Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

"I'm fine. They're looking for you, not me. What can they do to me with my voice ruined?" Chen Zhiyuan's tone was relaxed, and he even twitched his lips as if he were smiling. "They'll definitely ask if you've been here before. I'll just say I don't know, I've never seen you. Can they arrest me?"

Shen Qinghou stared at him for two seconds, etching the figure standing at the window into his mind.

The wind blew his shirt against his back, making his shoulder blades stand out clearly. He was so thin it was heartbreaking, but he stood very steadily, like a tree rooted in a crack in the wall, never bending over no matter how strong the wind was.

This person understands the hardship he endured practicing the piano for eighteen years, the hatred he felt when his tendons were severed, the pain of his mother's tragic death, and the resentment that burned through his bones.

This person was his soulmate, the first person he had met in his twenty-two years of life who understood him without him having to say a word.

"Hurry up." Chen Zhiyuan's voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible, but it carried an undeniable force.

Shen Qinghou climbed onto the windowsill and glanced back at him.

Chen Zhiyuan stood at the window, nodded to him, and moved his lips.

Shen Qinghou read it aloud; the two words were "Let's go."

He jumped down and landed on the concrete platform outside the window, bending his knees to steady himself.

Three hours of rest restored much of his strength. Although his left leg still hurt, he could at least stand up.

He followed Chen Zhiyuan's directions and found a rusty iron door on the wall. Outside, there were broken wooden planks and waste cardboard boxes, covered in a thick layer of dust that could leave marks, indicating that no one had touched it for a long time.

He squeezed through the door, which led to a narrow passageway filled with a strong smell of mildew and dust, leading to the basement of the building next door.

As he walked, he kept his ears glued to the direction of the building he had just passed, not letting a single sound escape his notice.

He heard the sound of doors being kicked open downstairs, with at least three doors being breached simultaneously from three directions. The muffled thuds of doors hitting the walls made the air vibrate.

Footsteps rushed up the stairs, dense and rapid, accompanied by extremely short commands from the walkie-talkie: "First floor clear" "Second floor clear".

Then came the sound of Chen Zhiyuan's room door being flung open, the creaking of the hinges coming loose was quite jarring.

Some say, "Finding only one person is not the goal."

Chen Zhiyuan's hoarse voice rang out, tinged with just the right amount of bewilderment: "Who are you?"

Shen Qinghou gritted his teeth and continued walking deeper into the passage. The sound of his shoes stepping on the puddles echoed in the empty basement, each step feeling like a blow to his own heart.

------

When Fang Heming led his men into the room, Chen Zhiyuan was sitting at the table with several sheets of paper covered with musical notes spread out in front of him, holding half a pencil in his hand, as if he had just been copying music.

Special operations team members quickly secured all corners, pointing their guns at the only person inside, the clicking sounds of safety release echoing throughout the room.

Fang Yuan and Zhou Chengan followed behind Fang Heming. As soon as they entered the room, they smelled a faint stench of blood in the air, along with the aroma of leftover rice from cooking porridge. The two smells mixed together, making them feel nauseous.

Fang Heming glanced around the room: a hard bed, a wooden table, a stove, several yellowed sheet music pieces on the wall, and a pile of old sheet music half a person's height in the corner.

His gaze fell on a few dark red stains on the floor beside the bed, the color still bright and not completely wiped away.

Then he looked at Chen Zhiyuan and asked, "Where is he?"

Fang Heming's voice was even somewhat gentle, but to Chen Zhiyuan it sounded like facing a mountain pressing down on him.

He took a deep breath and, bracing himself for the pressure, replied, "Who are you? Why are you breaking into my home?"

Fang Heming did not answer. He walked to the bedside, squatted down, and rubbed his fingers against the few drops of dark red. His fingertips were stained with a faint red.

The blood wasn't completely dry yet.

He stood up, turned to look at Chen Zhiyuan, and his gaze fell on Chen's hands.

Chen Zhiyuan's fingers had several fresh scratches, and dark red marks remained under his fingernails, indicating that they had been there recently.

"What happened to the blood on your hands?" Fang Heming asked.

Chen Zhiyuan pulled his hand back into his sleeve: "I cut myself while chopping vegetables."

Fang Heming glanced at the stove—there was only half a wilted cabbage on the cutting board, the knife was dry and there were no water stains, and there wasn't even a cutting board on the table.

Instead of exposing him, he walked up to Chen Zhiyuan, bent down, pinched his chin with his fingers, and lifted his face.

Chen Zhiyuan did not struggle, letting him hold him, his eyes remaining calm.

Fang Heming noticed that besides the old scar, there were several fresh scratches on his neck.

He released his grip, straightened up, and said to the special agents behind him, "Search."

The group immediately dispersed and began searching the room.

The drawer was pulled open, the cabinet door was opened, sheet music was scattered all over the floor, and the pages creaked underfoot.

Some people squatted down to look under the bed, some lifted the pot on the stove, and some reached into the chimney.

Fang Heming stood in the center of the room, no longer looking at Chen Zhiyuan. His gaze followed the search team members as they moved, his fingers lightly tapping the holster on his side, a slow rhythm that made one's heart race.

One of the team members pulled a blood-stained bandage from under the mattress, held it up, and handed it to him: "Sir, we found it."

Fang Heming took it. The bandage was neatly wrapped, and the scabs on it were dark red. It was still a little soft to the touch, obviously because it had just been removed not long ago.

He tossed the wad of bandages onto the table, turned to Chen Zhiyuan, and his tone instantly changed, no longer gentle, but as cold as the chains in an interrogation room: "Where is Shen Qinghou?"

Chen Zhiyuan remained silent, his gaze fixed on the bandage on the table, his eyes showing no emotion.

"You bandaged him up. The bandage was wrapped neatly, which means you took the time. You know him." Fang Heming took a step forward, leaned down, and brought his breath close to his forehead. "I'll ask you one more time. Where is he?"

Chen Zhiyuan felt the whole room shrinking, with the four walls crowding in on him, making it difficult to even breathe.

He met Fang Heming's gaze, his voice so hoarse it was almost inaudible: "I don't know."

Fang Heming straightened up and said to the special operations team members behind him, "Let him speak."

Two team members immediately stepped forward, pulled Chen Zhiyuan up from the chair, twisted his arms behind his back, and pressed him against the wall.

Zhou Cheng'an took a step forward, his voice laced with suppressed anger: "Special Commissioner Fang, torture and forced confessions are strictly prohibited. According to public security regulations, since the suspect did not resist arrest or assault a police officer, he should be taken back to the interrogation room for questioning according to law."

Fang Heming turned to look at him, his eyes cold, like knives scraping across his face: "Public Security Regulations? The National Bureau of Abnormal Affairs has special powers in emergency pursuits. Shen Qinghou has eight lives on his hands; every minute we delay in catching him could mean another death. Your colleague, Lao Zhang, died at Shen Qinghou's hands! Are you still going to stop me?"