Xieyang Road was an awkward existence in Xiarong City. The North District turned its left side into a cultural corridor, while its right bordered the towering commercial cluster of the Central District. Yet Xieyang Road reaped none of the benefits, lined with last-century houses and narrow alleys.

The Major Crimes Unit’s vehicle stopped outside Xieyang Road—too narrow for cars, blocked by tricycles and carts stacked like a barricade. Earlier-arriving precinct police parked even farther to avoid getting stuck.

Car doors opened, and An Xun and Xi Wan, carrying forensic kits, sprinted toward the scene—forensic and trace evidence specialists always moved fastest. Ji Chenjiao stepped out next, but instead of rushing into the crowd, he surveyed the surroundings. Xieyang Road was like an ugly scar amid steel and concrete, its aging buildings interspersed with vendors’ carts filling every gap.

News of the Xieyang Fifth Alley case had spread by morning. A loquacious dried-bean vendor, acting as if he’d witnessed it himself, clammed up when he saw the police, flashing a sycophantic smile. Ji Chenjiao nodded back, sidestepped the cart, and headed in. Behind him, the vendor resumed, “The victim’s an outsider, wearing a qipao, slit up to here, everything showing! Guess what? It’s a man! And then, get this, a two-faced guy…”

The victim wasn’t “two-faced,” but a murder case landing with Major Crimes always had something unusual.

That morning, the North District precinct received a call from Wang Lifen, reporting that her neighbor was dead in his home, her grandson scared witless. The precinct’s criminal investigation team sealed the scene—a weathered eight-story building with a zigzagging central staircase, each floor housing four units, every living room window facing the hallway.

Wang Lifen said 4-2’s door was unlocked; her grandson pushed it open and saw the body. The resident, a young man who moved in late last year, had no steady job, came and went unpredictably, and liked scaring kids. Asked how she knew he was jobless, she retorted, “My son and daughter-in-law leave for work at seven. He doesn’t go out till noon. Who with a job acts like that?”

The victim wore a women’s kung fu robe and a wig, both put on post-mortem—an unusual touch. But what truly alarmed the precinct was the cause of death: a cleanly snapped neck, with only minor pressure marks on the chest and arms, no signs of struggle. The killer subdued and killed him in moments, the work of a professional.

This wasn’t a case the precinct could handle alone.

Before heading out, Ji Chenjiao reviewed the precinct’s photos. The victim was initially found seated, back against a folding table’s leg, head tilted right. Precinct officers laid him flat, dislodging the wig. Ji Chenjiao felt a flicker of recognition seeing the seated body, but the bald, middle-aged face revealed without the wig dispelled it.

Passing a wall plastered with ads, Ji Chenjiao reached 4-2. Seeing the body in person, it clicked—half a month ago, at Xi Wan’s dinner, the waist drum team’s man was dressed like this! That upward glance flashed vividly, but the photos didn’t seem to match.

Xi Wan, arriving earlier, called out, “Captain, remember that drumming guy?”

Ji Chenjiao, gloved and slippered, crouched by the body, studying its face and frame. “Same clothes, but not the same person.”

“Not really. That guy was in his twenties, definitely under thirty,” Xi Wan mused. “What’s with the outfit? Why dress him up?”

An Xun, conferring with the precinct forensic, agreed the neck was snapped cleanly—not by blunt force or repeated twisting. The chest and arm marks suggested the killer restrained him from behind.

“There are clear drag marks inside and outside the door, plus the victim’s footprints in the hallway and stairs. Three sets of footprints in the room match shoes on the rack—likely the resident’s. But the C set appears after the drag marks, probably the killer’s,” Xi Wan explained, demonstrating at the door. “Based on An Xun’s estimated time of death, the killer struck between midnight and 2 a.m. today, April 6. They stood inside; the hallway light’s broken, it was late, and with the room dark, passersby wouldn’t notice the open door.” She tried locking Ji Chenjiao’s hands, failing due to his height, her reach too short to mimic the killer’s hold on his collarbone.

She let go. “Why’re you so tall? Just picture it.”

Even without her demo, Ji Chenjiao could envision it, scanning the room’s setup. “All three footprint sets belong to the resident. Is the killer the one living here?”

“But Wang Lifen says the resident’s a young, good-looking guy, a thug. This guy’s at least forty,” a precinct officer said. “We asked her to ID the body; she refused.”

Mention of a good-looking young man made Ji Chenjiao and Xi Wan exchange glances, thinking of the drummer.

The two-bedroom apartment was old but tidy. One room, unused, smelled of long closure. The other had neatly folded bedding, a wardrobe with dust-proof bags holding quilts, and categorized men’s T-shirts, tracksuits, and jackets.

The resident was meticulous.

At the door, a pink plastic shoe rack—cheap, likely from a five-yuan shop—stood out as new among old furniture. It held slippers, winter slippers, and blue-black sneakers, matching the room’s footprints.

“C matches these sneakers,” Xi Wan said, pointing.

Ji Chenjiao frowned. “He changed shoes before leaving and put them back? What about door footprints?”

“Too many at the entrance to distinguish,” Xi Wan said, brow furrowed. “This case is weird.”

The scene investigation wasn’t done, but the hallway grew crowded. Suddenly, a frantic woman’s voice echoed from upstairs, groggy as if just woken. “Who died? Seen my man? Off gawking?”

Ji Chenjiao stepped into the hallway. A woman with dry, disheveled hair in coral fleece pajamas rushed down, her faded tattooed brows and lips as lifeless as her sagging skin.

Ji Chenjiao glanced upstairs, then into the room, picturing the night’s events: the 4-2 resident lurking in darkness, the upstairs tenant returning at midnight as usual, unaware, until hands grabbed and dragged him to him death.

“Which floor do you live on?” he asked.

“Sixth,” she rasped, voice rough from smoking. “Seen my man?”

“Who’s your man? Got a photo?”

She lit her phone, showing a lockscreen of a middle-aged couple, the man balding. Ji Chenjiao, seasoned with corpses, instantly recognized the body as her man.

She peered past him, eyes landing on the victim’s face. “That’s… that’s…” she stammered, covering her mouth.

The victim’s identity snapped into clarity.

Huang Xuntong, 40, no steady job, worked odd hours at a hotpot restaurant and mahjong parlor, often returning late or staying out gambling. He had heavy drinking and gambling habits but was flashy outside. He lived in 6-3 with Shao Ling, 39, no fixed job, working in massage parlors and shady salons. Unmarried, childless, they lived together casually.

After seeing the body, Shao Ling stood stunned, showing little grief, just slow to process. As An Xun prepared to move the body, she shed two tears, wiped them, and stopped. “Dead’s dead. We weren’t making it anyway. Time for a new man.” She eyed An Xun, teasing, “This pale guy—wanna date, brother?”

An Xun, the unit’s timidest, scurried behind Xi Wan.

“Tch, boring,” Shao Ling said, dusting her hands. “I’m off.”

Ji Chenjiao blocked her. “You can’t leave yet. We need to ask you some questions.”

Annoyed, Shao Ling snapped as she was led to the police car, “That old fart’s dead, so what? Someone’s collecting his body—why bother investigating?”

As the scene investigation unfolded, a neighborhood sweep began. Learning the deceased wasn’t the 4-2 resident, Wang Lifen paled with fright. “Then he’s the killer! I knew he was no good!”

Wang Lifen could only curse, unable to provide 4-2’s name or details, but she had the landlord’s phone number. “The place belongs to the Ji family. The father lived there before, passed years ago.”

Ji Chenjiao called the landlord, Ji Zhan, who arrived, gray-haired and furious. Seeing 4-2’s state, he ranted, “Finally rented it out, thought I’d just collect money, but I got a disaster instead!”

Ji Chenjiao found it odd. “Couldn’t rent it before?”

Ji Zhan shook his head, face bitter. “This was my dad’s place. He died in a hospice, body never brought back—not like he died here. But no one would rent it! Every time a deal was set, tenants heard some gossip and backed out.”

“Ling didn’t care, though. Said the place had great light, good ventilation, cool breeze in winter. What a weirdo—who doesn’t seal windows tight in winter? I should’ve known he was trouble!” Ji Zhan handed over the lease contract, with the tenant’s ID copy tucked inside. “See for yourself!”

Ji Chenjiao took it and saw a familiar face. The waist drum team’s man was named Ling Lie.