Film and Television: My Cheat Code is AI

(Thanks to: Lao Shuai, Qingfeng Suiwoyu, and Qizhiyizhe for their monthly tickets, I am very grateful.)

Zhang Yang took 100,000 yuan and drove to the village where Zhou Long's parents lived.

The money was on the passenger seat, in a black cloth bag, sealed twice with rubber bands. One hundred thousand yuan, not consecutive serial numbers, old bills, the "clean kind" Zhao Fei had described. Zhang Yang had one hand on the steering wheel, the other resting on the window frame, a cigarette between his fingers. The window was rolled down halfway, the wind rushing in, turning the cigarette butt red.

Once outside the city, the tall buildings on both sides of the road gradually turned into bungalows, and the bungalows into farmland. At this time of year, there wasn't much in the fields; the bare clods of earth looked like the cracked skin of the earth from afar. Occasionally, one or two poplar trees would sprout from the field ridges, most of their leaves fallen, the rest hanging on the branches, yellowish-brown, trembling in the wind.

Zhou Long is no longer the same Brother Long he used to be.

Back when Zhou Long was in Haida, Zhao Fei would pat him on the shoulder and call him "Brother Long" whenever they met. It wasn't because he was ruthless, but because he was loyal. Later, Zhou Long fell out with Zhao Fei over a shipment. Zhang Yang never asked how they fell out, and Zhao Fei never said. All that was known was that Zhou Long was expelled from Haida, lost a leg, and left without anyone to see him off.

Now he runs a repair shop in the village, fixing farm machinery, water pumps, and anything else he can. He earns a living with his skills, supporting his parents. Zhang Yang had heard people say that Zhou Long's skills were good and his prices were fair; people from several nearby villages came to him for repairs.

As the car turned into the village entrance, Zhang Yang spotted it immediately.

A silver-gray Jetta was parked across the street from Zhou Long's parents' house. The parking was deliberate—not directly in front of the gate, but with a clear view of the yard from the driver's seat, and the rearview mirrors were adjusted. Zhang Yang slowed down and drove past the Jetta, glancing at it out of the corner of his eye. No one was inside.

He parked the car at the fork in the road ahead, without turning off the engine.

As soon as I got out of the car, the gate to the courtyard opened. Two women walked out, one with short hair and the other with a ponytail. Their confident gait was immediately apparent—shoulders and backs straight, strides even, and feet almost in a straight line. Ordinary people don't walk like that. Only those who have received professional training do.

The word "doubao" came to mind.

[Target A: Female, short hair, approximately 28-32 years old. Gait analysis—stable center of gravity, controlled arm swing, and straight foot placement. Overall assessment: professionally trained police officer; gait suggests a possible criminal investigation or law enforcement role. Right shoulder slightly lower than left shoulder—indicates a habit of carrying a firearm under the right armpit or at the waist.]

[Target B: Female, ponytail, approximately 25-28 years old. Gait analysis—also professionally trained, but with slightly less experience than A. Uneven weight distribution of items in the bag, heavier on the right side, suggesting the presence of a hard object.]

Zhang Yang stood beside the car, watching the two men get into the Jetta, start it, reverse, and drive out of the village from the other end. A thin layer of dust rose from the rear of the car, slowly settling in the afternoon light.

The police arrived at Zhou Long's place very quickly.

He thought about it and realized it made sense. Wu Jun'er was already dead, and Yang Zhen had withdrawn. The task force now had Gu Yang in their grasp, and following Gu Yang's lead, it was only a matter of time before they reached Zhou Long. He just hadn't expected it to happen so quickly.

Zhang Yang leaned against the car door, threw the cigarette butt on the ground, and crushed it out with the toe of his shoe. He looked in the direction the Jetta had disappeared, and suddenly remembered something.

Police uniform.

He hasn't worn it in a long time.

It's been over a year since he graduated from police academy. For that entire year, he's worn nothing but civilian clothes—jackets, shirts, T-shirts, you name it, except for his police uniform. That uniform is at the bottom of a trunk, wrapped in a plastic bag with a mothball inside. He doesn't know when he'll be able to wear it again, or even if he'll ever be able to.

The gate rang again. Zhang Yang withdrew his gaze, picked up the black cloth bag, and went inside.

Zhou Long's father sat on a small stool by the entrance to the main room, with an enamel basin in front of him containing several pieces of clothing. Hearing footsteps, he looked up, saw Zhang Yang, and his wrinkles twitched, which could be considered a smile.

"Yangzi is here."

Zhang Yang called out "Uncle!" and placed the cloth bag on the table. He glanced into the inner room and casually asked, "Who was that just now?"

The middle-aged man wiped his hands on his apron, stood up, and his eyes flickered. "Nobody, nobody." He turned to pour water, his back to Zhang Yang, and his voice was muffled.

Zhang Yang didn't press the matter. He pushed the bag forward. "Uncle, this is 100,000 yuan. It's from our boss Zhao, so you can live a good life."

The middle-aged man looked at the black cloth bag, reached out and took it, placing it on the corner of the table. He didn't count the contents, nor did he open it; he just left it there. He pressed his finger on the bag, then withdrew it. He said nothing.

A few seconds of silence fell over the main room. The old-fashioned grandfather clock ticked in the corner, its pendulum swinging back and forth. Zhang Yang glanced at the curtain in the inner room—Zhou Long's mother lay on the bed, facing inward, the blanket covering her shoulders. The corner of a black cell phone peeked out from under the pillow, half-buried.

He saw it. The two policewomen must have seen it too.

Zhang Yang stood up. "Then I'll be going now."

The uncle saw him to the door, standing inside the threshold without stepping out. Zhang Yang walked out of the yard and glanced back. The uncle was still standing there, clutching the hand towel in his hand.

Zhang Yang got into the car, started it, shifted gears, and drove out of the village. He didn't drive into the city. He parked the car behind a large locust tree by the roadside, turned off the engine, and took out his phone.

I dialed Qin Liguo's number. It rang three times before he answered.

"Hey Lao Qin, wanna drink tonight?"

Qin Liguo's voice came through the receiver, echoing slightly, as if it were coming from a corridor. "No, no, I have something to do tonight."

"Alright, alright, see you at the usual place then."

Zhang Yang hung up the phone and tossed it onto the passenger seat. "Meet at the usual place"—meaning they needed to meet, but not now; they'd talk about it when it was safe.

He restarted the car and turned onto the highway. Less than five minutes later, the silver-gray Jetta appeared ahead. Zhang Yang eased off the accelerator, increased the distance, and followed at a leisurely pace.

They followed each other through two traffic lights. At the third intersection, the Jetta suddenly changed lanes, turned into a side road, and then slowed down. Zhang Yang didn't follow; instead, he turned the steering wheel, turned into the alley next to it, passed through, and got onto another road.

Was discovered.

Inside the car, Ji Jie gripped the steering wheel, glancing at the rearview mirror. In the mirror, the car that had been following them had turned a corner and disappeared.

"It looked like a car was following us just now."

Tian Rui was rummaging through her notebook in her bag when she looked up at the rearview mirror and then looked back. "No way, I didn't see anything."

Ji Jie glanced at the rearview mirror again to make sure the car hadn't reappeared. She thought for a moment, then looked away. "Maybe I'm just being paranoid. It's nothing."

After going around in circles, Zhang Yang finally found Zhou Long's real residence.

At the eastern end of the village, nestled against a poplar grove, stands a single-story gray-brick house. The yard is small, piled high with several dismantled farm machines; gears and belts soak in a tin basin, the diesel fuel inside gleaming with iridescent colors. Several withered loofah vines climb the yard wall, dried and brown, swaying gently in the wind.

He was late.

The silver-gray Jetta was already parked outside the yard. Zhang Yang parked the car behind a row of poplar trees, got out, and walked through the woods. He found a spot—between two trees where he could see into the yard, but the people inside wouldn't easily see him.

Ji Jie and Tian Rui stood in the courtyard. Zhou Long sat on an overturned tin bucket, a half-disassembled water pump spread out in front of him, and a wrench clutched in his hand. He wore gray work clothes, the cuffs worn shiny, and the right leg of his trousers was empty, tucked up from the knee. His face was much thinner than Zhang Yang remembered, his cheekbones prominent, and his eye sockets sunken. In just over a year, he looked as if something had hollowed him out.

Ji Jie's voice came from the courtyard. "What's up? Came here to live as a hermit?"

Zhou Long didn't look up. He tightened the wrench on the bolt, making a slight metallic scraping sound. "Don't embarrass me."

Ji Jie's gaze fell on his right leg. "Can I see your leg?"

Zhou Long paused for a moment. Then he put down the wrench, wiped the grease off his hands on his pants, bent down, and pulled up his trouser leg. Below the trouser leg was a leg that had grown crookedly, still being held in place with steel bars.

Ji Jie looked at the leg, her voice softening. "How did you get hurt?"

Zhou Long pulled his trousers down and picked up the wrench again. "I hurt myself."

Tian Rui took a step forward. "Was it done by Haida's people?"

Zhou Long's eyes widened in surprise. For a fleeting moment, his expression seemed to be stung by something. Then he looked away, staring at the half-disassembled water pump in front of him, saying nothing.

Ji Jie changed her tone. It wasn't the businesslike question from before; it was slower and more somber. "Back in the day, you were a real hero. The brothers in the underworld all called you Brother Long, not because you were domineering, but because you were loyal."

Zhou Long's wrench stopped in mid-air.

Are you content to live this kind of life now?

Zhou Long placed the wrench on the water pump and rubbed his hands on his knees. He looked up at Ji Jie, his face expressionless, but his voice held a worn-out quality. "Thank you both. I'm used to this kind of life."

Tian Rui's voice rose slightly, carrying the stubbornness characteristic of young people. "Don't you want to bring them to justice?"

Zhou Long shook his head, very slightly, as if he wanted to conserve even the strength to shake his head. "I only ask to live this kind of life, so that no one will bother me for the rest of my life." He looked at Ji Jie, then at Tian Rui, his voice lowered, almost pleading, "I beg you two, please give me a way out."

Ji Jie reached out and stopped Tian Rui. She took a business card from her pocket and bent down to place it on the toolbox next to the water pump. The business card was white, with a few lines of text printed on it, and the edges were stained with oil. "This is my business card. You can contact me if you need anything."

Zhou Long looked at the business card but didn't reach for it. The wrench started turning in his hand again, and the bolt went in inch by inch.

Ji Jie pulled Tian Rui outside. When they reached the courtyard gate, she stopped and turned back.

"Zhou Long, we can stop bothering you. But we will definitely investigate this matter thoroughly."

Zhou Long stopped using the wrench.

"Let me tell you, good will always prevail over evil. Haida can't beat us."

Ji Jie's voice wasn't loud, but every word resonated in the courtyard, on the dismantled farm machinery, and on that empty trouser leg.

"goodbye."

The footsteps faded into the distance. The car door closed, the engine started, and the sound of tires rolling over the dirt road grew fainter and fainter.

In the poplar grove, Zhang Yang leaned against a tree trunk, waiting. Only when the sound of Jetta had completely disappeared, and only the rustling of the wind through the poplar leaves remained, did he emerge from the grove.

The courtyard gate was open. Zhou Long was still sitting on the overturned tin bucket, the water pump still disassembled, the wrench still clutched in his hand. The white business card on the toolbox was gone.

Zhang Yang walked into the courtyard, his footsteps neither light nor heavy. Zhou Long heard the footsteps and looked up, first pausing for a moment, then a smile appeared on his face—not a polite smile, but the kind of genuine smile one has to keep when someone they haven't seen in a long time suddenly appears in front of them.

"Yangzi, you've arrived."

He put down the wrench and stood up. His movement was a little clumsy; he shifted his weight slightly to the left before regaining his balance. Zhang Yang noticed that his right hand unconsciously moved towards his pocket—where a corner of a white business card peeked out.

"It's alright, Brother Long, I saw that business card," Zhang Yang said.

Zhou Long's hand froze. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but no words came out.

Zhang Yang shook his head, his tone casual, as if he were talking about something insignificant. "But I won't say anything."

Zhou Long looked down at his hand, which was covered in engine oil. "I..."

"It's really nothing, Brother Long." Zhang Yang interrupted him, his voice not loud but very sincere, "Back when I joined Haida, you were the one who mentored me."

Zhou Long fell silent. He stood there, his empty trouser leg swaying slightly in the wind. A few poplar leaves fell from the yard, swirling down and landing on the half-dismantled water pump.

Zhang Yang glanced at the pile of farm machinery parts in the yard—disassembled gears, pulleys, and bearings, covered in engine oil and rust, but all cleaned and arranged in a row according to size. He looked away.

"Mr. Zhao... is there something you need to talk to me about?" Zhou Long asked.

Zhang Yang shook his head. "It's nothing, he just asked me to come and check on you."

He paused for two seconds, as if hesitating whether to continue. Then he spoke, his tone casual, as if he had suddenly remembered something. "I have to go soon too. A shipment is arriving tomorrow—a few guns and fifteen kilograms of flour." He sighed, a hint of frustration in his voice, "It's giving me a real headache."

Zhou Long's expression changed.

In that instant, his pupils contracted, and his fingers gripping the wrench tightened involuntarily. Zhang Yang saw it. The name "Doubao" surfaced in his mind.

Zhou Long expressed surprise. He was taken aback by your initiative in revealing information about this shipment. He also appeared tense—his fingers tightened, and his breathing became shallow.

Zhang Yang's lips curled slightly. He didn't say anything more, turned around and walked out of the courtyard. After a few steps, he stopped and turned his head to the side.

"I have to go now, I need to pick up Fei-ge. We're going out in a couple of days."

He paused.

"Take good care of yourself then."

His gaze shifted from Zhou Long's face to the direction of his trouser pocket.

"Here's the business card. Keep it safe."

Zhou Long stood there, still clutching the wrench in his hand. He watched Zhang Yang walk out of the yard, cross the dirt road, and disappear into the poplar grove.

The wind rustled the poplar leaves.

Zhou Long looked down at his hands. The engine oil had dried into the lines of his skin, black and the kind that couldn't be washed off no matter how many times he washed it. He placed the wrench on the water pump and took the business card out of his pocket.

There was a little engine oil on the business card, but the handwriting was still legible—Ji Jie, Major Crimes Unit Six.

He stared at it for a long time. The shadows of the poplar leaves fell on his hand, sometimes bright, sometimes dark, sometimes bright, sometimes dark.

Then he picked up his phone and dialed the number on the business card.