"Da Bai."

"Mm?"

"Do you remember what you said just now?"

"Ah-ha..."

Under a night sky black as spilled ink, in a hush thick as velvet, Ye Weibai carried Shaohan down a narrow alley like a shaded stream.

Her chin found rest on his broad shoulder; she curled into his arms like a little hedgehog, trusting her weight and worries to him.

Cheek brushed temple, breath warmed breath. At his offhand answer, Shaohan’s fine brows knitted; she shifted slightly, and her voice dipped into a never-before softness.

"'Ah-ha'... what’s that supposed to be? Are you going to break your promise?"

"I'm not. But do you remember the exact terms of our [Agreement]?"

Her body was light and pliant, a bird folding wings in his hold. Ye Weibai adjusted his arms, hunting a posture that let her curl more snugly.

Heat rose to Shaohan’s face—his elbow had looped under her small backside. She didn’t fight it; she bit her lip, her tear-bright eyes turning sultry with a rain-sheen.

When she didn’t answer, Ye Weibai said, "We agreed—‘don’t call me Da Bai. If you do, I’ll never tell you the reason.’"

"But—but—" Panic fluttered in the girl’s voice like a trapped sparrow.

"I get it." He smiled and smoothed a hand over her hair. "That [Agreement] is scrapped."

"[Agreement]... scrapped?"

"Yes. Not just that. Every [Agreement] between me and you, Shaohan—we wipe them clean."

"All of them?!" Her pupils tightened; words stalled at her lips.

"Mm. Because whatever they held, their purpose was met just now. From here on, we don’t need them anymore. Right?"

His words left her gaze a little lost, like dust-mist drifting behind glass. A chill brushed her skin. She hugged his shoulder tighter, tucked in smaller, and lifted her eyes to the sky—rain-washed clouds still packed heavy, black enough to unsettle.

Just then, wind skimmed down from the heights. The clouds, breathing in and out, were tugged thin, torn into gauze.

Light touched her eyes, sudden and alive.

It was light, secret and soft, spilling out of the dark.

A hazy moon hid behind the clouds, unwilling to vanish, letting silver bead through in pinpricks.

The night picked up a silver halo, a pale ring on black velvet.

That silver crossed miles of air, rode the wind down, and melted into her ink-dark pupils. A gleam lit her bewildered gaze; the fog blew away, and behind it stood spirit—hope and longing.

Hope and longing for tomorrow.

"Da Bai, tomorrow..."

She spoke without answering his question, words like a murmur slipping from a dream.

"Mm?"

She laughed, bright and pure, a child’s laugh—she was a child, in that moment.

"It should be a sunny day!"

He blinked, then his smile unfolded, simple as morning.

"Yeah."

Her arms held his neck, happy and replete. She couldn’t see the way he looked up as he said it, the smile on his face a cloud—gentle, and so light it could drift away any second.

Any wind, and it would be gone.

...

...

"Have you heard a word?"

"What word?"

"Stockholm syndrome."

"What’s that? Some biology theory? I didn’t major in that."

"It comes from a true story. In 1973, during a bank robbery. The robbers failed, then took four bank employees hostage. They clashed with police outside the bank for 130 hours."

"Wow! A hundred and thirty hours—no eating, no drinking, no sleep?"

"In the end they knew it couldn’t work. They gave up, and that long, sensational robbery ended."

"Eh? A roaring start with a limp finish?"

"And then came the shocker. Over the next few months, at several trials, the key witnesses—the four bank employees—refused to testify against the robbers."

"So—what does that mean? They were threatened?"

"Not just that. They raised funds for the robbers’ legal defense. They publicly said they didn’t hate them, even—thanked them for taking care during the hostage days."

"..."

"They even felt the police were meddling busybodies."

"Huh?"

"One of the women fell in love with a robber. She got engaged while he was serving time."

"This..."

"So that robbery in Sweden’s capital, at the biggest bank in Stockholm, shook society—especially psychologists. They studied it and named it Stockholm syndrome."

"..."

"They found that, through those six days, living face to face with their captors, their lives were under threat. In a space where death felt one breath away, they also got moments of mercy and gentleness. On that wire—hot and cold, push and pull—the heart twisted. In the end... they loved the robbers."

"That’s a thing?"

"It’s not hard to understand. Think back to a crush—heart racing, nerves tight. Every tiny move from them makes you anxious. Doesn’t that feel a lot like being held captive?"

"You can read it like that?"

"No psychologist explains it this way. But that’s how I see it."

"Eh! No wonder you’re the senior." Mu Ling laughed, her voice warming. "You know so much!"

This long string of talk spilled out in the suburbs, on the seventh floor of a seven-story abandoned building.

It was a skeleton of a tower—a concrete frame and stairs in place, but no walls, no glass.

A steel-boned giant without a coat, standing alone in waist-high weeds.

They stood at the slab’s edge on the seventh floor, no outer wall. The round moon hung high in the clear night, pouring silver like water. It spread across the floor and cut that deep bay of space into a chessboard of shadow and shine.

Ye Weibai stood on the lit side, his whole body washed in glow. A step back meant air thirty meters down. Below, a branch of the Lian River slid past the tower. You could hear the water slapping, a pulse in the dark.

Mu Ling had one hand on a thick concrete column, standing in the shade. Her eyes were dim, unreadable.

The sixth day.

It was the sixth day since that night.

In these days, Ye Weibai took Shaohan through the city—amusement parks, shopping, big meals, late-night games in a net café. Then he sent her home to the countryside. The old man’s illness wasn’t as bad as feared—he was tough, hearty.

After the girl left, to the staff at the Detective Agency, Ye Weibai felt like a different man.

Out early, back late, digging through files, working so hard it scared people. On the third night he finally looked like he’d found something—his face turned grave. He called everyone in, fast—even the Armed Division.

The Armed Division is a department only agencies with B-level clearance and above have. They handle armed pursuit, even killing. They don’t usually sit in the agency; they’re more like contractors. They carry guns legally, and they have certain rights to fire, and certain immunities in lethal force. When needed, the police and the agency hire them. Most agencies keep a fixed Armed Division they trust.

When they move, it means a big case is about to break.

"Wasn’t the suspect just some ordinary uncle? Sneaky, sure. Why call in the Armed Division?"

Five hundred meters from the building, on a low hill snug with grass, the crew from the Greedy Fox Detective Agency crouched. Equipment ready, faces set. They tucked into the thicket, binoculars up, watching their BOSS standing still on the high floor across the river.

"He’s that sly. He could be dangerous."

"But—"

Xiaomeng couldn’t hold back. Worry sprang from her chest. "But—why did Captain Bai go up there alone with a gun? Why won’t he let us and the Armed Division go with him? If the suspect really is dangerous—then Captain Bai—"

"Don’t underestimate him."

The voice was cold, from a man built like a predator—muscles tight, strength coiled, a leopard in human skin. All in black, half-kneeling, he was a statue of focus. The air around him reeked of war.

Xiaomeng stole a glance and flinched back.

He was the Armed Division on this job—the only one. An A+ grade elite operative. At that rank, one against ten is easy. The people he’s killed... well, it isn’t a single digit.

"Bai Ye—that guy came out of the Armed Division."

A faint memory cut across his carved features. "His marksmanship—back then, it was first in the city."