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The air in the city is dense with smog, heavy enough to choke you if you aren't careful. Without sunlight to warm her, a chill settles in her spine; Ye Wangxi tightens the old ratty overcoat around her body. It is too big on her frame, made for someone taller and broader, who would light up these dreary walks with his chatter. Now she makes her journey in silence, weaving through the crowd and disappearing amongst the ruckus like a shade. She reaches her destination in record time.
The office building where she still runs the private investigation agency she had started with him has seen better days. To call it an "office" is a lie if anything. It had once been an apartment building and had since found itself forced into a different shape, struggling to meet expectations it had not been designed for. Most of the rooms could not even be entered unless you wanted to try your luck falling through the floor. It is one step away from being condemned, holding on only through technicalities and a few generous nudges from her father… and, well, a smattering of sympathy his father still has for her, little girl playing dress-up in the name of a dead man's dream.
She notices something is wrong almost immediately upon walking into the building. Though the door had been locked, some rooms in the entrance way that she knew were usually thick with dust had small clean patches. They seem to gleam in the buzzing fluorescent light that illuminates the hallway when she pulls the dangling chain. The faded consolatory card that perches next to an empty vase sits a bit closer to the wall than where she put it last.
It would not be obvious to most people, and for that, Ye Wangxi congratulates whatever interloper has dared to try their hands at breaking in.
Ye Wangxi keeps her steps light as she creeps deeper in. She has spent a long time with this building, and so she knows which floorboards will creak and which will stay silent as she weaves through the halls and up the stairs. Why would someone even want to break into this place? There is nothing of value in this office, beyond maybe an old computer that would honestly sell for more if you scrapped it for parts. A kid, seeking thrills and egged on by a dare to sneak into whatever old building qualified as spooky enough, certainly wouldn't be this meticulous.
As she explores deeper, she finds less and less evidence of her intruder. It seems as the intruder went deeper into the building, their own sense of purpose grew more sure--or at least, their ability to hide their traces more acute.
A smell of perfume sweet and floral fills the air. It stops her in her tracks and turns her from her original path into a different direction. The notes of nicotine and ash undercut it, mellowing out the scent of jasmine and vanilla into something muskier. It's not strong, only clinging like a ghost, hinting that once a person had filled this spot. Ye Wangxi frowns.
It is almost a surprise then to find the door to his office wide open, the light still on--a clear invitation. Her pace quickens now that she realizes there is no use in attempting to sneak up on an enemy lying in wait for her.
The sight that welcomes her nearly punches the air out of her lungs.
His office is unchanged from how she had left it. Beneath the jasmine and vanilla perfume, it smells of the musky scent of a boarded-up tomb. A filing cabinet sits at an angle, propped up inefficiently with some old book he promised he'd read but never did after the wheels had given out on one side. It leans treacherously against the other, whose doors sit wide open and mostly empty. Necessity had forced her to take them into her own office, smaller than his and not meant to contain the multitude of cabinets necessary to contain it all. She made it work anyway, glaring at her father when he suggested she move into a bigger space (his space, even, because "Xiao Yezi, he's not using it anymore.") A yellowing old newspaper dated to a few years ago still sits on the moth-eaten chair where he would recline and chatter to her as she tried her best to clean up the days-old mugs of tea leaving stains on files she knew were important.
But there is only one thing off about this scene that doesn't fit.
A woman, slender and fair as snow, sits upon his desk. A burgundy qipao, bursting with a design of pink flowers, accentuates her curves and casts a light rosy glow onto her skin. Long legs, wrapped in sheer stockings, bounce with an idle rhythm; an old case file sits in her lap. She plucks through the papers as though she were merely reading a particularly fascinating magazine, humming in delight here and there until she reaches the end.
With a snap, she closes the folder and places it at her side. Peach blossom eyes turn to the still frozen Ye Wangxi in the door, trapping her with no chance of escape. A cheeky tilt of her head percedes her soft eyes turning mischievous; a smile painted rogue spreads across her face. Sweet as the first sip of wine, she croons, "A'Xi, you've finally arrived. I thought I'd have to wait all day." She plucks up a business card, flicking it with one neatly manicured nail. "Going by the hours on your business card, you're three hours late."
Despite herself, Ye Wangxi stumbles back in shock. Her lips move on their own, summoned from her core like a curse, "Song Qiutong, what are you doing here?"
Song Qiutong pouts. "What am I doing here?" She uncrosses her legs and delicately slips from Ye Wangxi's desk. "Can I not come visit a friend?"
"We haven't been friends in years."
"And who's fault is that?"
Ye Wangxi bites her tongue, holding back the instinctual, "Yours" that slide into place. It was not worth the breath it would take to say, would not chip Song Qiutong's armor like she wishes it would. Instead, she asks, "How's your husband?"
"He's dead." The soft click, click of her heels echo in the room as she approaches Ye Wangxi.
Ye Wangxi holds her ground even as Song Qiutong steps close enough that she can smell notes of patchouli underneath the jasmine and vanilla. "You don't seem particularly broken up about it."
Between the heels and time's generosity, Song Qiutong has shot up to surpass Ye Wangxi, who is not a short woman by far. It is almost disconcerting, to have to lift her eyes to meet Song Qiutong's. It further separates the Song Qiutong of her memories with the woman standing here now.
"It was years ago," Song Qiutong says. She reaches out and smooths a hand down the lapel of Ye Wangxi's coat, pressing it close to her chest and straightening out the wrinkles. "He would have wanted me to move on."
"What do you want, Song Qiutong?" Ye Wangxi says. She keeps her voice even. Doesn't let slip the tumultuous emotions brewing in her chest, as if it will not further entice Song Qiutong to sink her claws in for just a hint of blood.
Delicate hands remained pressed up against Ye Wangxi's chest, close enough that they could probably feel her heart beating away through the layers. She catches a spark in Song Qiutong's eyes, a twitch in the sweet smile curling across her lips like a languid cat watching birds in the window.
"I see appealing to our friendship won't work," Song Qiutong sighs. She bats her dark eyelashes, though with their heights she can not manage the demure, "peeking up through half-lidded eyes"-look that she almost certainly used with other men. "Never could get one past you, Detective Ye."
Ye Wangxi takes a step back. Her patience was already low with Song Qiutong, and now it has run out. She does not know what kind of game Song Qiutong intends to play, barging into a boarded-up office to defile the memories Ye Wangxi's kept locked in there, but whatever it is, it is not worth playing.
Hands twist in her jacket and, with a strength she does not expect, she is jerked back, closer to Song Qiutong than before.
"I need your help." When the coquettish act fails, Song Qiutong turns to panic and doe-eyes. Her bottom lip trembles, her face softens, and tears spring to the corner of her peach blossom eyes. They do not fall but make her dark eyes glisten and go red at the corner. Her voice shakes as she says, "You're the only person I trust with this. Please."
'It's a trick,' Ye Wangxi's mind screams. Everything with Song Qiutong is just that: a trick. She'll hook you in with an act, make herself seem helpless or tempting, then throw you aside the moment something better comes along. Ye Wangxi has been a victim of Song Qiutong's little schemes enough times she should have it burned into her skin.
A golden tear falls down Song Qiutong's face, smearing the dark mascara, leaving a track in the foundation. It hypnotizes Ye Wangxi as it falls down, framing her jaw until it drop to the floor from the tip of her chin. "Please," Song Qiutong whispers.
"...Follow me." Ye Wangxi's mouth moves without her urging. She reaches up, hooks her finger around the wrist of the hand still gripping tight to her jacket, and peels it off. Their hands fall together, Song Qiutong's own small one's held within Ye Wangxi's "You're not supposed to go in there. My office is over here."
Her office is not a mess, and yet she still feels anxious as she opens the door. Within the tight space made tighter by the large, looming file cabinet lining the walls, she has built herself a little world. Her desk chair sits at a slightly crooked angle facing out to the dirty blindfolds of the window. The plant she had been struggling to keep alive droops sadly near the brightest corner of the office. Folders are stacked on the end of her desk, neat albeit dangerously close to the edge. An awkward stack of pillows is bunched up to one end of the small couch from her last all-nighter at the office.
Ye Wangxi resists the urge to hurry ahead of Song Qiutong, to arrange the pillows back into something neater, or fix the stack before it falls. As they made their journey, Song Qiutong had dabbed away the traces of her sorrow, though the edges of her eyes are still slightly pink. Now, she studies Ye Wangxi's office and says nothing.
"You can take a seat there," Ye Wangxi says, gesturing to the vague area of the couch.
She feels the tug on her arm before she realizes that she hadn't let go of Song Qiutong. With a soft "oh", she drops her hand and slips it deep into her pocket, turning her face away to will the embarrassment to fade before she can blush. She doesn't look back until she hears Song Qiutong's footsteps stop and the accompanying squeak of the cushion as she settles down. "What has you so desperate for my help?"
Whatever she expects to find when she looks down, it is not Song Qiutong, a dusty pink, fiddling with the fabric of her qipao. "A'Xi, please don't be mad."
Ye Wangxi sighs. Of course.
"I'm not," she says. She steps towards her desk and begins to rearrange it as an excuse not to look at Song Qiutong. "To be angry, I would need expectations that you wouldn't do anything to get your way. Lucky for you, I'm not possessed of such a foolish notion."
The pitiful noise that leaves Song Qiutong's lips could almost be mistaken for pain if Ye Wangxi weren't familiar with her by now. "Then why are you listening to me?"
"I don't know." There is nothing left on her desk to rearrange. She curses her usually cleanliness. To try and conjure anything further would make it obvious what she is doing. At least, it bought her enough time. She finally turns around, leaning against the desk, one ankle crossed over the other. "But be thankful that I am."
"So you'll do it?"
"Tell me what it is," Ye Wangxi says. "I'll decide afterward if I'll do it."
There would be no more blind acceptance for Song Qiutong. Perhaps he would have, eager to play the dashing prince to Song Qiutong's damsel in distress. Perhaps even a younger Ye Wangxi would have, flustering with the attention she'd never expected to get from anyone, let alone a girl as beautiful as Song Qiutong.
The beauty in question has closed her eyes, chest moving as she took in a few deep breaths. "I'm going to sound crazy," she says, opening them once again. A determined light now glimmers in them. "But I have recently come into something that could make me... and you, if you help me... incredibly wealthy. For that very reason, it's also very dangerous, which is why I need your help."
Ye Wangxi quirks an eyebrow and frowns. Wealth? What does Song Qiutong need with wealth? The last thing she heard, Mo Weiyu had an incredible amount of money. With his death, Song Qiutong must have been more than taken care of as his widow. There is something she isn't saying. "Continue."
"You know that I'm of the Butterfly-Boned Beauty clan, which means my ancestor is Song Xingyi." Song Qiutong's hand leaves her lap, sliding below the slit in her qipao. Ye Wangxi allows her surprise to show on her face when Song Qiutong pulls forth a neatly folded piece of old paper. "Apparently he had more to him than just being the most powerful of our kind."
She holds it out, beckoning Ye Wangxi to bridge the gap. Curiosity gets the better of her. She takes the bait.
The paper feels delicate in Ye Wangxi's hands, like she should be wearing gloves to even be near it. Unfolding it reveals it's a fragment of a large piece, a scroll torn to shreds. The characters are faded, though she can make out a few here and there. What little she can make out mentions a "Mount Huang" and secret place within.
Song Qiutong scoots to the side and pats the now free spot. It's a tight fit between the two of them, but Ye Wangxi settles down anyway. "There's been rumors that he's hidden a great treasure somewhere, specifically for his descendants. This fragment right here might very well be the only thing that could point us in the right direction."
Ye Wangxi folds the paper again, careful not to tear it, and returns it to Song Qiutong. "So you want me to chaperone you on a treasure hunt?"
Song Qiutong shakes her head. "It's a little more serious than that. Unfortunately, it's not exactly a secret that I have this. There have been a number of attempts on my life. Just because the treasure was meant for the Butterfly-Boned Beauty Clan doesn't mean that other people aren't eager to steal this from us too." She frowns, her voice going quiet. "I wasn't lying when I said you're the only one I trust. I don't know who else to turn to. I know the last time we..."
"Don't." It comes out harsher than Ye Wangxi means. Song Qiutong winces as though she's been struck. "Don't talk about that. It doesn't matter anymore."
The look on her face tells Ye Wangxi that even Song Qiutong could tell that it most certainly did still matter. She's polite enough to drop the subject, though.
"I'll split the treasure with you. Fifty-fifty. Whatever it is, I swear! And I'll be happy to pay you.” Song Qiutong begins to panic, scrambling around to find something to write with. "I don't have any money on me, but if you-"
Ye Wangxi holds up a hand. "Stop, I'll do it. You don't have to bribe me. I'm not some monster who would ignore someone receiving death threats."
Song Qiutong's mouth hangs slack. The dusty pink from before returns, changing shade into a deeper crimson.
One instant, Ye Wangxi is watching her words sink into Song Qiutong, the realization blooming forth like a Queen of the Night on that one special day in a year. The next she finds herself with a lap full, air trapped in her lungs as her world is enveloped in the floral perfume and cigarette smoke of Song Qiutong's presence. Her arms pull Ye Wangxi close, chest to chest, no escaping as the fingers intertwine in her jacket. She feels Song Qiutong's mouth, buried in the crook of her neck, rattle off a string of "Thank you"s.
She does not hear it, if only because her heart is thumping her head, overriding any thoughts she might have had. A panicked screech joins it shortly after.
It seems, in her excitement, Song Qiutong forgot that their past still hangs heavy over the two of them. It seems, as well, that she was eager to remind Ye Wangxi's body of the days they had spent together before the memories had sharpened into a sword when Ye Wangxi would fall into these hugs like coming home.
(It takes every ounce of her being to resist that pull now).
-or maybe she just wants, as she always does, to get under Ye Wangxi's skin. She is tricky like that, unpredictable. There is no doubt that the story she told was embellished in some places and conveniently censored in others. She would never be so brazen as to reveal all the cards, not when she is so used to keeping them close to her chest; is as much a fact of Song Qiutong as anything else.
Song Qiutong is the kind of person who might as well be trouble personified. Unfortunately, Ye Wangxi is the kind of person can't help but follow exactly where the trouble leads.