Nominal: My senior brothers are all big shots

Chung Chih-hao suddenly jerked the steering wheel, causing the car to swerve and crash into the police car behind it.

With a loud bang, the two cars collided, the airbags deployed, and Zhong Zhihao's face was bleeding profusely from the impact. He didn't stop, but shifted into reverse, trying to rush out from the side.

A shot rang out. It wasn't aimed at Zhou Tianming, but at Zhong Zhihao.

The bullet struck his shoulder; he screamed, his body swayed to one side, and the steering wheel slipped from his grasp.

The car went out of control, crashed into the roadside guardrail, and came to a stop. The police rushed over, pulled open the car door, dragged Zhong Zhihao out, and pinned him to the ground. His hands were handcuffed behind his back, and blood streamed down his arms, staining the ground red.

Zhou Tianming didn't move. He sat in the back seat, motionless, like a piece of wood. The car door was opened, and the sunlight made him squint. He looked up at the police officers with guns outside the car, at Zhong Zhihao pinned to the ground, at the police car that had been wrecked beyond recognition, and at the national flag fluttering in the wind above the tollbooth.

He stretched out his hands and let the staff handcuff him.

The clanging of metal was crisp and jarring, particularly loud in the quiet toll plaza. He was led off the bus, head down, not looking at anyone. His purse was searched; it contained a few changes of clothes, a wad of cash, and several passports.

The photo on the passport was him, but the name wasn't his. The staff also found an old envelope in his inner pocket; the envelope was yellowed and the edges were worn.

He looked up at the envelope, his lips moved as if he wanted to say something, but then he swallowed his words back.

"What is this?" the staff member asked.

Zhou Tianming didn't speak. His eyes reddened.

He was led into the car, and the door closed. The car drove away from the toll station, heading towards Pingjiang. He sat in the back seat, head down, his handcuffs gleaming coldly under the light. The fields outside the car window rushed past, the sun was setting, and the sky was blood red.

When Zhou Tianming was escorted back to Pingjiang, it was already completely dark.

The convoy exited the highway and entered the city. The streets outside the car window were brightly lit, and pedestrians hurried by. No one knew that inside this unassuming black sedan sat the most prominent figure in Pingjiang.

The car did not head towards the Municipal Public Security Bureau or the Municipal Party Committee compound, but instead drove into a secluded courtyard.

This is the designated surveillance location chosen by the task force. It's located in the suburbs, surrounded by high walls topped with barbed wire, and guarded by armed police at the entrance. The courtyard contains several small buildings, as quiet as an isolated island.

The car stopped. The door opened, and two staff members reached out to help Zhou Tianming out of the car. His legs were a little weak, and he had to stand up several times before he could regain his balance.

He kept his head down, his expression unreadable, but his hands were trembling slightly. He was led into a small building, through a corridor, and into a room. The room was small, containing a bed, a table, a chair, iron bars on the window, and thick, dark curtains drawn tightly shut. A glass of water sat on the table, still steaming.

"Zhou Tianming, this is your temporary accommodation. During the investigation, you are not allowed to leave this room or contact the outside world. If you need anything, you can press the bell by the bed." The staff member's voice was very businesslike and emotionless.

Zhou Tianming didn't speak. He stood there, staring blankly into the room. The sheets were white, the blankets were neatly folded, and the pillows were thin. He thought of his office on the top floor of Tiansheng Group, of the large leather sofa, of the Pingjiang skyline outside the window. Those things no longer belonged to him.

The staff left. The door closed, the sound of the lock turning was very soft, but exceptionally clear in the quiet room. Zhou Tianming stood there, motionless, for a very long time.

The interrogation began the following morning. The interrogation room was on the first floor; it was small, with padded walls and excellent soundproofing. Zhou Tianming sat in a chair, his handcuffs removed and replaced with an electronic monitoring bracelet. He was wearing the same dark jacket as yesterday, his hair was somewhat disheveled, his beard had grown long, his eye sockets were sunken, and his eyes were bloodshot.

The interrogator sitting opposite him was He Bing's deputy, surnamed Zhou, in his forties, of medium build, wearing frameless glasses, and with a serious expression. A stack of materials lay before him, on top of which was Zhou Tianming's resume.

"Zhou Tianming, do you know why you're here?"

Zhou Tianming raised his head, glanced at him, then lowered his head without saying a word.

The interrogators asked the question again. Zhou Tianming still didn't speak. He lowered his head, looking at his hands resting on his knees, as if studying the patterns on them.

The interrogator changed the question: "Do you know Liu Zhi?"

Zhou Tianming's eyelashes twitched, but he neither looked up nor spoke.

Do you know Huang Zhiqiang?

silence.

Do you know Han Ligang?

silence.

Do you know Wei Guoan?

silence.

Do you know Zhao Anguo?

silence.

The interrogation lasted for two hours, during which Zhou Tianming did not utter a single word.

No matter what the interrogators asked, he kept his head down and remained silent. Not the kind of silence born of nervousness, but a prepared, confident silence. He knew he couldn't speak. If he opened his mouth, he would lose everything. He still had his uncle. Although his uncle wouldn't see him, he wouldn't abandon him.

The interrogation continued the next day. Zhou Tianming remained silent. The interrogators changed their strategy, no longer asking about specific people and events, but instead starting with inquiries about the operations of Yuanda Group. Zhou Tianming still didn't speak, but the corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as if in a cold smile.

On the third day, He Bing came in person. He walked into the interrogation room, sat down opposite Zhou Tianming, looked at Zhou Tianming, remained silent for a moment, and then spoke.

"Zhou Tianming, how is your uncle's health?"

Zhou Tianming suddenly raised his head and looked at He Bing. His eyes held fear, anger, and an indescribable pain. He Bing looked at him calmly.

"Your uncle sent you a letter through someone. Would you like to read it?"

Zhou Tianming's hands began to tremble. He didn't speak, but his eyes betrayed him.

He Bing took an envelope from the folder, placed it on the table, and pushed it in front of Zhou Tianming. The envelope was white and unsigned, but Zhou Tianming recognized the handwriting.

It was his uncle's handwriting, strong and vigorous, each stroke like it had been carved with a knife. His eyes reddened, and he reached out, picking up the envelope, his fingers trembling. He tore open the seal, took out the letter inside, and unfolded it.

The letter was short, only a few lines: "Mingyuan, you have disappointed me greatly. Uncle."

Zhou Tianming stared at those few lines of text for a long time. Tears streamed down his face, dripping onto the letter and blurring a small patch of ink. He didn't wipe them away; he just looked at the letter as if it were a mountain he could never return to.