SES Chapter 97 Part 2

“Dahua Mosquito—you’ve got no talent for singing. None. Wasting a year or two chasing something impossible is called being willful. Wasting even longer? That’s just plain stupid. Ba Mei’s a good woman. She stuck it out with you for quite a while. Stop making her feel insecure.”

Ma Tuwen’s chest heaved as he stared up at him.

Luo Ren rose and headed for the door.

A beer can came flying, clattering against his shoulder. It didn’t hurt, but Ma Tuwen’s roar followed: “You don’t know shit! What the hell do you know about dreams, huh?!”

Luo Ren didn’t turn back. As he went downstairs, he could hear Ma Tuwen’s howl break into something closer to sobbing. He thought: He and Ba Mei will probably be fine.

But what about him and Mu Dai?

Inside the folder, alongside Mu Dai’s photo, was another: a candid taken by someone from Wanfenghuo. Outside a private psychiatric clinic, Huo Zihong sat on the iron railing in the garden, head bent over a cigarette, while Uncle Zhang stood nearby, looking so worried it was like a sigh frozen on his face.

That family’s way of doing things—shady as hell.

But he also blamed himself for not being stationed outside the hospital ward 24/7.

He’d always leave for one reason or another: to consult the doctors about Mu Dai’s condition, or to call around asking friends for better hospitals and resources. Somewhere in those gaps, Uncle Zhang had taken Mu Dai away, somehow striking a deal with the medical staff so their stories matched. By the next visitation window, no one had thought to notify him.

When he saw the nurses clearing out the bed—sheets stripped, bedding replaced—he couldn’t describe the feeling. The orderlies lifted the mattress a bit too roughly, and a small knife slipped out from under the headboard, clattering to the floor like discarded junk.

Rage exploded inside him. Only then did the ICU nurse hesitantly admit: Mu Dai had already woken up yesterday.

Too many things didn’t add up.

Uncle Zhang wasn’t the type to make decisions. Clearly, it was Huo Zihong’s doing. Why hide her from him? Why take Mu Dai away?

Most of all, she was his girlfriend. Why would she just go with them without a word? Why cut off her phone?

Later, he learned Uncle Zhang had once phoned Yi Wansan, vaguely telling him to “keep an eye on the bar.” At first, Wansan hadn’t thought much of it. Only after talking it over with Luo Ren did he realize what it really meant:

Take care of the bar while we’re gone.

Luo Ren had a streak of dangerous stubbornness: If you’re hiding her from me, I’ll dig her out. If you took her, I’ll track her down.

He pulled in Ma Tuwen, same as always—Ma would reach out to Wanfenghuo and buy information. Information about Mu Dai.

No matter the cost. One condition: fast.

Wanfenghuo delivered. They’d snapped photos of the people involved and provided an address.

The private psychiatric clinic was in Kunming.

The file included the director’s background. Her name was He Ruihua, formerly employed at a prestigious national hospital—one of China’s key designated centers for neurological rehabilitation.

Behind her name was a long list of titles: member of the Chinese Association for Psychiatric Rehabilitation, council member of the Psychiatric Branch of the Chinese Medical Doctor Association, multiple fellowships in the US, Germany, and Sweden, and visiting professor at a well-known university’s psychology department.

Luo Ren had a bad feeling.

Before hitting the road, he lit a cigarette.

Bought on the spot—he wasn’t a smoker. His old line of work was too high-risk, and he’d cut out anything that could trigger a butterfly effect. Cigarettes irritate the eyes, nose, and throat, lower oxygen and blood flow to the brain, leading to decline and spasms. He needed wolf-sharp eyes, dog-keen senses, and a brain sharper than anyone else’s.

Not just him—his brothers too. Booze, occasionally. But smokes? Rarely.

This time was different.

The smoke coiled upward, stinging his eyes and sinuses. To him, smoking wasn’t a release—it was punishment.

Luo Ren knew he’d made a mistake.

If he’d spotted Mu Dai’s issues earlier, he should’ve been upfront, dragged her to face them together, instead of brushing it off just because he liked her too much to push.

Those tiny red flags, like weeds sprouting in stone cracks—you think you can ignore them, let them slide. But they thrive in the blind spots of your vision, and by the time you look down again, the weeds may already be knee-high.

And you’ll have no idea what you might step into.