The Security Guard

The humid heat of late July in Wengcheng felt like a damp, sticky shroud.

By 10:00 PM, the streets were nearly deserted. Streetlights spaced sixty meters apart traced faint, pale yellow arcs along the road—resembling locks of golden hair fallen from the heavens, winding and ethereal.

The dirt roads on the outskirts were riddled with potholes, but the SUV’s suspension held firm, making for a steady ride. It was so steady, in fact, that even the sound of breathing seemed to grow coarse in the silence.

Liu Huisheng leaned back in the passenger seat, her voluminous hair draped over her chest, subtly outlining her elegant silhouette. She was exhausted. From rushing to the fire scene at 4:00 AM to interrogating Wang Dalong, taking statements from Xu Qin and Jiang Wenbin, hauling Jiang back to the station, and finally getting into it with Qin Song—she hadn’t had a moment’s rest. After the day’s verbal fencing, the car moving through the darkness felt like a long road toward mental purification.

In the driver’s seat, Zhao Yu steered with one hand. Her shirt sleeves were rolled up, revealing wrist bones that protruded like pearls beneath the fabric. As she navigated a sharp turn, transitioning from the dirt track to smooth asphalt, the atmosphere in the car seemed to level out as well. Her thin lips moved as she spoke:

“When a new method appears, those who rely on the old ways will always resist.”

She was referring to Qin Song. He had built a successful career on traditional investigative techniques; hearing Liu Huisheng’s profiling methods was a bitter pill for him to swallow.

Liu Huisheng kept her head turned toward the window, her eyelashes fluttering slightly at the sound of Zhao Yu’s voice.

“It’s normal. There isn’t even a formal position for a profiler in all of Wengcheng. The system hasn’t accepted the profession yet; it’s unrealistic to expect the people within the system to be the first to embrace it.”

Sometimes, Liu Huisheng’s rationality was almost frightening. On her second day, she had been isolated by senior staff and pushed into a high-stakes “whoever solves it first” wager. Yet, despite the professional and emotional pressure, she could detach herself and categorize Qin Song’s hostility as a “normal phenomenon.”

“The Major Crimes Unit has always been a place where results speak loudest. Once this case is cracked, they’ll see you differently,” Zhao Yu said.

Liu Huisheng watched the blurred lights racing past outside. Her eyelids drooped, but her ears were perked, carefully gauging Zhao Yu’s reaction.

“And you?”

She didn’t recline her seat, choosing to sit upright at the same level as the driver.

Tick-tock… tick-tock…

The turn signal beat out a rhythmic tempo. After the turn, the lever snapped back, and silence returned to the cabin until Zhao Yu spoke again:

“I am the Captain. I have only one requirement: solve the case.”

A smile played on Liu Huisheng’s lips. She turned to look at her. “What I’m curious about is… you also use traditional methods. Why didn’t you go with your team? Or was it because you saw me standing all alone and felt sorry for me?”

“Do you really think I’m the type to ‘topple kingdoms for a pretty face’?”

“Aren’t you?” Huisheng asked pointedly.

“That was a long time ago,” Zhao Yu replied, the car slowing down.

“And now?”

“As a detective, I have my own judgment. The surveillance caught the guard coming back from outside. He is definitely connected to this case.”

“I see.”

Liu Huisheng fell silent, unsure of how to summarize her feelings. She was both happy and sad. Happy because Zhao Yu had become the exceptional detective she had always dreamed of being. Sad because Zhao Yu’s decision to stand against her old teammates was apparently nothing more than a professional calculation.

As if sensing her thoughts, Zhao Yu’s fingers twitched on the steering wheel. She added:

“After all this time, how could my mind still be stuck on you?”

The streetlights on the asphalt road were much brighter than those on the dirt path, illuminating a green-painted mailbox by the road until it shone. It was a stark reminder of a forgotten era; no one wrote physical letters anymore.

“Zhao Yu, you’re really being a bad girl right now.”

The accelerator was pressed down hard, signaling someone’s displeasure.

“I am your Captain.”

Liu Huisheng ignored the warning. Her eyes remained fixed on Zhao Yu, picking up where she left off. “When you talk to me, you have no expression at all. I can’t tell if you’re lying.”

Zhao Yu squeezed her eyes shut for a brief second. She knew Liu Huisheng was a nine-tailed fox; every tail moved with a life of its own, possessed of a thousand ways to stir the depths of her heart.

“Tomorrow, when we question the guard, save that analytical energy for him. Maybe then we’ll actually solve this.”

The light turned green, and the black car glided along the winding road toward the quiet residential area. The sky was full of stars; the sea was silent.

********************************************

Li Changcheng, 49 years old, security guard at Greenlight Kindergarten.

According to staff files: divorced, single, no children. He lived in the security booth provided by the kindergarten. After the fire broke out, he actively participated in the rescue but was struck by a falling, charred window frame. His right leg was fractured, and the wound had become infected, causing a high fever.

It was 10:00 AM the next day when Li Changcheng finally woke up. When Zhao Yu and Liu Huisheng entered the ward, he was holding a glass of water a nurse had poured for him. He was thin, with a light stubble and dark circles under his eyes. The veins on the back of his hands protruded like dried-up riverbeds in a desert.

“I was asleep that night. By the time I woke up and saw the fire, it was already huge. I called for help immediately. Officers, you saw it yourselves—I got hurt trying to save people. I really don’t have anything else to tell you.”

Zhao Yu and Liu Huisheng sat on the stools by the bed. Zhao Yu led the questioning while Liu Huisheng focused on his expressions.

“You were on duty that night. Did you see anyone suspicious?” Zhao Yu asked.

“No.”

“What time did you go to sleep?”

“I don’t remember.” His eyes were locked on Zhao Yu, his lips pulling inward before pressing into a thin line. “Maybe around 11:00 PM.”

Beneath the table, Liu Huisheng’s foot lightly tapped Zhao Yu’s shoe—He’s lying.

Zhao Yu took the cue. “You were on duty. How could you be sleeping?”

Li’s grip on the water glass tightened. His voice remained flat. “Officer, you’re here, so you must have checked me. I’m nearly fifty. I can’t pull all-nighters like the kids anymore. Yes, I fell asleep and delayed the response. If you want to arrest me or fine me, I’ve got nothing to say.”

His story was polished. It seemed he had used the time before the police arrived to prepare his defense.

“Li Changcheng, this statement is being recorded. I suggest you be honest,” Zhao Yu warned for the first time.

Li leaned into his “old-timer” persona. “Officer, my fever hasn’t even broken and I’m talking to you. How much more honest can I be?”

Zhao Yu reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out the printed surveillance photo—the one showing the crowd forcing the gate, with a man’s back to the camera and a silver glint on his shoulder.

“Why did you leave the premises that night? Why did you desert your post?”

Li Changcheng’s body went rigid. His hand froze around the glass. After licking his lips twice, he set the glass on the nightstand and interlaced his fingers. He said nothing.

Zhao Yu’s voice turned icy. “Because you left, the killer was able to slip in. Children are dead. Think carefully before you speak. Tell the truth.”

Li Changcheng let out a heavy sigh. His jaw tightened, the muscles between his brows contracted, and he rubbed his face hard with both hands. He looked back at Zhao Yu.

“I was hungry. I went out for a bite.”

“To eat what?”

“Barbecue.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“You were gone for over an hour between the start of the fire and your return. That’s a long meal.”

“The stall owner is a friend. We had a few drinks and chatted. Officer, believe me, I really didn’t know a fire would start…”

Li went on at length, describing the barbecue in detail and insisting he had nothing to do with the arson. He kept his eyes fixed on Zhao Yu nearly the entire time. When he finished, Liu Huisheng finally spoke:

“You didn’t go for barbecue.”

Li blinked. “What?” He stammered, “I just told you I was eating barbecue.”

Liu Huisheng tilted her chin up slightly and let out a small sigh, pointing out the glaring flaws present from the moment they walked in.

“When a normal person tells a story, their eyes move. They look away to recall details or think. But you? You’ve been staring at Officer Zhao the whole time. People only do that when they’re manufacturing a lie; they’re so unsure of their own story that they have to monitor the other person’s reaction to see if they’re being believed. So, I know you didn’t go for a midnight snack.

Furthermore, when Officer Zhao asked why you went out, your subconscious reaction was your only honest one. You put the glass down and clasped your hands—that showed you were holding back. When she told you your absence led to the children’s deaths, you covered your face with both hands. That indicates extreme shame. Normal guilt is usually a single hand over the eyes or brow. Both hands suggest you feel something deeper than regret. You feel humiliated.”

Then came the verdict, sharp as a guillotine.

“You went out to see a prostitute.”

The words hit like a thunderclap, tearing a rift in the room’s atmosphere. Dark, heavy silence surged from the crack, like restless ghosts escaping on a haunted night.