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Feng Xin has several ‘happiest days of his life’, where he was overjoyed, happier than he ever thought he could be, practically bursting with it. There was the day he and Xie Lian met Mu Qing and the three of them became friends; when he graduated college; when he made detective; his wedding to Jian Lan; and the day Cuo Cuo was born. These are the days and the moments that stand out the most in his mind whenever he tries to think of the good times, when depression and fatigue are dragging him down and he needs to think of something positive lest he crash. He has a lot of mementos that remind him of those times, too, though the happiness captured by them may be blunted or tarnished by what has happened since.
Feng Xin has several happiest days, but he only has two worst days. The two days when the world collapsed around him, when his focus tunneled into the phone in his hand and his mother’s voice in his ear telling him Xie Lian didn’t come home last week . When he held the divorce papers Jian Lan gave him, staring at the line she’d pointed to, the one he had to sign to completely dissolve the relationship they’d had for the past seven years - or ten, if you counted the three they were together before the marriage.
He’d always told himself he’d never be so horribly caught off guard again. That he’d fight tooth and nail to keep from every feeling the way he did then. He’d never put himself in another position where he lost everything in the blink of an eye.
But Feng Xin, as Jian Lan can attest, has never been good at keeping his promises, not even to himself. He never sees the final piece until it’s already in place.
A phone call. A stack of papers.
An empty desk at the library and a note inside Feng Xin’s jacket, written in Mu Qing’s handwriting.
---
Feng Xin had thought, after last night, that the whole matter of Mu Qing trying to head off on his own was done. He’d convinced Mu Qing to stay, rather than be a fucking idiot and go off on his own where No Face could find him alone, without Feng Xin there to protect him. He’d thought Mu Qing would keep his promise.
He’d even held him, last night. Tried to keep him in place. Feng Xin knows it because he’d woken up at some point to find his mouth full of hair, and when he tried to pull away to spit it out the hands twined with his held him fast. He was holding Mu Qing, and Mu Qing was holding back, and Feng Xin had thought, Good. Stay here. You belong here.
He’d fallen asleep again, after shifting his face enough that the danger of suffocation decreased, and believed it was done.
Clearly he’d been a fucking moron, because Mu Qing hadn’t ever intended on staying. That much is obvious when Feng Xin returns from the dirty library bathroom to find their table empty of all but his things. At first he assumes that Mu Qing has gone somewhere to get them some water or something to drink, except Mu Qing wouldn’t leave Feng Xin’s bag unattended like that only to take his own. He’d have taken both, and snapped that he was being careful if Feng Xin got annoyed over it. Or he would’ve been nice for once in his fucking life and waited for Feng Xin to come back before getting up to get something, not bothering to ask Feng Xin what he wanted yet always bringing back exactly the right thing anyway--
No, Mu Qing is gone. A frantic search to figure out which pocket he put his cellphone in this time reveals the note. Feng Xin reads it through twice before he tears it to shreds, gritting his teeth so hard his teeth ache as he slams the remains into the nearest trash can. He throws his bag onto the table, upending its contents onto the surface, phone to his ear while he angrily spreads the documents and files around. It’s all there, just as he knew it would be, because why would the fucking master psychic detective need to take any of the profile or case info with him on his idiotic suicide attempt? No, no, he’s too smart for that, he can handle it, he’s just going to walk right into the lion’s den and get himself killed and be a smug motherfucker about it the whole goddamn time.
Mu Qing doesn’t answer his call. Feng Xin doesn’t bother leaving a message, simply hanging up and dialing again.
And again. And again. The dial tone mocks him, ringing and ringing with no end in sight until he hears Mu Qing’s stupid, smarmy voice tell him to leave a message.
“Excuse me, sir?” A timid voice startles him, has him whipping around toward the source - a small librarian who immediately takes a step backward when their eyes meet.
“I’m sorry, sir, but you’re disturbing the other patrons…” she continues bravely, though Feng Xin swears he can see her knees shake. He glances back at the table and realizes that he’s made a mess of the table, neat paperwork now strewn everywhere. There’s a hunk of hair in his eyes from where it’s fallen out of his already messy bun; he’s vaguely aware that he’s been trying Mu Qing’s phone for the past five minutes, and with every call ignored he’s been making frustrated growling noises into the receiver before he tries again. Even through the red haze that fills his mind, he knows this isn’t proper library behavior, even for a dingy hole-in-the-wall like this.
“Oh, I’m. Sorry. Let me clean up and I’ll be out of your hair.” He puts the phone away, shoving the hair out of his eyes and giving her an unconvincing smile. It seems to appease her, at least, as she nods and retreats to the library desk, leaving him alone to clean up the mess he’s made.
The papers get thrown back into the bag without any of the organization Mu Qing had given them. Feng Xin doesn’t care about the files anymore; he’s read them over so many times he could probably recite them in his sleep. No, this isn’t the time for studying or going over old crime scenes anymore. It’s time to finally fucking do something , to grab No Face by the balls and shake him until he tells Feng Xin where Mu Qing and Xie Lian are.
Because, Mu Qing’s note informed him, Xie Lian is alive. That’s why No Face is so angry. Or so the Powers That Be have said.
Feng Xin leaves the library in a rush, throwing his bag so hard into the back of his car that the papers stuffed inside explode all over the backseat. He slams the driver’s door closed, preparing to peel out of the parking lot and chase Mu Qing down, except.
Except he has no idea where Mu Qing has gone, or how he’s getting there.
Feng Xin sits with his hands curled around the steering wheel. He’s panting, the air sharp and cold in his lungs, great gulping breaths that don’t seem to bring his screaming brain any oxygen. His vision grays at the corners, as if he might pass out, though of course he won’t. He can’t. He’s already wasted enough time.
There are bus stops nearby; Feng Xin saw them on the way in, sees them now from where he sits in the library parking lot. Mu Qing might have taken a bus, but Feng Xin doesn’t know which direction he went. Or he might’ve called a cab; what if he did this morning, when Feng Xin was in the bathroom at the motel? What if there was one waiting here for him when they arrived, just out of sight around the corner, for Mu Qing to slide into while Feng Xin was distracted?
Was last night really when Mu Qing decided to leave, or has he been planning on this from the beginning?
Feng Xin’s thoughts swirl in his head, pressing against his skull, an agonizing throb that beats in time with his pulse. He tries to take a deep breath, let it out slowly, eyes squeezing shut as he rests his forehead on the steering wheel. The cold hard surface helps him regain some focus.
Things he knows: Mu Qing is gone. No Face has been following him for years, ever since he started investigating the killings and Xie Lian’s disappearance. Clearly, he’s been calling, leaving threatening messages, much the same as he used to when Feng Xin was still on the case. Mu Qing never had any intent to tell Feng Xin, the same way Xie Lian never told either of them about what he was experiencing. No, Feng Xin had to find that out for himself while working on Xie Lian’s missing persons report, the same way he had to find out by picking up Mu Qing’s phone.
He feels something hot and wet on his cheeks, dimly realizes he’s crying. It only incites him further, scattering whatever control he’s been gaining over his thoughts. There are only one or two other cars in the small parking lot attached to this library, so no one should notice when he slams his fist repeatedly on the dashboard, or hear when he starts shouting.
“I’m a fucking cop!” he screams at the windshield. “A cop! They’re supposed to tell me this shit, what’s the FUCKING POINT IF THEY DON’T TRUST ME?!”
His voice breaks on the last word, and he punches the dashboard one last time, his fist bruised and throbbing. He barely notices, angrily swiping his face with his sleeve before finally turning on his car and getting the fuck away from this place.
His next stop is going to be one of the scenes. He doesn’t even have to think about it; if Mu Qing is trying to take No Face down himself, it makes sense that he’d revisit one of No Face’s dump sites, where No Face would be sure to look for him. The problem comes with which one . Would he go to the tenth site, the next on their schedule anyway? Feng Xin immediately scratches that idea; it would be too obvious. Mu Qing doesn’t want Feng Xin with him, he wouldn’t follow the order they’ve been using.
So then what. The eleventh? Twelfth? Thirteenth, or fourteenth? Those sites had been the boldest in their locations before No Face suddenly stopped killing. No other victims appeared bearing his M.O., the detectives across the state no longer received mocking phone calls or typed letters - he simply vanished, leaving fourteen bodies and no answers to the questions that haunted those who’d worked the case. Especially since, in those last few murders, No Face almost seemed to de-escalate, like he was growing bored of slaughtering these look-alikes, like it was too easy to dump a corpse somewhere like a public park and get away with it.
No. It won’t be those sites, either. They held nothing for No Face, not really. Weeks of witnessing Mu Qing ‘connecting’ with a site have told him that much; some sites meant more to No Face.
He finds himself turning down the roads leading to that old farmhouse before the conclusion even forms in his mind. Mu Qing had said No Face was angry, there, that the murder and the burning had been almost ritualistic. There was the circle burned into the floor that the detectives had missed, that Feng Xin had been too weak to stay and notice himself. Mu Qing had felt things so strongly in that hollowed-out building he’d collapsed, so surely, surely that’s where he’d go in order to catch No Face’s attention. He had a head start on Feng Xin, he could get a rental car, he could get out here and be here and Feng Xin can find him, shake some sense into him--
Feng Xin grits his teeth as he pulls up alongside it, parking in the remains of the dirt driveway. His eyes itch from tears that have long dried, his head aching and stomach twisted. After several long minutes of sitting there and staring at charred, broken beams, he finally forces himself out of the car.
No Face wouldn’t kill Mu Qing, even if he had caught him already. And he certainly wouldn’t dump the body at the same site as a different victim.
Still, when Feng Xin steps inside and finds the place completely empty, an overwhelming sense of relief mixes with despair. Mu Qing’s not here. No one is. The place looks the same as when they’d left it a few days ago.
Feng Xin doesn’t care that the floor is dirty and scorched, ashes remaining scattered about even all these years later. His legs give way beneath him and he ends up sitting on the floor with his head in his hands, his dry sobs the only sound beyond the whistle of wind through broken eaves.
---
“Feng Xin,” the chief’s secretary had called out when he came back to the precinct that day. “There’s a call for you on line two.”
Feng Xin’s partner had jostled him with his shoulder, the tired grin and sparkle in his eyes mocking him for the assumed extra work such a call would be bringing. Feng Xin, ignoring the ache in his ass and back, had shoved his friend back and gone to get the phone, dread already pooling in his stomach. A long day on patrol had left them both exhausted and he wasn’t looking forward another assignment that would have him clocking out late and heading home to an earful from Jian Lan.
He got a shock when a woman’s voice said, “Honey? Is that you? I’m sorry for calling you at work, but I hadn’t heard from you so I thought that maybe you didn’t know.”
“Mom?” His partner, across the room, raised his eyebrow at Feng Xin. “Mom, what’s wrong? Didn’t know what?”
“Honey…” His mother’s voice wavered, and it hit him that something was very, very wrong. “It’s about Xie Lian. I was just talking to his mother earlier and she told me...A-Xin, Xie Lian didn’t come home last week. Nobody’s heard from him since. Unless--has he spoken with you lately?”
Has he spoken with you lately? Those words would haunt Feng Xin for the next week as he began the paperwork for a missing persons report, as he began investigating into the fact that Xie Lian had seemingly vanished. Day went by, and no matter who he called, where he went, who he spoke to, nobody had seen Xie Lian or seemed to know where he could be.
Has he spoken with you lately? They hadn’t spoken for...at least a month. Maybe longer. Time flew by so quickly when Feng Xin was working, weeks would pass before he realized. And he kept thinking he’d make time, that he’d call up and visit with Xie Lian, with his other old pals, but he just. He never did. There were cases and overtime and getting home to try and scrabble together something edible for dinner because Jian Lan worked, too, and she wasn’t his fucking maid, as she had reminded him on more than one occasion when he stupidly assumed some household chore would automatically be taken care of by her.
And when he did have free time, he spent it with her, of course, because they barely saw each other during the week so the weekends were for dinners and relaxing and sex.
But he told himself he’d make time. It would only take ten minutes to give Xie Lian a call, to see how he was doing. Ten minutes out of his day; that was practically nothing.
He never did call.
And then Xie Lian was gone.
It only got worse when he started investigating. Evidence of numerous phone calls from payphones that only lasted maybe a minute, mentions of visits to the police station about a prowler that paperwork was never filed on, Xie Lian’s mother’s quietly murmured fear that someone had been watching her son, as he seemed so paranoid and distracted lately. All these little clues that built up to the conclusion that someone had been stalking Xie Lian for weeks before his disappearance.
All these things that Feng Xin should have noticed, or at least, would have, if he wasn’t so fucking busy all the time. But the most frustrating part was that Xie Lian hadn’t breathed a word of it to anyone.
Nobody knew about it, though the hints in the things they said were there. A neighbor noticing some disturbed dirt near Xie Lian’s apartment complex. A mother’s worry over her son’s odd behavior. A coworker who thought Xie Lian spent a lot of time glancing out the windows when it got dark and they were closing. Feng Xin kept a record of it all, kept adding to his notes even when the usual window for a kidnapping closed, and no body turned up.
“He could’ve run away or something,” Feng Xin’s partner said at one point. Feng Xin gave a non-committal noise and dismissed the idea immediately.
“What do you mean, stalked? ” That had been Mu Qing, when Feng Xin finally got around to calling him about it. They hadn’t seen each other in a while either, but Feng Xin hadn’t felt as shitty about that. Mu Qing never liked him; he was probably happy for the separation.
“Just what I said, numbnuts. Someone was stalking Xie Lian; all the proof’s there. I don’t know if the guy has anything to do with his disappearance, but--”
“I would have noticed,” Mu Qing interrupted, and Feng Xin’s temper flared.
“Oh, and I wouldn’t have? Who’s the fucking cop here!” Feng Xin fumed. He was hiding in the garage for this call, knowing that if Jian Lan heard him yelling into the phone she’d just tell him to hang up. “You’re just some blogger.”
“ Just some --?! Are you fucking kidding me?!”
The conversation ended without any new information, and Feng Xin nearly threw the phone onto the concrete floor when Mu Qing hung up on him mid-sentence. He didn’t know why he’d expected any differently. Mu Qing would rather insult him and say it was his own fault for not realizing over actually providing useful info.
Two years passed without a word of or from Xie Lian. Feng Xin chased a few leads, a few tips that seemed like they might lead to something, and was always disappointed. He was nowhere to be found. Everyone in the department figured the same thing they always did on cases like these: either he’d gone off the grid and didn’t want anybody to find him or his body would turn up eventually.
Nobody said either of these things to Feng Xin.
Not even when the first corpse turned up in their hometown, the body that would become the first confirmed kill of the serial killer later dubbed No Face. The detectives on the scene had even parted for him when Feng Xin arrived, nobody brave enough to look him in the face, to tell him what was in store.
It wasn’t Xie Lian, of course. None of them ended up being Xie Lian.
But they sure as hell looked like him.
---
“You’ve gotta be joking. ” Feng Xin groans, slumping in his seat and impatiently drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. The cars in front of him remain in a gridlock despite how much he glares at them, the whirling blue and red lights ahead giving a pretty big hint as to why the highway’s as backed up as it is.
The tractor trailer that’s fallen over on its side in a diagonal from the left lane over the shoulder and into the grass is a pretty good indicator, too.
Police are directing traffic through the gap in the right lane where the trailer ends and the highway divider begins, which means they won’t be stopped here until the tractor trailer’s cleaned up, at least. Still, it’s rush hour, and this two-lane highway is fairly well traveled, which means it’s gonna take a really long fucking time anyway for Feng Xin to be able to shimmy past the block and onto more open road.
He’s been in this jam for an hour already. His frustration mounts with every passing minute he’s stuck here, and so does the temptation to bring out his light and plow his way through as an unmarked police vehicle. The only thing that stops him is the very long lecture he got last time he pulled something like that.
Two days have passed since Mu Qing ran off, and every nerve in Feng Xin feels like it’s pulled taut. Ever little inconvenience, every moment wasted, makes him want to put his fist through a wall. He’s been checking all fourteen dump sites over and over again, running back and forth across the countryside, thinking he has to have come here, I must have just missed him every time he turns up to find nothing. He’s driven his phone to death several times just by eating up the battery with phone calls that go unanswered, he’s trying not to think of how much money he’s spent on gas or how many miles he’s put on his car, and still, there’s no sign of Mu Qing. It’s like he’s gone the way of Xie Lian, disappeared without a trace.
Except this time Feng Xin likes to think he’s got more to go on, so if that asshole thinks he’s going to stay gone, he’s got another thing coming.
Traffic edges forward another foot, and Feng Xin squeezes the steering wheel to vent some of his restlessness before reaching for his coffee cup. This is the fourth one he’s had since he got on the road this morning, and it’s almost gone already. He knows he shouldn’t have this much, but considering he’s slept maybe an hour the past two nights, the buzz of caffeine in his veins is the only thing keeping him going. When he drains this cup, he moves to toss it in the back of his car; but the memory of Mu Qing’s mocking reprimands has him shoving it into the bag he’s started keeping for car trash instead, his scowl deepening.
He’s finally been given the go ahead to inch his way around the downed tractor trailer when his phone starts ringing, a steady, sharp sound that reverberates inside his car. He nearly shoves his foot onto the pedal in his haste to grab the bluetooth headset he’d set aside on the divider between the seats, jamming it onto his head and pressing the button to answer the call.
His heart hammers in his ears when he hears it connect, when he says, “Feng Xin,” every sense straining to hear that stupid, snotty voice--
“Hey, it’s me.” Jian Lan’s voice comes through the headset, and Feng Xin has to swallow hard, pushing down the disappointment that rises like bile in his throat. “Where have you been? Didn’t you get my message?”
Feng Xin winces, immediately remembering said message, which he had gotten and planned on returning the call, only to completely forget about it. The moment of silence that results from this realization seems to be expected, as he hears Jian Lan sigh.
“I’ve been busy,” he protests immediately, which earns him another sigh.
“Fine. Are you coming to A-Cuo’s hockey game next week or not? And, if you can, ask Mu Qing to come, too. A-Cuo wants to show him his new hook shot.”
Feng Xin’s pulse, which had only just been beginning to settle, falters. In all the frantic searching after Mu Qing disappeared, he hadn’t allowed himself to think of how he was going to explain this to Jian Lan and A-Cuo; his son had come to expect Mu Qing to accompany Feng Xin when he visited, and asking for Mu Qing to see one of his games was a big deal for a boy who usually didn’t like anyone but his mother.
It was Mu Qing’s own fault that he was a selfish moron. Feng Xin was still the one who’d have to deal with the fallout of Cuo Cuo’s disappointment.
“Feng Xin?” Jian Lan interrupts his thoughts, makes him realize he hasn’t answered for a solid minute. “You’re not going to be stubborn about this, are you? You and Mu Qing don’t have to get along; it’s not about you--”
“That’s not it. I don’t care if he comes.” In fact, he would’ve enjoyed it. Mu Qing loosens up considerably around Cuo Cuo, even smiles , and Cuo Cuo clearly likes him. “It’s...I don’t know if he can come.”
“Oh. Well, it couldn’t hurt to ask him anyway. A-Cuo’s really got his heart set on showing off his new trick.”
This is the nicest Jian Lan’s been in making a request of him in a long time, which goes to show how important this is to Cuo Cuo. How much it’ll break his heart when he looks into the stands and sees his shitty dad instead of the man he actually wants to impress.
Feng Xin’s far enough away from the accident now that traffic is moving smoothly, so it’s easy to guide his car onto the shoulder, put on his hazard lights and park there. He won’t be able to drive while he’s telling her this, hands-free headset or not. His body feels loose, jittering itself to pieces, his hands trembling slightly as he scrubs them down his face.
“Mu Qing’s gone.” Putting it into words is more difficult than it should be, and the confession scrapes its way up his throat, leaving him hoarse. “He ran off the other day.” I fucked up. “While we were working on the No Face murders. He went off to catch the guy on his own.” He didn’t trust me enough to stay.
There’s a beat where Jian Lan doesn’t say anything. Feng Xin leans back in his seat, head tilted back as he lets out a huff of air. He wishes he had more coffee. He wishes he had more coffee, but spiked with bourbon, the way he used to make on the weekends.
“I see.” Jian Lan’s tone is careful. “You haven’t been able to get in touch with him at all?”
“No. I’ve been calling and calling and he just--ignores me. It always goes to voicemail. I found out No Face has been stalking him, and he bolted the next day. He could be dead in a fucking ditch for all I know, it’s been two days, who knows what’s happened to him--”
“Hey, hey! I understand that you’re worried, but yelling at me isn’t going to help anything!”
“I wasn’t yelling!” Feng Xin insists, his voice even louder, before he lets out a hissed breath. “Okay, yeah, sorry.”
“Good.” He hears rustling noises, like Jian Lan is sitting down; maybe in her living room. Cuo Cuo must not be home, or he’d hear some sort of commotion accompanying her movements. “Now, tell me what the hell you’re talking about. No Face has been stalking Mu Qing?”
Feng Xin chews his cheek, then recounts what happened two days ago, how he’d picked up Mu Qing’s phone, what he’d heard, how Mu Qing had gone off on him about it and said he was going to leave before supposedly changing his mind. How they’d gone to the library and Mu Qing had slipped out while Feng Xin was in the bathroom. How Feng Xin has been spending the days since searching everywhere and calling, calling, calling, receiving no answers or explanations. He tries not to lace his account with any expletives or rants on how much of a worthless fucking dipshit Mu Qing is, knowing it’s a blessing that Jian Lan is even asking him about this at all, and so his steering wheel ends up taking the brunt of his rage, his hands twisting and pulling at it until his palms are rubbed raw from the material.
When he finishes, there’s no immediate response on the other line. The silence stretches for so long that Feng Xin wonders if Jian Lan hung up on him while he was talking, taking advantage of the fact that he was too busy telling her the story to notice.
Eventually, though, she says, “You really love him, huh.”
It’s not even in the ballpark of the answer he was expecting. “ What? ”
“I think you should get your precinct involved. This No Face is a monster, and if Mu Qing’s gone after him, you’re going to need backup. You can’t go in there alone.” Jian Lan crisply enunciates the last sentence. “You can’t. Wherever Mu Qing is, if you run in there by yourself, which I know you want to, you’re only get yourself killed and Mu Qing will be in worse trouble.”
“That’s not--I’m a trained detective! I can handle myself!”
“Not against this guy you can’t, especially not when you’re...what did you used to call it? Emotionally compromised?”
“ Emotionally --” He sputters, his brain whirling as it tries to keep up with the twists and turns Jian Lan keeps taking him down. “I know how to do my job! I can handle this!”
“Not on your own you can’t.” Jian Lan’s voice softens, which only serves to throw him for an even bigger loop. “We were together for almost ten years, Feng Xin. I know you. You’ll do anything to protect someone you care about, no matter what it does to them. This time, you need to slow down and think. ”
There are so many things wrong with this that Feng Xin feels the rebuttal building up on his tongue, a pileup of too many thoughts, too many words, so that he can’t get any of them out by the time he hears a loud slam in the background and the excited, muffled voice of his son. He can’t even get out a wait a second before Jian Lan is saying,
“A-Cuo’s home; I’ve gotta go. Keep me updated.”
She hangs up, and Feng Xin is left gaping at the windshield, her words chasing each other around his mind. Yes, he had planned on busting in on No Face, saving Mu Qing, and wrapping up the case all in one fell swoop, but the rest of it. For her to say he had, what, feelings for Mu Qing? To imply he couldn’t handle this because of it? Was she high?
He turns off the hazard lights, puts his blinker on so he can pull back onto the highway. He’s got a ways to go before he reaches the next dump site on his route. He’s absolutely not going to call for backup; it would only be a waste of man hours and tax dollars, like the original task force was. No, he can - and will - find Mu Qing on his own.
The road remains clear for the next several hours. Feng Xin turns on an oldies station and concentrates on humming along to the songs he knows, trying to put Jian Lan’s assurances out of his mind. Mu Qing is going to be at one of these dump sites, he knows he is, and Feng Xin is going to find him. And if that doesn’t work, he can always put out an APB, and someone will find Mu Qing. Even if it isn’t him.
The thought sours his stomach, his appetite dwindling to nothing by the time he pulls into a roadside gas station. It’s dark out, which means he’s going to have to find a place to stay the night so he can check on the sites tomorrow; Mu Qing never went to a site at night, no matter how often Feng Xin said a stakeout could catch No Face making a nostalgic visit. As he stands next to his car, fuel nozzle in hand, he pulls out his cell and punches in Mu Qing’s number. He doesn’t even have to look up the contact info anymore; he knows it by heart, now.
The ringing goes on for ages, and though he knows the likely outcome, Feng Xin can’t help the familiar hope, the way he imagines hearing the line connect, as if thinking about it hard enough will make it a reality. When the call goes to voicemail, he lets out a snarl and nearly chucks it across the parking lot.
“Son of a bitch. ” He kicks his tire, hard, welcoming the jolt of pain it sends up his leg. When the pump cuts off, indicating that his tank is full, he splatters fuel all over the ground by jerking the nozzle out, continuing to growl curses under his breath.
Dread mixes with the anger in his gut. He replaces the nozzle, shoving his hands in his pockets and making his way to the station building to pay.
“You really love him, huh.”
“Like hell I do,” he grumbles.
---
The call had to be a mistake. After all these years, what the fuck did Mu Qing want with him?
And the way he worded it, the way he asked for this meeting - no, Feng Xin couldn’t even call it asking. Mu Qing had called and given the meetup details with full confidence that Feng Xin would show up. No matter how many times Feng Xin replayed the brief conversation in his mind, he couldn’t find an actual question. Mu Qing just expected him to drop everything and go to some fucking pier to talk about a case he wasn’t even working on anymore. It was a case that nobody was working on anymore, and Feng Xin didn't have time to go running around after lost causes when he had a desk full of current case files to work on.
He thought about telling Mu Qing to shove his meeting up his ass, but in the end, he figured he had nothing to lose. That case still haunted him; still haunted half his precinct. If Mu Qing really did have some sort of lead…
That was how he found himself out on this pier at the lakeside, the wind tugging at his jacket and the hair he'd sloppily pulled back into a bun. It was getting long, now, and while he hated when it fell into his face or whipped at his cheeks - like now - he hadn't gotten around to getting it cut, so he just had to deal with the hunks that got torn from his hair tie and obscured his vision.
Not that there was much to see. The weather, though mild enough, was ruined by the brisk wind blowing in off the lake, and so the banks were fairly empty beyond a few passersby here and there. And Feng Xin didn’t see anybody even remotely familiar at the pier; there was a jogger running past, some kid with a fancy camera taking pictures, and an old man leaning against one of the wooden supports. Feng Xin knew that Mu Qing had to be here, because Mu Qing had called from here, so where the fuck was he?
He waited, hands in his pockets, watching anyone who passed through the area. None of them were Mu Qing. He began walking further out onto the pier, thinking that maybe Mu Qing had walked off while waiting for Feng Xin - it wasn’t impossible that Mu Qing would decide he hadn’t come quickly enough and just left. He was working himself up over the idea when the old man in front of him turned, long silver hair blowing in the wind, and Feng Xin got a good look at his face.
The man wasn’t old at all. It had been years since he saw Mu Qing, and yet he’d know those angular features, those eyes , anywhere. His brows were still dark, which only enhanced the dark circles under his eyes, the shadows that collected in the hollows where his cheeks had thinned. The trench coat he wore hung more loosely than Feng Xin would have expected, too, adding to the overall effect that Mu Qing was…
Too thin. Too tired. Too different.
It was wrong, that much was certain. The way Mu Qing looked at him - the way Mu Qing looked - twisted his guts, but now that he’d been spotted he couldn’t turn and pretend he hadn’t noticed.
“You look like shit,” was the first thing out of his mouth as he approached. The wind managed to drop right at that moment, leaving the pier quiet enough that his words echoed across the water. Mu Qing’s brow creased further, his mouth a sharp line in a thinned face.
“Don’t shoot the messenger,” Feng Xin added, and Mu Qing’s expression somehow darkened further.
It wasn’t a productive talk. At all. They were out there for at least an hour and the only thing they could agree on was getting out of the wind and finding something to eat. Mu Qing pointed out the nearest restaurant; Feng Xin offered to pay. Mu Qing protested. It wouldn’t be the first or the last time they went through this dance.
“So, wait, let me get this straight,” Feng Xin began, leaning over his steamed clams. His toes ached as if they knew where all that uric acid was about to go. “You’ve got information but you can’t just give it to the police?”
Mu Qing glared, sipping at his soup of… honestly Feng Xin wasn’t sure. Mu Qing had asked the waiter to take half the ingredients out of it, and what was left hardly counted as food, in Feng Xin’s opinion. “I told you already. It’s something I have to show you.”
“As if that’s not suspicious at all,” Feng Xin scoffed. “Don’t you have anything better than that?”
“No. Do you want to see what I’ve found or not?”
Feng Xin did. That was the problem; Mu Qing’s call, his vague hints at something big , had caught Feng Xin’s interest. He needed to know. His stack of outstanding case files be damned.
Didn’t mean he stopped himself from ‘accidentally’ launching a clam out of its shell into Mu Qing’s weird soup. The look on Mu Qing’s face was entirely worth it.
Later, after Mu Qing brought him to the nearest dump site and showed him what he could do, Feng Xin wished he’d said no. He hadn’t signed up to watch this. Sure, he could blame the emaciation and exhaustion and even the hair color on stress, but this.
Feng Xin steeled himself, when Mu Qing came out of whatever funk he’d fallen into, to call it off. He wasn’t here to start the ghost version of the X-Files, thank you very much. Yet...the way Mu Qing looked while he was connecting to the spiritual plane or whatever, the way he shuddered and gasped and dragged himself out of his trance--
Feng Xin couldn’t leave him alone. Mu Qing was bound to fall face-first in a ditch and drown in two inches of rain water, at this rate. Then there were some of the things he said, the way he described the scene when the body was first discovered, including details only the police - and Feng Xin himself - would have from visiting the site right after the body was discovered. He wouldn’t have known any of that unless he was there or one of Feng Xin’s fellow officers had told him. Leaks happened in police departments, he knew that, but this...didn’t feel like a leak.
He felt something in his gut, instinct tugging him along in away it hadn’t for years. Mu Qing’s ‘magic’ or whatever demanded further investigation. There was something he was missing, something Mu Qing was surprisingly willing to provide: fresh clues, new leads, a way to reopen this case.
At the end of their day together, the first time they’d met up in years, Feng Xin suggested a road trip of the fourteen different dump sites, starting from the beginning. Mu Qing actually agreed. The plan was that they’d bring No Face down, together, once and for all, and figure out what exactly happened to Xie Lian over a decade ago.
---
In his motel room, Feng Xin slumps in his desk chair, shoulders caved forward and spine curved as he works on his laptop. His back already aches from sitting like this for the past hour, hunched over his keyboard as he is; he still doesn't move. The pain feels good, in a way, reminding him of why he's here, what he's doing. Like re-reading the gory details of a case to remind himself what could happen again if he got lazy.
He used to do that when they originally worked on the No Face murders. The shrink Jian Lan had him see said it was bad for his psyche to do things like that; he stopped seeing her and kept doing it anyway.
His phone buzzes on the desk’s surface, and he ignores it, continuing to scroll down the case file he has opened on his computer. Since Mu Qing so kindly left him all the files they’ve looked over together, including that note, Feng Xin has been trying to read them with fresh eyes.
Starting from the beginning with a case file is a lot like gambling. You like to think that if you start fresh, steel yourself, think positively, the results you want will come to you. Mentally create what you want to see in the world. It’s all bullshit, of course, but sometimes it’s all you can do to keep going, as if picturing that jackpot or epiphany in your mind’s eye will bring it to life in front of you.
The phone buzzes again. Feng Xin ignores it, again . He has plenty of reasons not to look; No Face might have dug up his number, too, or maybe Jian Lan is calling him back because he never told her definitively that he’d be going to Cuo Cou’s game, or maybe it’s just a normal telemarketer. It's not going to be Mu Qing, that's for sure, so he doesn't check. If it's important, they'll leave a voicemail.
It’s twenty minutes later that he finds out who’s been calling because that’s when he checks his email and sees he’s got a new message from an email address he doesn’t recognize.
The subject line - a simple Info on No-Face Murders - catches his attention first. He assumes it’s another one of those ‘redders’ or whatever it is they’re called, emailing him another slew of theories dredged up from their message boards. While none of those emails ever led anywhere, sometimes they sparked new ideas, so Feng Xin opens the message anyway.
He’s not expecting the opening line. Sorry for calling so much. I got your number from a friend, and thought it would be easier to talk on the phone.
What? Feng Xin frowns to himself. No Face wasn’t known to mock through email, preferring creepy phone calls and typed letters, so this didn’t sound like him, but…
Since I can’t get a hold of you that way, however, I thought an email might work instead. I’ve come across some information you might be interested in; it concerns No Face’s first target and his disappearance. There’s something else I want to tell you, too, but it would be better to do so in person.
Can we meet up somewhere? Public, of course. Please give me a call.
H.C.
There’s a number added to the bottom, with a local area code. Feng Xin stares at the screen for several minutes, the words swimming in front of his eyes, before the words he’s read begin to form into sentences with meaning.
The email was already completely different from the others he would get from online tipsters, even before that damning line: No Face’s first target and his disappearance. Not death, not murder. Disappearance. Whoever this was knew about Xie Lian, something the public certainly didn’t, that even a good chunk of the precinct didn’t. And the hint at something else that could only be relayed in person; what the fuck did that mean?
It could be a trap set by No Face, or even just a really well-researched prank. Or , it could be real, and Feng Xin burned with the need to know what information this ‘H.C.’ had, and why they hadn’t given it earlier.
He’s halfway through punching the number into his phone before he notices he’s even picked it up. The call connects after the second ring, and he hears an unfamiliar voice say, “Hello.”
Not a question. They recognized Feng Xin’s number, even sound amused. Expecting my call.
No need to bullshit, then. “You emailed me about the No Face murders, said you had info about his first target.”
“I do. It’s not something I can tell you over the phone.”
Feng Xin swallows his irritation. “And why’s that?”
“You don’t know who might be listening.”
“Oh, for christ’s sake! Who are you, Deep Throat?” He groans, rubs his hand down his face. If Mu Qing were here, he’d be rolling his eyes at the theatrics as if he wasn’t one of the most dramatic people Feng Xin had ever met. “Fine. I’m willing to meet.”
The mysterious H.C. gives him a time and a place - a diner only a town over, tomorrow evening - and Feng Xin agrees. He knows the place, has been there a time or two when he passes through the area. It’s easily seen from the road and fairly popular, which makes it the perfect place to meet a guy who might have some new information Feng Xin can use or may potentially be looking to stab him. In the case of the latter, Feng Xin’s got his gun, so he really hopes the guy is just a dramatic weirdo so he doesn’t have to shoot anybody.
For the third night in a row he can hardly sleep, passing the time between lying there staring at the ceiling and watching late night television. By morning, he rolls out of bed to get coffee from the motel lounge, one of many trips he’ll make throughout the day as he spends it re-reading Mu Qing’s notes and his own files for the umpteenth time. He scours through each murder, trying to find something that he and Mu Qing missed, something that this stranger would know that he didn’t. Something about Xie Lian, of all things, though Feng Xin hadn’t gotten a confirmation that that was who they were talking about.
It had to be. Who else could it be?
Finally, the sun begins to set. He should’ve been more hesitant when H.C. suggested they meet at the diner at night, but he’d given a time right in the middle of the dinner rush, which meant they would be surrounded by plenty of witnesses. Not that Feng Xin would’ve refused even if the guy had said two o’clock in the morning.
As expected, the diner - though too far out of the way to be truly packed - is fairly busy when Feng Xin pulls in, the tables and booths filled with people from all walks of life. He’s made a point of getting here early, to see if he can spot anyone suspicious walking in, yet as he waits and the meeting time comes and goes, he doesn’t see any strange folks around. No one even comes alone, all of the patrons either in pairs or groups. Eventually, ten minutes after they were supposed to meet, he gets out of his car and heads into the diner.
A waitress meets him just inside the door, big retail grin plastered onto her face. “Table for one?”
“Uh, actually.” Abruptly, Feng Xin realizes they hadn’t come up with an alias to use for their party. “I’m meeting someone here. Under, uh--”
“Oh, wait a minute!” The waitress’ smile relaxes into something more natural, and she laughs. “Are you Feng Xin? I was told to keep an eye out for you.” She glances toward a back corner as she says it, blushing prettily. What…?
“Right this way,” she continues before Feng Xin can even figure out exactly which table she was looking at, grabbing a menu and jerking her head for him to follow her. The diner is fairly loud, filled with the sounds of hungry customers chatting while they waited for their food, and so she has to raise her voice to keep talking.
“He said you’d be here before now, I was worried I’d missed you!” She weaves her way around high chairs and legs stretched into the aisle as easily as if she’s dancing. Feng Xin, meanwhile, has to take a lot more care not to trip over someone. “They’re just over here.”
“‘They’?” More than one person? He was supposed to be meeting H.C. alone, who the fuck else would be here--
“There you go, sir!” The waitress gestures at the corner booth where two people are sitting, waiting for him. She doesn’t seem to notice how Feng Xin freezes in place, giving them all a sunny smile as she adds, “Enjoy the meal!”, eyes lingering on the slim, tall man in the booth before she sets Feng Xin’s menu down and walks away.
Feng Xin has no attention to spare for that stranger. His gaze is locked on the man sitting beside him, the familiar heart-shaped face, chestnut hair and bright, dark eyes. The apologetic tilt to his head, an awkward smile curving his lips. He still favors white, from the looks of that loose button-down he’s wearing. He looks healthy, other than the light smudges under his eyes and the slight pallor to his skin. He looks real , alive and here and letting Feng Xin stare at him in the middle of this diner during its busiest hour.
Finally, Xie Lian asks, “Would you like to sit down?”
“I…” Feng Xin swallows, then nods as he slowly slides into the booth opposite Xie Lian and the stranger. “What...how are you here? We all thought...Xie Lian, it’s been twelve years. ”
“I know.” Xie Lian looks down at the table, unable to hold Feng Xin’s gaze any longer as he picks at the napkin in front of him. “There wasn’t any way for me to tell you, at the time, what my plans were or why I was leaving. It could’ve put you in danger.”
“So, that’s the excuse you’re going with, huh? My whole job is being in danger.” Over a decade’s worth of anger bubbles up inside of Feng Xin; he ignores the warning look Xie Lian’s gothic string bean of a friend is giving him, though it prompts him to add, “And who the hell is this guy? Is he the reason you ran off without telling anyone you were being stalked ?”
He feels like he’s having deja vu, except Xie Lian doesn’t glare or yell back at him. Xie Lian winces, shoulders hunching slightly, and his companion loops a comforting arm around his waist. It makes Feng Xin want to scream even more.
“I didn’t know Gege back then,” String Bean says, propping his chin up with his free hand as he looks at Feng Xin. “But I’ve been helping him stay safe since I found him.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Feng Xin turns back to Xie Lian, who still refuses to meet his eyes. “Seriously, what is he doing here, and who is he? Why’s he dressed like he’s going to audition for a Metallica cover band?”
String Bean’s lips thin, and for a moment there’s a dangerous glint to his eye, the one that isn’t covered by long, loose black hair. And then the tension is broken when Xie Lian snorts into his hand, shoulders beginning to shake, eyes wide as he tries to cover his mouth to hold back the snickers.
“Gege?” String Bean asks at the same time Feng Xin says, “What’s so funny?”
“You--I just--I forgot how old you sound.” Xie Lian is trying very hard to regain his decorum, yet every time it looks like he’s going to stop laughing, a new burst of giggles assaults him.
“I’m not old! I’m the same age as you!”
“I know.” Xie Lian manages to pull it together, clasping his hands in front of him and staring down at them. Only a faint twitch at the corner of his mouth hints at contained mirth. “San Lang had nothing to do with why I ran away. I met him a few years ago, and ever since he’s been helping me hide from...well. But my decision to leave was my own, and I know it wasn’t fair to you to disappear like I did. Or to hide from you what was going on and why I had to leave.”
Feng Xin leans back in his seat, shoulders hunched and arms crossed over his chest. “You’re damn right it wasn’t,” he huffs.
“I couldn’t contact you or Mu Qing because No Face has been tracking me ever since I left. I...I know I should have gone to the police, to you. I was afraid he’d target you and Jian Lan, or Mu Qing, or my parents, or the rest of our families, and it was all I could do to stay ahead of him until I ran into San Lang. He’s kept me well out of No Face’s reach ever since.”
There’s a heaviness in his voice, the slope of his shoulders, how he continues to stare at his hands. He blames himself for all this, Feng Xin thinks.
“Then who’s H.C.? Is that your new codename or something?” Feng Xin reaches forward and flicks Xie Lian’s forehead, making Xie Lian jump and finally look at him. String Bean looks at him too; Feng Xin feels like the guy is trying very hard to melt him into paste with his eyes alone.
“Listen. You’re right; you should’ve told me what was going on. You should’ve trusted me to be able to keep you safe, because that’s what I do.” He rests his arms on the table, leaning forward rather than away. “But while I hate how you ghosted and worried all of us to death, what matters is that you’re still here and you’re safe. If you stayed and No Face got to you, he still would’ve kept killing. Serial killers don’t just stop unless they’re caught or they’re dead.”
As soon as he says it, he frowns, and Xie Lian finishes for him: “Except No Face did stop.”
“Because of me.” String Bean says it with an arrogance that makes Feng Xin scowl. “Gege had been on the run for four years when I met him, and together we were able to slip away from No Face no matter what he did. It angered him. Rather than going on killing look-alikes, he started using all his energy on trying to thwart me and what I was doing to keep Gege away from him.”
He tilts his head, lip curved. “I’m H.C., by the way. You can call me Hua Cheng. And yes, I am the one who called and emailed you.”
“No shit, Sherlock,” Feng Xin snaps, as if he’d always known. There’s something about this Hua Cheng that puts him on edge; probably the way he keeps smiling at Feng Xin as if he thinks he’s a moron. He tries to put it out of his mind and focus on what’s really important here.
Of course, just as he’s about to launch into a pseudo-interrogation the waitress comes back to take his drink order and see if Hua Cheng and Xie Lian are ready for food. Feng Xin doesn’t pay attention to what they order, telling the woman he just wants some fries and a turkey club. It’s probably the most benign thing he’s ordered since he started researching No Face’s murders again, and he hates the niggling thought in the back of his mind that Mu Qing might actually approve of his food choice for once.
“What I need to know,” he says, once the waitress is gone, “Is why now? Why contact me now, after all this time?”
Hua Cheng and Xie Lian share a look, and after a moment, Xie Lian sighs and nods his head. Feng Xin wonders what sort of silent conversation he just missed as Xie Lian turns back to him.
“There’s a reason San Lang has been so helpful to me,” Xie Lian begins. “Why I trust him with my life. You...you’re aware of what Mu Qing can do, aren’t you? His, ah, ‘special skill’?”
Feng Xin’s stomach sinks. “Yeah. How’d you know?”
“Well…” Xie Lian glances at Hua Cheng, who gives him a little squeeze from where his arm is still looped around Xie Lian’s waist.
“Your friend can see the past. Isn’t that right?” Hua Cheng asks, in a sort of drawl that has Feng Xin clenching his teeth.
“So what? What’s that got to do with you?”
“I can see the future. Or, well, I can see specific futures. Only Gege’s. Because we’re connected, I can see things that might happen to him. It’s how I’ve been keeping him safe; when No Face gets close, I know it.” One perfectly arched eyebrow rises. “Isn’t that why Mu Qing sees the crime scenes? Because of you?”
“Me?” Feng Xin scoffs. “No. Because he’s obsessed with this case.” As if you aren’t, Mu Qing’s voice huffs in the back of his mind. “So, wait, you’re telling me you do voodoo shit too? That still doesn’t answer my question!”
“Feng Xin.” Xie Lian hesitantly reaches forward, then rests his hand over one of Feng Xin’s. “We know that Mu Qing disappeared.” The ‘too’ hangs in the air between them. “We know that something bad is going to happen to him if we don’t find him first. That’s why I asked San Lang to reach out to you.”
“I said it was a bad idea,” Hua Cheng offers.
“If we work together,” Xie Lian continues, as if Hua Cheng hadn’t spoken, “We can find him before No Face does. I believe it’s time I came out of hiding, anyway, and finally finished this. Don’t you agree?”
He smiles, that same gentle, charming smile Feng Xin remembers. Feng Xin only stares, mulling Xie Lian’s words over in his mind, trying to make sense of the jumble his thoughts have become from these revelations. It was one thing to accept that Mu Qing had some sort of power, and that was only because he’d seen it; Xie Lian was asking him to believe that this stranger, some man he’d never seen before in his life and who honestly seemed to hate Feng Xin from the start, also had a special power. That he was some sort of fucking psychic. If this was before, before Feng Xin saw Mu Qing go cold and breathless at a crime scene, he’d have told Xie Lian he was being scammed by a fraud.
Now, though...they knew Mu Qing was missing. He liked to think it would be impossible for them to know outside of some kind of magic shit instead of the idea that Mu Qing had been in contact with Xie Lian all along and kept it a secret, the way he’d kept No Face’s threats a secret.
Mu Qing is a secretive jerk, but he wouldn’t keep something like that to himself. He wouldn’t.
“Yeah,” Feng Xin says at last. “Alright. Just tell that asshole to stop glaring at me.”
After that, Xie Lian and Hua Cheng take turns filling him in on what’s been happening the past twelve years, where Xie Lian has been, and how Hua Cheng’s powers have kept them safe from No Face. A lot of the latter goes over his head - Xie Lian talks like he’s giving a lecture about hard science and frankly none of it makes any sense to Feng Xin - but by the end of the explanation, he knows that Xie Lian inserting himself into Mu Qing’s business means that Hua Cheng can ‘see’ where Mu Qing is going to be in the future.
Or...something. He thinks that’s what all that psychobabble means.
“I wanted to reach out to you because San Lang saw...he saw Mu Qing in trouble.” Xie Lian picks at his salad, now, instead of his napkin. He’s barely eaten anything since their food arrived, though Feng Xin can’t exactly call him out on it. He’s only had a few bites of his sandwich. “And I knew I couldn’t stand by and watch that monster wreak havoc any longer. It’s my responsibility to--”
Feng Xin interrupts him with a sharp wave of his hand. “Didn’t I already say you didn’t have anything to do with this guy being a freak of nature? Stop blaming yourself.”
“For once, I agree with him.” Hua Cheng’s arm hasn’t left Xie Lian’s waist the entire time they’ve been talking. He sets down his fork in order to tuck an errant strand of hair behind Xie Lian’s ear. “This has never been your fault, Gege.”
Xie Lian frowns. “Yes, but--”
“Back to the point,” Feng Xin says, overriding him, “Gene Simmons here says he saw Mu Qing in trouble. What kind of trouble? Where? You said if we teamed up we can find him, but if you’ve already got some psychic vision of where he is, why not say so?”
Xie Lian busies himself with his dinner, mouth twitching, leaving Hua Cheng to answer. “The future isn’t guaranteed. It changes depending on the choices we make. Also, who’s Gene Simmons?”
“Don’t ask,” Xie Lian mumbles into his salad.
“So you’re saying,” Feng Xin continues loudly, pretending he didn’t hear that, “you can’t help me at all. I’m glad you finally showed up, Xie Lian, really I am, but we keep coming back to the fact that we’re in the same place we were before. No leads, no clues, no nothing.”
“No! That’s not--” Xie Lian takes a breath, waves off Hua Cheng’s concerned look. “With San Lang’s gift, we can find Mu Qing within a day or so. Before it’s too late. With his help, we have a starting point instead of blindly shooting in the dark.”
They’re at the end of the meal, by now. None of them have eaten much of anything. The diner is beginning to empty out as other patrons finish their meals, pay, and leave. It’s getting late; the parking lot outside the diner is completely dark, save for a few streetlights. There’s no way Feng Xin can go anywhere else tonight but his hotel room. He won’t be able to work on anything else he’s got until tomorrow.
“We don’t have to look anything confidential. I’d never ask you to do that.” Xie Lian breaks into his thoughts, pulling him back to the present. “Some of Mu Qing’s notes should work fine. He always took meticulous notes; it’s no wonder his blog was so popular.”
“Wait.” The waitress has returned to give them the check, but Feng Xin hardly notices. “You’ve read it?”
Xie Lian smiles, and this one, this time, actually seems genuine. “Of course. Haven’t you?”
When the bill is paid - Hua Cheng insists on paying for the whole meal, not seeming affected at all as he hands his card over to the blushing waitress, rich little bastard - and they’ve got their leftovers in hand, they make their way into the parking lot, Feng Xin still peppering Xie Lian with questions about his own research and Mu Qing’s blog.
“I can’t believe this,” he declares, when they reach the smart, tight little car Hua Cheng apparently drove Xie Lian here in. How did they keep a low profile in something like this?! “Mu Qing really wrote all that? On the Internet? ”
“Oh, yes. He’s very big in true crime fandom.” Xie Lian looks like he’s holding back laughter again. “That means that, ah--”
“I know what fans are!” Feng Xin looks over at his own car, beat up, rusting at the edges, some paint worn away and tires on their way to balding. More reliable than some fancy car, that’s for sure.
“Right, yes. I know you do.” Xie Lian glances back toward Hua Cheng. “You can follow us to where we’re staying, if you’d like. Or we can work more on this tomorrow.”
“No, we’ll do this tonight. If Freddie Mercury is right about his vision shit, then we can’t waste any time.”
As he speaks, he pulls out his cellphone and taps in Mu Qing’s number. He doesn’t have to look, anymore, his fingers automatically knowing where to go, and when the dial tone begins he makes a dismissive gesture at Xie Lian. “Go ahead, I’ll catch up. I just want to see if--”
The words die on his lips when the dial tone is interrupted by the click of someone answering. For a second he hears nothing, only vague sounds in the background, and then.
A scream. “ Don’t say anything! ”
There’s some scuffling that follows, a brief struggle that ends with slight panting on the other end of the line. “Ah, Feng Xin.” It’s said in a purr that immediately has Feng Xin’s hair standing on end, a voice he remembers from only a few days ago. “How kind of you to call. I’ve been hoping to hear from you.”
“Where’s Mu Qing,” he growls, teeth clenched. Xie Lian turns back to look at him, concern already painting his features.
“Waiting for you and A-Lian, of course. It wouldn’t be a party if the three of you didn’t come. Qingqing and I are looking forward to your arrival.”
The line goes dead. Feng Xin nearly chucks his phone across the parking lot, needing to see something shatter and explode under the force of his rage.
Xie Lian already has that look in his eyes, even beneath the dim glow of the nearby streetlights. Like he knows. Further away, near his car, Hua Cheng is harder to read, yet he’s the one who speaks first.
“You can’t go alone,” he says. “It’d be suicide to try.”
Unable to destroy his phone by smashing it into the asphalt, Feng Xin unlocks his car and chucks it into the front seat instead.
No Face has him. He has him, he’s going to hurt him, Mu Qing’s not his type so he might not kill him but he’ll hurt him, torture him for info about Xie Lian, you’ve seen it before, you know how this works.
“Fine!” Feng Xin gets into his car, slams the driver’s side door so hard the entire vehicle rocks. “Fine! Then let’s go, Elvira! Show me the way!”
Xie Lian and Hua Cheng lock eyes.
“He’s not usually like this,” Xie Lian lies.
“He’s upset.” Hua Cheng opens the passenger door for Xie Lian. “I would act the same way if Gege was in danger.”
“I’ve been in danger since we met,” Xie Lian points out, sliding into the car. Hua Cheng doesn’t answer, humming as if he hadn’t heard Xie Lian’s answer.
They leave the diner together, Hua Cheng and Xie Lian in the lead, Feng Xin following. Xie Lian can’t help but glance in the rearview mirror every so often, wishing the growing darkness wasn’t hiding Feng Xin’s expression.
We’ll find him, he thinks, hoping the sentiment will reach his friend. We’ll save him. We’ll end this.
Don’t give up on him.