After a couple of days of back-and-forth, he and Cao Yanhua were familiar now. Pi San greeted him. “Hey, Boss Cao. Hate to disappoint you today—I didn’t run into any Southeast Asians.”
As he spoke, White Hair picked up a bulging old wallet and squeezed it. “Heavy stuff. Not cash—what treasure is this?”
He opened it. Several oddly shaped little objects fell out. He picked them up, furious. “Is this guy sick? Putting little bits of wood in a wallet?”
Then he noticed some folded papers inside. Knowing full well it probably wasn’t money, he still pulled them out.
He opened them and jumped in anger. “Damn! You see all kinds these days. Treating a KFC receipt like treasure. What, planning to get reimbursed?”
KFC? Cao Yanhua looked up. That sounded awfully familiar.
He asked, “Do you remember what the guy looked like?”
Pi San replied, “Oh, I remember. Very clearly. Looked kind of Middle Eastern—curly hair, glasses, carrying a non-woven tote bag…”
Curly hair. Glasses. Non-woven bag.
Cao Yanhua suddenly sprang to his feet.
That sounded like… the fortune-teller.
Was the fortune-teller in the old town? No wonder—he’d just seen a message from Brother Luo asking whether the fortune-teller had arrived.
And the fortune-teller had been here before. Last time, hadn’t he gone straight to… Phoenix House?
Cao Yanhua detoured to Phoenix House. From far away, he saw someone lying stiffly at the closed entrance, head resting on a non-woven bag. It was late, but there were still tourists on the street. Cao Yanhua even saw a couple pass by and toss two coins onto the ground.
Well… there really is kindness in the world.
He hurried over. “Mr. Shen!”
Sure enough, it was the fortune-teller. He lay there solemnly. Hearing Cao Yanhua call him, he cracked one eye open, then closed it again.
“Mr. Shen, when did you get here? Brother Luo’s been asking about you.”
“Don’t talk to me. I have nothing left to live for.”
“Mr. Shen, did you lose something?”
“I said don’t talk to me, I—”
Before he could finish, the fortune-teller suddenly shot up from the ground. “How did you know?”
Cao Yanhua silently handed over two items.
An old wallet. And an iPhone.
The fortune-teller let out a howl and practically lunged forward. The commotion drew half the street’s attention. Cao Yanhua jumped, but still seized the chance to ask, “Mr. Shen, did Brother Luo ask you to come help? Do you know what happened to my little shifu—”
Before he could finish, the fortune-teller howled again and hugged him tight. “Cao Fatty—no! Cao Handsome! You’re incredible! How did you know I lost my things?”
In Cao Yanhua’s mind, Mr. Shen had always been aloof and untouchable. This sudden fiery enthusiasm left him dazed.
“Uh… Mr. Shen…”
“Don’t call me Mr. Shen! I’m swearing brotherhood with you! From this day on, we are brothers of different surnames—born not on the same day, but dying the same day!”
That didn’t sound right. This Mr. Shen seemed pretty high-ranking. Cao Yanhua stammered, “Swear… brotherhood?”
“Right now! Immediately! First, we need a chicken—cut the chicken’s head, swear brotherhood! Where’s a chicken? I think I just saw one…”
The fortune-teller was beside himself with excitement. He pulled a slingshot out of his non-woven bag, scanned left and right, and headed for the nearest bushes.
Cao Yanhua grabbed the bag and ran after him. “Hey, Mr. Shen—”
There aren’t many wild chickens in Lijiang. Even if you see one, it’s probably free-range from someone’s home. You can’t just shoot it like that—you’ll have to pay—
Huh?
The fortune-teller had already locked onto his target. He took his stance, cheeks puffed out, the slingshot pulled taut to its limit.
Following his gaze, Cao Yanhua suddenly froze.
That chicken…
Wasn’t that Cao Jiefang?
He shouted, “Wait!”
Too late. The pebble whistled through the air—whoosh, whoosh, whoosh—and flew toward the tree… half a meter away from Cao Jiefang.
Cao Yanhua let out a breath.
That aim was atrocious.
But at that very moment, the unexpected happened.
The pebble struck the tree, bounced, and—of all the cursed luck—thwap—hit Cao Jiefang squarely on the head as the chicken lifted its head, eyes wide at the noise.
Time froze.
Through the one-way glass, Leopard looked at Mu Dai, seated in a chair, wires attached all over her body. She’d just finished a bout of vomiting. Her face was deathly pale, sweat beading on her forehead.
Smiling, Leopard raised a hand and slowly traced Mu Dai’s face along the glass. “How is she?”
“The first day, she held out the best. Yesterday, she started to falter. She’s begun showing conditioned physiological aversion to Luo Ren’s voice and image. Today we’ve been continuously playing edited, fabricated footage—replacing the abuser figures with Luo Ren and herself. During the process, we supplement with electric shocks and other physical pain to reinforce the sense of reality…”
“Could she be faking it? Could this state be false?”
“No. The instruments are recording everything—body temperature changes, heart rate, blood pressure, bioelectric signals. These can’t be faked.”
“Is it ready?”
A subordinate handed over a brocade box. Leopard opened it. Inside was a titanium alloy survival whistle.
“It’s been verified—same model as her original one. Identical.”
Leopard picked it up to examine it closely.
The little beauty had asked her to pass on a message, and she had done so.
—If Luo Xiaodao misses me, if he wants to talk to me, let him blow the whistle. I’ll hear it.
But passing on the message didn’t mean she wouldn’t guard against it.
Last time, that ambiguous line—‘everyone bullies me’—had nearly caught her off guard and exposed her. She wouldn’t make the same mistake again.
What would happen if he blew the whistle?
Leopard burst into laughter, closed her hand around it, and turned to leave.
Outside was a staircase leading upward. She climbed step by step, pushed open a door, and entered a grand hall.
Another lavishly decorated room. In the corner stood an old record player. On the coffee table in front of the sofa, a woman was working on a head model. Tasha stood beside her, watching. When she saw Leopard, she ran over happily, shouting, “Mommy!”
Leopard reached out, pressed a hand to Tasha’s head, and shoved her aside. Tasha stumbled, timid and confused, not knowing what she’d done wrong.
The woman working on the model shrank back, nearly knocking over the molding powder at her side.
Leopard turned on the record player.
Majestic, surging music filled the room—Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5. The opening motif, people say, is a warning.
—Fate is knocking at the door.
The music grew more urgent, like towering waves, wind and storm rising, as if the whole room might be shaken apart.
The leopard walked forward slowly.
The woman pinched a small piece of soft clay and deftly worked it onto the model’s face—filling hollows, smoothing protrusions, patting at the eyelids again and again. The once-blank head suddenly began to look familiar.
Leopard asked, “Can you make it look like me?”
“Yes.”
Sam Williams On TYMIMA Chapter 152