Chapter Text
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Wangji has just closed an investigation. He's been working crazy hours, provided evidence and given statements in court as an expert witness. He's been cross-examined by prosecution and defense alike, threatened by the accused, cursed by the man's family, and received a nod of acknowledgement from his commanding officer Inspector Song. Wangji's an excellent witness: His appearance - tall, unsmiling, impeccably suited - commands respect. His logic is unfailing, his evidence always perfect. He's invariably calm, unshaken by attacks whether fair or not. He's good at presenting his findings in a clear and structured manner and won't get derailed. He ignores extraneous nonsense and sticks to the facts, something that drives defending counsels (and occasionally the prosecution) around the bend. He never raises his voice, or changes his deep, cool monotone, let alone resorts to histrionics; he might come across as boring if one isn't familiar with the subject matter.
It had been a dry, protracted process because Wangji specialises in economic crime, more precisely cold cases that come up for review. He's become somewhat of a celebrity for clearing a spectacular ninety-six per cent of those that come his way. It's unglamorous, desk-based work. It requires specialist knowledge, a head for numbers and an understanding of what data, accounts, statistics say and what's hidden between the lines. It also needs someone who has a practical, detailed insight into the workings of big business, and the webs of power that weave through Gusu City. Most of all, it requires endless patience, a keen eye for detail, and an analytical mind.
Wangji has all of that: He's the second son of the oldest of the five powerful clans who rule business in Gusu; he's grown up enmeshed in a layer of society most people don't even know exists, and if they do know they think it's like live soap opera. Wangji is wealthy in his own right, he could spend his life as a man of leisure if he wanted to, pursuing his hobbies including ancient zither music, calligraphy, tea-pottery and clay sculpture. But he's also a qualified corporate lawyer with a background in forensic accounting. He reads ledgers like other people read romances, and he notices the slightest irregularity, no matter how well disguised. His field officer colleagues respect him, even if they poke fun at his nerd-vibe. They come to him for advice, and they include him in their team lunches and karaoke parties.
Inspector Song values him. They get on well. He's accepted Wangji's explanation of his motivation: "I wish to contribute more than money," he'd said at his interview. "My brother is well-placed as successor to my family's firm. I believe that I can be more useful here. I wish to be useful to the people." It had been a half-truth. And like most of those, it had been convincing enough. His background check came back clean, he aced his physical training, passed all specialist exams, and received his first commendation after resolving a fifteen year old case of large-scale bribery and embezzlement. It had been a very large amount, and his testimony had sent the main culprit to his death, commuted to a life behind bars , and a score of associates went down for three to ten years. He feels nothing in particular about any of this - neither pride nor disquiet, only the calm current of his conscience. During the investigation, he'd made his first enemies: Hostile messages began to land on his desk, anonymous death-threats, slashed car tyres, grafitti sprayed on his windscreen. It had neither surprised nor unsettled him. He's familiar with personal protection routines. Lans are no strangers to being menaced, their wealth and business make them targets for blackmail and extortion, sometimes worse. Wangji is looking after his own safety and considers this part of his job.
He's ready to go home. It's late, a weekday night, the station relatively quiet. Usually, the ruckus starts in the small hours when patrols might bring in drunks, book joy-riders, or someone calls in a bust-up or a domestic violence incident. Sometimes, someone shows up seeking help about a missing person, or in distress over a pet-cat stuck up a tree. Wangji doesn't need to do nightshifts. He belongs to a team of specialists that work under Inspector Song but independently from one another, and isn't part of a rota. He has a small office to himself because much of what he does is classified until it reaches the courts, and sometimes throughout . He's finished a mug of jasmine tea that went cold whilst he was typing his final case notes and summary report, before submitting the electronic files to Inspector Song for review and sign-off. The digital clock above the door to his office shows 23:45. He's been working since seven in the morning, with a half-hour break to eat a lunch of plain rice with steamed vegetables in the cafeteria. He's tired. He's changed into civilian gear and is about to power down his computer, when a message pings into his inbox.
He briefly closes his eyes. His finger hovers over the 'off' button, under the on-screen message prompting him 'Are you sure you want to close down?' Tomorrow would be fine. He doesn't attend life-and-death incidents. If it were pressing, Inspector Song would contact him on his work mobile. Nothing's going to break if he doesn't check now.
Wangji sighs and clicks 'Cancel'. He sits down and opens his inbox. 'From: Inspector Song. To: Detective Lan. Message received: 23:47. Subject: 'Look in your desk drawer.' There's nothing in the body of the email.
Wangji frowns. His desk is always locked, and he also locks his computer screen and his office door even when he's just going to the restroom to relieve himself. He stores his firearm and any sensitive information in a safe behind a framed map of Gusu City at the back-wall of his office. Inspector Song has keys to all the offices at the station, but he's never just snuck in. Perhaps, thinks Wangji, he'd been in a hurry.
It isn't a convincing rationale.
He unlocks the drawer.
In it, on top of the blank writing paper, antique Lan silver hair-pin doubling as letter opener, and three sharpened pencils Wangji keeps there, lies a brown envelope.
He goes to make himself a fresh mug of tea, before sitting down again to scan the materials. He checks the records he can access from his computer. By the time he's finished, dawn spills over the city skyline, and he knows that there's no electronic file, only old paper. The case is a decade old. There are traces of a history that reaches even further back. Wangji can't be certain but he's developed an instinct for such things: He thinks the material might have been provided by an undercover agent over years and years of investigation.
It's close to his usual start time. He doesn't go home. He texts his wife, and immerses himself in the case.
It feels better than spending the day wallowing in misery. This particular day, which brings back echoes of what could have been. Time hasn't made it easier; time has made it worse. A festering wound in Wangji's heart, unable to heal. Regret, he's come to understand, is a slow poison. It won't kill him, yet it'll keep hurting, dull and persistent, and if he isn't careful it'll pounce and tear at him until his eyes water and his breath stalls, and he resorts to drinking like Wei Ying used to do. He understands him better now, that it's too late to tell him.
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