

I was scared and called the boss. He didn’t live there and was probably annoyed to be woken up so late. When he answered, he yelled at me and hung up. I tried again, but the phone was off.

Panicked, I decided to go downstairs to find the old man who looked after the place. Just as I reached the door, the man on the bed suddenly spoke.

Mu Dai had just picked up her chopsticks when she heard this. She felt the tiny hairs on her arm stand up—not out of fear, but because it felt eerie.

Li Tan’s dry, raspy voice made everyone uneasy: “What did he say?”

Cen Chun Jiao looked vaguely frightened, as if still haunted. “Not exactly speaking.”

“He stared wide-eyed at the ceiling and spoke very fast, like a typewriter clacking—no pauses, no hesitations. It sounded like he was reciting from memory.”

Wan Fenghuo asked, “Reciting what?”

“First, the date—year, month, day. Then an address: XX County, XX Street, XX Road. Then, how many people were killed? Then the victims’ gender and names, the murder weapon, how they were killed, and how the killer escaped. It was like reading a report, eyes fixed on the ceiling the whole time.”

Mu Dai felt a chill creep over her scalp and instinctively glanced up at the ceiling. Cen Chun Jiao’s twice-repeated phrase, “staring at the ceiling,” made her strangely feel there was something up there.

The room was very quiet. Even the usually restless canary hung its wings motionless. If you looked closely, a few feathers stood on end.