I didn't want to bring him inside the hospital because I wasn't ready to be interrogated by doctors and nurses about a car accident. I still had a lot to do.
I couldn't get too close to the entrance either—the hospital was crowded. If someone stopped me, I might not be able to leave.
So I set him down at the entrance of a convenience store across from the emergency room. The female clerk inside was playing on her phone and hadn't noticed us.
I knocked hard on the glass door. Since I'd been carrying the bloodied Henry, my palm left a vivid red handprint on the glass. Henry's face was also pressed against the door, leaving a smear of blood.
The clerk looked up from her phone. When she saw us, she screamed and collapsed onto the floor, legs scrambling backward as she shrieked for help, clutching her head and howling.
I pushed the door open and said, "Calm down. This guy got hit by a car. Go get the hospital to help him—if you keep screaming, he'll be dead before anyone comes."
She finally pulled herself together, taking deep breaths to compose herself, then burst into tears: "Are you insane? You nearly gave me a heart attack..."
I didn't understand why she was making such a scene, but I had things to do. I turned to leave.
As I turned around, I came face-to-face with a bloody handprint on the glass—along with Henry's twisted face pressed against it, his bloodshot eyes staring at me. It startled me badly.
But I quickly recovered, muttered something about him scaring me half to death, and hurried off.
After some thought, I decided I could let the police handle Swallow later—providing that tip would count toward my meritorious service. Right now, the priority was getting the money to my family. I'd drive all the way home and hand it over to my parents.
Unfortunately, the truck's battery was running low. I knew there was a fast-charging station near my rental apartment—thirty minutes of charging would give me enough range to get home.
I drove toward the charging station, which happened to pass by my apartment building. That's when I saw a police car parked outside, its lights still flashing.
They were already hunting for Nora. She also lived in this apartment building—many stalled-project homeowners rented here because it was close to the development, making it easy to check on construction progress.
I noted this mentally, planning to find an opportunity to share information with the police to reduce my own charges. But as I passed the entrance, I froze.
A wanted poster was taped to the door.
The face on the poster... was mine.
I sat there in stunned silence. The police car was empty. I quickly got out, used the driver's phone to photograph the poster, and hurried back to the truck.
Once I was a safe distance away, I read the notice.
Marcus Zhang, male, ID number 33038... wanted for suspected arson. Anyone with information should contact Detective Sullivan. Reward: 50,000 yuan.
My mind went blank.
Suspected arson? Nora was the one who set the fire. Earlier, the police had come asking me about Nora—how had I suddenly become the suspect?
It made no sense. It made absolutely no sense!
My mind felt doused in ice water. Going home was out of the question now. If I was wanted, the toll collectors on the highway would spot me. What if the police had set up checkpoints?
Wait—my phone!
I plugged my phone into the truck's charger and turned it on. Dozens of missed calls appeared!
From family, from Elena, and from numbers I didn't recognize.
What had happened while my phone was off?
I didn't dare keep it on too long—worried the police might track my location. I debated calling my parents but couldn't bring myself to do it.
For reasons I couldn't explain, I dialed Elena's number instead.
She was my ex-wife.
At the most dangerous moment of my life, I don't know why I chose to trust her over my own parents.
The call connected. Elena's trembling voice came through: "Marcus? Where are you?"
I paused, then said, "I'll meet you where we had our first date."
I was afraid the police might be listening, so I kept it vague.
Our first date had been at a small park nearby.
Back then, I'd mustered every ounce of courage to ask her out for a walk. To get her to say yes, I'd stolen Henry's family puppy and used the corgi as my excuse.
She didn't even like dogs—she was a cat person.
Truth be told, I didn't like dogs either. I just wanted an excuse to be near her.
That little corgi had wagged its tail and circled us for half an hour begging for attention, while neither of us could bring ourselves to pet it. We were both too shy to say much, just gazing at the moon and murmuring about how pretty it looked.
By the time we found ourselves holding hands, I understood that sometimes the words don't matter—what matters is who you're sharing the silence with.
I sat on a bench in the park with the backpack beside me. I'd never been much of a smoker, but I lit one cigarette after another from Henry's pack.
Sometimes I wanted to laugh bitterly. Was I dragging her into this mess too? I'd never given her the happiness she deserved, and now I was pulling her into my disaster.
I really was a bastard. Even if she showed up with the police, I'd have nobody to blame but myself. But I had a feeling—aside from my parents, she was the only person on earth who wouldn't betray me.
After half an hour, footsteps finally echoed from the park entrance.
I looked up and saw her alone.
Her fragile figure stood under the streetlight, wrapped in a thin jacket against the cold night. Our eyes met.
I could tell she'd been crying.
Elena stepped in front of me. Her small hands—the ones I'd once held—were so close. I instinctively reached for them, knowing she was always cold, but I stopped myself.
I couldn't let myself get entangled with her anymore.
Just like the night she broke down over a cup of tea, she was right there within reach, but I couldn't bring myself to hold her.
She was close enough to touch, yet impossibly far away.
I lowered my head and bit down on the cigarette, but remembering she hated the smell, I flicked it away.
Then her cool hands cupped my face.
She held my face in her palms while her warm tears fell onto my skin. She sobbed, "Why didn't you call me sooner? I've been so worried."
4. To Be Worse Than the Villains
Elena looked haggard. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and she was biting her lip so hard it might bleed. Her hands pressed harder and harder against my face, and finally she pulled my head into her embrace.
She always carried a faint lavender scent—from her budget laundry detergent. Even after leaving me, she still used the same brand. The logo was always faded, just a few bucks for a massive bag. But I remembered clearly that before we started dating, she'd worn a subtle perfume.
She'd never bought that perfume again. I was the one who'd held her back.
I gently pushed her away and asked, "Do you know why I'm wanted?"
"A lot of people in our circle have been sharing a video of you, but most of the posts got taken down—the police told people not to spread it. I saved a copy."
She handed me her phone. The video showed the interior of Victor Li's apartment, facing the living room.
Before long, I appeared in the frame. Because of the camera angle, it didn't show me climbing in from the balcony—it only captured me materializing in the living room.
My hiding behind the sofa and taking the gold figurines—every moment was caught on camera.
Then I disappeared from the frame. Shortly after, smoke began to pour into the room.
The video had three critical blind spots:
First, exactly when and where I entered.
Second, exactly when and where I left.
Third, exactly when and where the fire started.
All three moments were unclear, but the problem was that only I knew I hadn't set the fire. Anyone else watching would conclude the fire was connected to me.
Reality was that cruel. I'd thought I might get away with riding Nora's coattails, and instead I'd become the scapegoat, taking the fall for her crime.
I whispered, "I didn't start the fire. I went there to steal—I admit that. But I didn't—"
"I know."
Elena cut me off. She wiped her tears and said, "I told everyone who'd listen that you'd never do such a thing. Nobody believed me. Marcus, even if the whole world says you're a killer, even if the evidence says so, I know it's wrong. I loved you, so I know your heart."
"How did this video even get out?"
Elena explained that the video came from a smart air conditioner with a built-in camera in Victor Li's apartment.
Smart home devices often have cameras these days. After the fire, Victor Li's family had checked the remote monitoring feed out of concern, only to discover this footage.
They'd handed it straight to the police. Without question—I was now the prime suspect for arson.
If they couldn't find evidence that Nora had started the fire, I'd be unable to defend myself. I'd absolutely be charged as a murderer.
She said, "The video has gone viral. Our families, our friends, our classmates—all of them have seen it. You've been kicked out of the class group chat. Everyone's talking about it, saying you were pretending to be a good person all along. I didn't argue with them, because I know that people who truly understand you don't need convincing."
"You really believe in me that much?"
"I told you—because I loved you, so I know who you are."
I smiled bitterly and lifted the blue backpack, speaking softly: "I didn't start the fire. I did steal the gold, but it was money I was owed."
I unzipped the bag and showed her the stacks of cash inside.
Elena had never seen that much money either. She stared, then asked, "What are you doing with this?"
I told her, with a bitter smile, that I'd failed so thoroughly that I didn't have a single person I could truly trust.
Now that I was cornered, I needed to put my last hope in her hands.
I said, "Don't use this to pay my debts yet—hide it first. If I keep my mouth shut, nobody will find this money. Then give it to my parents in batches—take it to the bank and pay off the loans. Don't do it all at once. There's a million here; split it into eight or ten payments."
Elena stared at the money and murmured, "I had a feeling when I came here. I thought you'd give me the gold, but you've already converted it to cash."
I looked into her eyes, my heart full of defeat. This wasn't the ending I'd wanted. I told her how useless I was—not only had I held her back all these years, but now I'd committed a crime and was dragging her into it too.
I didn't know what sin I'd committed to deserve this. Fate seemed determined to push me into the deepest possible pit.
Elena suddenly cut me off.
She leaned forward and kissed me.
Her lips were cold, her tears were hot. We kissed, but I didn't dare wrap my arms around her.
Finally, I forced myself to push her away.
I told her that as long as she helped pay off the family's debts, whatever remained was hers to keep. I owed her that much.
Elena shook her head and whispered, "The thing I'm most grateful for is that when you were at your lowest, you chose to come to me."
We couldn't talk long—I knew the police were still hunting me. My luck had been terrible enough; it was better to keep her at a distance.
I stood up, whispered goodbye, and turned away.
Elena called after me: "Even if you're convicted, I'll never believe you're a bad person. Even if the whole world is against you, I'll believe the whole world has it wrong. I'll wait for you. Get your sentence reduced, Marcus... I miss you so much. I miss you terribly."
I glanced back and saw her crouching on the ground, sobbing: "I hate myself for leaving you. If I'd still been by your side, this never would have happened. I'll never let you go again... never!"
I walked faster, unwilling to hear her cry any longer.
She'd been right to leave me. I was the one who turned her from a princess into a woman who agonized over the price of bubble tea.
When others were posting 52-yuan red envelopes for "the first autumn tea," I had her stressing over the difference between an 8-yuan cup and a 20-yuan one.
Thinking back, every moment of happiness in our time together came from her love for me, and every moment of hardship came from my love for her.
This miserable life of mine...
Why did I have to fall in love with such a wonderful girl?
Back in the truck, I pressed the accelerator and drove toward the outskirts of the city.
I'd figured it out. Everything was clear now.
People who live honestly and follow the rules can at best hope not to be bullied. For someone as insignificant as me, my safety depended entirely on other people's indifference.
But when someone actually came after me, I couldn't just be the good guy anymore. I'd never done anything evil, yet heaven had still dealt me this hand. This time, I was going to seize my own fate.
If they were going to be ruthless, I'd be more ruthless. I would track down every one of them. I'd find Nora myself and dig up the evidence that she committed arson and murder!
I didn't care that she was a woman, or that she might have her own tragic story—I'd been made the scapegoat, and I'd use any means necessary to uncover the truth.
I drove out of the city. The remaining battery wouldn't get me home, but it was enough to reach the old village house.
But when I tried to get onto the provincial highway, I discovered the road was blocked by a police checkpoint.
Damn it...
There had been no checkpoint coming in, but there was one going out. They were making sure I couldn't escape.
The cars ahead were backed up in a single lane. I wanted to turn around, but traffic was already behind me, trapping me in.
I racked my brain for a plan, scanning my surroundings for an escape route. I wasn't going to leave my fate in anyone else's hands—not even the police. Letting others handle your fate only led to betrayal.
At the checkpoint, there were three police cars and road barriers. On either side of the road were dark, open fields—nowhere for me to run.
I inched forward, getting closer and closer to the officers. When I was nearly at the checkpoint, I finally found my courage and yanked the steering wheel hard!
The truck lurched toward the barrier. I didn't dare aim directly at the police because I feared hurting innocent people. The truck smashed through the guard rail, and officers immediately scrambled, a police car blocking my path. They deployed a spike strip across the road. I stared at the dense row of spikes and slammed my foot down on the gas!
If I was going to be bad, I might as well go all the way!
The electric truck's acceleration wasn't explosive, but at this distance I got it up to over fifty miles per hour. The tires hit the spikes and blew out, the truck losing control. I wrenched the steering wheel with all my might, and the vehicle launched into the field beside the road, completely stuck!
I jumped out. Officers shone flashlights at me—I could see at least five chasing me, shouting for me to stop.
I never understood why police yell "stop" when pursuing a suspect.
Why would I stop? Why would I possibly stop?
Running across a farm field was much harder than running on pavement—every step was unstable. The field was planted with vegetables rather than rice, but the soil was soft, and the darkness was so absolute I could barely see my own hands, let alone where I was stepping.
But I hadn't planned to escape on foot.
I scrambled into the truck bed and hauled out Henry's motorcycle. The officers stared, bewildered—a motorcycle inside a delivery truck? They started running faster.
I started the engine. It was damaged—fairings rattled, the headlight was broken and swung wildly with every bump. Not ideal for accurate navigation.
I twisted the throttle just as one officer lunged and grabbed the motorcycle, shouting, "Stop! Don't run! Whatever you have to say, you can say it to the police!"
I shouted back, "Just one thing—you work hard protecting this country, I salute you!"
His face was a mask of confusion as my motorcycle roared away. He was pulled down by momentum and rolled twice. I sincerely hoped he was okay.
Fortunately, this wasn't a rice paddy, and the motorcycle moved at a decent speed. I didn't dare push it too hard—the darkness made it impossible to see clearly. I kept it around thirty miles per hour, which was enough to stay ahead of my pursuers.
Even at only thirty, riding through this pitch-black terrain was wilder than a roller coaster. Giant stones appeared without warning, forcing sudden swerves. Hidden holes sent the bike lurching violently.
I rode farther and farther, following the field's edge. Behind me, the police tried to follow on their own motorcycles, but the heavy police bikes got bogged down in the soft soil almost immediately.
Once they were out of sight, I curved around and headed back toward the road to the provincial highway. It was the only route to the old village house.
I knew the police might have a dragnet waiting, but there was no turning back now. For maximum stealth, I killed the motorcycle's headlight and rode toward the highway in total darkness.
With no light, I could barely see the path ahead.
I fell repeatedly—though since I kept the speed under twenty, the worst that happened was slamming my legs and stomach into obstacles. The pain was staggering, muscles feeling like they might tear.
I wasn't worried about injuring myself. I was worried about breaking the motorcycle—it was the only thing keeping me going.
I sucked in breath through clenched teeth and pushed on. Every time I hit something, I adjusted the handlebars and kept moving, trying to avoid direct impacts to my bones.
I don't know how many times I crashed, but eventually the highway came into view. There was little traffic at this hour. The checkpoint I'd blasted through was at least two or three kilometers behind me. I pulled onto the highway and opened the throttle, racing toward the old village house before the police could regroup.
They probably hadn't expected me to double back through the dark so quickly. I encountered no obstacles on the way, but I knew the surveillance cameras would have caught my plates. I had to move fast.
Wind roared in my ears as I pushed the motorcycle to eighty. When I reached the village, I dumped the bike in a shadowy corner and crept toward the old house.
I checked my watch: 9:30 PM. Half an hour until Swallow's meeting.
Just enough time.
I positioned myself above the old house, observing carefully. But the village dogs started barking again, circling me aggressively. This time they didn't just bark—since I was alone, one lunged at me.
I lunged right back. I grabbed someone's broom from nearby and charged at it, roaring. The dog that had been baring its teeth at me cowered against the wall, whimpering, and the others scattered.
A homeowner opened his window and yelled at me for hitting his dog.
I shouted back that he should control his dog—it nearly bit me.
He asked if it actually bit me, said I must have the wrong house, that wasn't his dog, and quickly shut the window.
I didn't bother with him. Dogs are just animals—sometimes humans are worse.
I settled back into my hiding spot, carefully watching the old house, terrified of missing Swallow's arrival.
As I waited, I heard very faint footsteps behind me. They suddenly accelerated—within a heartbeat, someone was right behind me.
Afraid it was a dog about to bite, I didn't turn around. Instead, I dove forward to dodge!
I hit the ground and spun around. It wasn't a dog at all—it was the truck driver, holding a sickle, his face dark with menace.
My heart nearly stopped. Thank God I hadn't turned around—otherwise that sickle might have opened my skull.
He gripped the sickle and stepped toward me. "That explains the dogs. I didn't think you'd come back. Where's my truck?"
I said, "Left it by the road."
He raised the sickle and sneered, "You stubborn fool. You could've walked away clean, but you had to—"
"YOU'RE the fool!"
Before he could finish, I roared, grabbed a handful of mud, and threw myself at him!
The mud hit his face. He instinctively covered his eyes, and I kicked him square in the gut, sending him sprawling. Then I grabbed the broom handle, stomped it in half, and shoved the jagged wooden pole straight at his face—not swinging it, but jabbing it!
I jabbed at his face, wanting to gouge his eyes out. He could only frantically protect his face, howling with each strike.
I kept jabbing, screaming: "You're the fool! You bastard! You have no right to talk to me like that! I'm never letting anyone push me around again—not you, not anyone!"
He rolled in pain, tumbling down a slope, and scrambled to his feet clutching his bloody face. The sickle trembled in his hand.
"Come on!" I walked toward him and roared, "Kill me! Either you kill me, or I kill you! Committing crimes doesn't make you tough—it just proves you're a thug with no moral compass. We've both got one life—let's see who takes whose! Come on! Aim for my neck! Do it!"
Lights flicked on in nearby houses. Windows opened as people stared at the commotion. The driver looked panic-stricken and growled that I was crazy—if someone called the police, we'd both end up in jail.
He raised the sickle, probably trying to look intimidating, but I grabbed his wrist.
I wasn't going to hide anymore.
I wasn't going to let anyone push me around anymore.
I was honest, not weak!
I pointed at my own neck and said, "I told you to swing and you won't. Getting scared because people are watching? I gave you a chance and you blew it. You're afraid of prison? I'm not. I don't care about my own life—you really think you can take me?"
The driver who'd been threatening me was now trembling. "You're insane... What do you want?"
I told him: "You didn't kill me, so I'm going to kill you!"