There was a Mr. Liu on Hulin Street who kept ordering char siu rice from the same restaurant—nearly three meals a day—and every single order was assigned to Gordon Pike.
Marcus Shaw immediately contacted the delivery platform to ask if this was normal. After checking the rider's name and ID, the platform representative pulled up the data and admitted surprise. Orders were assigned randomly based on proximity—such a concentrated pattern had never occurred before.
Marcus Shaw then called the local delivery hub. The station manager was also puzzled but speculated that Gordon Pike's usual waiting location might be uniquely positioned—whenever Mr. Liu placed an order, no other rider was nearby, so it kept going to him.
Skeptical, Marcus Shaw decided to visit the char siu restaurant and then call on Mr. Liu.
The restaurant was tiny—a stall along the perimeter of a comprehensive market. Inside was a narrow strip, maybe four or five square meters, with a young couple working inside like they were embedded in the space, barely able to turn around.
No dine-in—apart from a few walk-up customers at the window, everything was delivery.
When Marcus Shaw showed his badge, both stopped what they were doing.
The man shot the woman a look. She immediately beamed and said: "Officer, what would you like to know? Our shop may be small, but we're fully licensed, clean, and sanitary—our customers eat with confidence." She even hoisted the rice cooker over and lifted the lid for him to see.
The man behind her was silent, seemingly shoving something out of sight.
"I'm not here about hygiene. I need to ask about something else."
Both seemed relieved. The man said: "Then what's it about?"
Marcus Shaw took out Gordon Pike's phone, pointed to the order history and said: "Someone keeps ordering from your place. Why is it always this same rider delivering?"
The man took the phone, glanced at it briefly, and handed it back. "How would I know? The system isn't mine."
The woman gave him a look and pushed him toward the back, telling him to go wash the meat. Then she turned to Marcus Shaw with a smile: "Don't mind him, that's just how he talks. This delivery guy came here a lot for pickups—I saw him almost every day. He was here at noon, just picked up a box."
"He's dead. On a delivery run."
Her eyebrows shot up. She covered her mouth. "Hit by a car?"
Marcus Shaw shook his head. "Someone tampered with his motorcycle. He was murdered."
Her face tightened. She turned and hooked her arm around her husband, pulling him back. "That has nothing to do with us. We barely knew him. We're too busy to chat with delivery guys."
She elbowed her husband. He said in a low voice: "Right. No grudge, no motive. You can't pin this on us."
"Nobody's pinning anything. Just here to look around, that's all."
They went back to their work.
Marcus Shaw asked: "Why does Mr. Liu on Hulin Street order your char siu rice so often? Three meals a day—doesn't he get tired of it?"
The man immediately said: "How would I know? You'd have to ask him." He snapped a container lid shut for emphasis.
Marcus Shaw realized he'd asked the wrong question.
The woman smoothed things over: "Well, it just shows our char siu rice is that good! Keeps 'em coming back for more."
After leaving the restaurant, Marcus Shaw walked toward Hulin Street. It was a long street—he walked for ages, crossed Gongnong Avenue, took several turns, and finally found Mr. Liu's residential compound.
The building had been insulated the previous year, its exterior painted red. From a distance, it looked like a stack of giant fermented bean curd blocks.
At the entrance to Building 3, he spotted an overflowing trash bin. Right on top were several char siu rice takeout containers.
Marcus Shaw followed the address from the order records, went upstairs, and knocked. No answer. He was about to call when a voice came from inside—the security door had a wooden inner door.
A chubby young man opened it. His blue T-shirt was like a burlap sack stretched tight over his bulk, making him look like a water balloon on the verge of bursting.
His thick lips pursed as he asked: "Excuse me, are you looking for me?" His eyes were soft, like a wounded puppy.
Marcus Shaw explained why he'd come. Mr. Liu couldn't believe it, asking again and again: "So you're telling me, after Guo Ge delivered my lunch, he just... died?"
Marcus Shaw nodded.
Mr. Liu seemed to melt like a candle—his flesh loosened, his voice weakening: "Guo Ge was a good man. Rain or shine, he always delivered. Always on time, worried I'd go hungry. He even took out my trash for me."
Before leaving, Marcus Shaw hesitated for a long while, then finally said: "Maybe this is also a chance for you to stop ordering delivery so much. Wash your hair, get some fresh air. It's sunny outside—go for a walk."
He turned and went down the stairs. At the landing, he glanced back—Mr. Liu still stood in the doorway, motionless.
Downstairs, Marcus Shaw searched the ground but found no trace of fireworks. A surveillance camera post stood by the adjacent building entrance. He studied the black dome camera—it didn't look quite round.
Approaching, he found black tape plastered over the lens.
He went to the property management office and pulled the footage from that camera. Since last night, the feed had been pitch black.
He copied the file and took it to the forensic evidence center for brightness enhancement. At 1:37 AM, a figure crept into the frame's edge, set up what looked like a short ladder, and reached up—the camera went dark.
The person was extremely careful. He appeared in only about three seconds of footage. Even extracted frame by frame, his face never showed. The only discernible feature was a stocky build—nothing else.
Marcus Shaw couldn't help thinking of the dark figure who'd mailed him that letter. The methods and timing matched—it had to be the same person. His confusion deepened. He truly couldn't fathom what connected him to these people and these events.
Back at the station, Marcus Shaw reviewed the case files again.
The hallway case and the vocational school case had yielded some information and a criminal profile, but at every critical juncture, the investigation stalled and leads went dead.
Unsolved cases required constant review—they hurt the unit's clearance rate and drew pressure from above, which flowed downhill to Marcus Shaw.
Each case was like a pestle pounding without cease, making his temples throb.
Frustrated, everything went wrong—his computer was slow, he kept making typos, and a hangnail on his right index finger throbbed with each heartbeat.
He dug out his keychain for the nail clippers but couldn't find them. He used another fingernail to pinch and rip the hangnail off. It bled, stinging straight to his core.
He was wincing when Viktor Dunn barged in, blurting: "You're married? Since when?"
Marcus Shaw was startled, too slow to react.
Viktor Dunn added: "There's a woman outside claiming to be your wife."
Marcus Shaw rushed out. It was indeed Nora, standing timidly at the station entrance. Without a word, he pulled her outside, found a secluded spot, and asked what was wrong.
She handed him a small medicine bottle and said softly: "You forgot this. I thought it might be important, so I brought it right over."
Marcus Shaw realized she must have learned about his condition. Not knowing how to explain, he said offhandedly: "It's not that important, really."
She looked at him, eyes soft as water: "I looked it up. You're not supposed to drive while taking this. That day you..."
Marcus Shaw cut in: "I'm fine, it's not because of that. I have to run around for cases—I'll just be careful."
He felt awkward, couldn't meet her eyes, and found himself staring at the mole at the corner of her left eye. It seemed alive—shifting, breathing. He wanted to reach out and touch it, see if it could be picked off.
They stood in silence. A gust of wind swept through, making her bangs dance.
Nora looked down and said: "Then you go ahead. I won't keep you."
Marcus Shaw meant to say it was fine, but what came out was: "Then hurry back." He cursed himself inwardly and quickly added: "Take, take a taxi... be safe."
He walked back inside. The corridor was cool, but his chest felt filled with warm water, soaking his organs—warm, ticklish. The image of her expression lingered: worry she couldn't hide, mixed with a hint of fear.
At that thought, his heart seemed to shift slightly, quiver, and swell a little.
Before entering the office, he turned and looked outside. She was still standing across the street, on tiptoe hailing a cab, her small frame bobbing, her long braid draped over her chest—looking like a little girl.