An empty bus pulled into Miaoshan Park Station, and a group of flamboyantly dressed retired ladies boarded. Instead of sitting down right away, they clustered around one woman, urging her about something.

The driver, afraid they’d fall, quickly glanced at the rearview mirror and reminded them, “Sisters, please sit down. If you fall, you won’t be pretty anymore.”

His words pleased the women greatly. The one leading the group hurried the others to take their seats. “Stop gawking. I’ll contact her myself. No need for all of you to watch.”

The bus slowly rolled to the next stop. Someone asked, “Sister Xia, what’s up with Yu Chun? She’s usually the most enthusiastic when it comes to flower viewing and taking pictures.”

Zhou Qingxia sent another voice message to Liu Yuchun but received no reply. She exited the app, revealing her wallpaper—a photo of herself in a cheongsam. “We’ll find out once we get to her place.”

The ladies rode three stops, chatting the whole way about this Liu Yuchun. The driver couldn’t help overhearing and learned that the group had planned a weekday outing to Miaoshan Park for flower viewing and photography. But Liu Yuchun was a no-show—she wasn’t answering calls or replying to messages. Someone then suggested going to her house.

At first, the driver thought they were being considerate friends. But then their tone turned sour, complaining that Liu Yuchun had the best hats and dresses, and maybe now was a good time to borrow some.

At the next stop, Ganzi Street, they all got off. Zhou Qingxia led the way like a tour guide and pointed at a narrow, crowded alley. “This used to be the parts factory. She lives inside.”

The buildings in the old factory area were all under eight stories, with no elevators and dim stairwells. Someone exclaimed, “I can’t believe Liu Yuchun lives in a place like this. I thought she was rich.”

Zhou Qingxia replied, “What do you know? These places may look run-down, but they were factory-issued. I’ve been to her place—super fancy decor. She lives alone in a three-bedroom apartment. Her life’s good.”

The group arrived at Unit 7, third floor. There were four apartments per floor. Zhou Qingxia knocked on 3-2, but no one answered.

“Did we come for nothing?”

“Wait—this might be her spare key!” Zhou Qingxia smiled smugly and retrieved a key from the iron door grid.

Just before unlocking the door, someone called out, “Wait, let’s take a video for Liu Yuchun!”

“Yes! She loves livestreaming!”

“Let’s try to be like her—maybe one of us could become a queen or something!”

“Dream on. You don’t have enough hats for that.”

Zhou Qingxia turned the key slightly, and the door opened. Ten or more women rushed in all at once. At least five of them were filming, all eager to be the first to capture something exciting.

“This place is huge! Yuchun, are you here? Your door wasn’t even locked!”

The spacious living room was quickly packed. The initial excitement faded as Zhou Qingxia suddenly sensed something off.

“Do you… smell something?”

“Like blood?”

She called out again, “Liu Yuchun,” and walked toward the bedroom. When she reached the master bedroom and saw what was inside, she collapsed to the floor in terror, unable to scream.

The others, forgetting their livestreams were still running, caught everything clearly on camera—a woman lay in a blood-soaked dress, her neck grotesquely torn open as though devoured by a monstrous maw. It seemed to be growing, draining all life from her. She lay among dozens of hats, like a flowerbed in bloom.

The livestream spread like wildfire, becoming the top trending topic in Xiarong City in under half an hour. Online speculation abounded, with the most repeated phrase being “The Hat Queen.”

“The Hat Queen?” On a speeding police car, Ji Chenjiao was watching the video clips and the netizens’ comments. The platform had already taken down the video, but private sharing couldn’t be fully stopped.

Ji Chenjiao felt the term sounded familiar. After thinking, he realized it was something Ling Lie had mentioned.

The Major Crimes Unit was still focused on finding leads in the Liu Yixiang case. They were verifying Ji Ke’s business trips, keeping a close eye on his odd-behaving grandson Ji Xing, and trying to uncover Ling Lie’s overseas history.

Among the three, Ling Lie was the hardest to investigate. Anything involving foreign countries could be easily faked. Ji Chenjiao, out of leads, applied for higher clearance through Xie Qing. But Xie Qing, usually very supportive, seemed unusually disinterested this time and brushed him off with bureaucratic language. Ji Chenjiao emphasized that Ling Lie was suspicious—even if unrelated to Liu Yixiang’s case, he might be involved in something else.

Xie Qing smiled and said, “Junior brother, you can’t just arrest someone because they might be a criminal. He’s living at your place, right? If he’s really dangerous, I trust you’ll handle it swiftly.”

Ji Chenjiao backed off, but he couldn’t help wondering—was Ling Lie someone from a higher-level agency? How else to explain Xie Qing’s attitude?

He didn’t share this suspicion with anyone. Every day, he wavered between “Ling Lie is a suspect” and “Ling Lie is a superior,” and whenever he had time, he checked what Ling Lie was doing at home.

Ling Lie had already become a favorite of the retired uncles and aunties at the residential compound. He had a strange talent for quickly befriending older people. Every time Ji Chenjiao dropped by, Ling Lie was either playing chess with the men or receiving fresh produce from the women.

Thanks to his spot in the waist-drum team, he even taught them how to dance.

Ji Chenjiao was speechless.

A few days ago, during one of his “inspections,” he saw Ling Lie returning from rehearsal in a bright green outfit, like a walking glow stick. Ling Lie had learned a new routine. “Captain Ji, perfect timing! Watch me dance!”

Ji Chenjiao remained cold, “No thanks.”

“Afraid you’ll go blind?”

“…Yes.”

Ling Lie burst into laughter and danced anyway. Midway, he paused and grabbed his phone to play some music—but picked the wrong song. A nostalgic melody began playing.

Ji Chenjiao recognized it—his adoptive mother Zhou Yun used to sing it. “You listen to this?”

“The ladies asked me to look it up during practice.” Ling Lie stopped dancing and sat beside him on the sofa. “That woman’s called the Hat Queen. She’s pretty popular on Muyin. The team aunties want to learn from her.”

“It’s her? She’s really well-known among the retiree photography crowd,” said Xi Wan from the back seat, resting a tablet on her lap. It showed crime scene photos from the Ganzi Street police station. She looked anxious—none of the women had preserved the crime scene, and with so many charging in, important evidence might’ve been compromised.

Ji Chenjiao turned and asked, “You know her too?”

“Too?”

“Ling Lie told me about her.”

“Oh, his waist-drum team is basically in the same circle as hers.” Xi Wan added, “My mom follows her Muyin account and talks about her a lot—says the Hat Queen really knows how to pose, shoot, dress, especially with hats. Worth learning from.”

Ji Chenjiao raised an eyebrow. “Your mom uses video apps?”

“She’s all over it! We’re the ones falling behind.” Xi Wan sighed, “My mom used to just take pictures with her friends when traveling. Then someone got her into Muyin and its citywide recommendations. It blew her mind! Turns out there’s a whole community of stylish aunties making videos together.”

As she spoke, Ji Chenjiao browsed the Hat Queen’s profile—over 9,000 followers, posting daily videos with trending music, but with only a few dozen likes and comments per post. Not exactly what he’d call “famous.”

Xi Wan gave him a look. “That’s already a big deal. My mom only has about ninety followers and keeps asking me to like and comment.”

Before they arrived at the scene, Xi Wan finished explaining the whole world of Muyin competition among retired ladies—how, after a lifetime of hard work, these women finally had time and money to focus on themselves. No longer needing to support their families, they dressed up, posed for pictures, and made videos.

Some formed model squads, bought chunky heels suitable for their age, and strutted around city parks between spring and summer.

Liu Yuchun gained popularity because she was unusually attractive for her age and very skilled at video editing. Over time, she earned the nickname “Hat Queen.” Her account used to be “Sister Yuchun” but was later renamed “Hat Queen.”

After what happened, Xi Wan couldn’t help worrying about her own mother. “She’s worked hard for us her whole life. She deserves to enjoy herself now—spend money, play around, I won’t complain. But it’s like she’s been brainwashed… All she cares about now is outshining her peers. I don’t even know how to talk to her anymore.”

Ganzi Street was in the northern district, home to the Xiarong Heavy Industry parts factory and its residential area, packed with people. Word quickly spread about the murder in Unit 7, drawing a crowd that gathered outside the police tape, trying to catch a glimpse or gossip. Some timidly posted “insider news” online.

The Major Crimes Unit vehicle stopped near the substation. Ji Chenjiao got out and saw He Feng, looking worn out.

He Feng sighed, “Captain Ji, we meet again.”

Ji Chenjiao patted him on the shoulder. No words needed.

Though not in charge of the case, Ji Chenjiao had been sent by Xie Qing to monitor it—since the livestream caused such a stir, they had to be ready to step in.

While He Feng conducted interviews, Ji Chenjiao made his way to the building, observing the surroundings.

Though the building had unit numbers, there was no centralized management—no real community security. Anyone could enter. The streets had plenty of cameras, but anyone with ill intent could easily avoid them.

“I heard Liu Yuchun was the victim. Always flirting—who knows what kind of people she lured in?”

“Exactly! She’s over fifty and still dressing like that. No wonder her daughter rents elsewhere.”

“Hey, the dead deserve respect. Why say that?”

The chatter reached Ji Chenjiao’s ears. He glanced at the gossipers and stepped under the police tape.

The women who found the body were either at the hospital or the police station. Only local officers and the Major Crimes team were in Apartment 3-2.

Ji Chenjiao donned gloves and shoe covers, crouching to inspect the lock.

Xi Wan said, “Same as the Xieyang Road case. No sign of forced entry. According to the witness, they used a spare key.”

Ji Chenjiao scanned the floor. The living room was tiled in milky white and visibly covered in muddy footprints. The sofa was piled with clothes, but the coffee and dining tables were tidy.

The body lay on the master bedroom bed. The floral bedspread from the ’80s was soaked in blood. The wall beside the headboard had some spatter. Thirty-nine hats were arranged on the bed.

An Xun and the station’s forensic doctor were performing the preliminary autopsy. After observing for a bit, Ji Chenjiao went to the other two rooms.

The study had bookshelves on three sides, filled with comics, figurines, and photos of a Pomeranian dog. The chair was tucked in, unused for a while.

The second bedroom’s bed was covered with a dust cloth—no pillows or blankets—and completely covered in clothes. Clothes were also strewn across the wardrobe and window seat. The dressing table held a dozen lipsticks and several skincare products. Ji Chenjiao picked up a thin strip of paper and took a moment to realize it was a double-eyelid sticker.

The victim had clearly turned what used to be someone else’s room into a dressing room. Based on the earlier gossip, this was likely her daughter’s former bedroom.

“Has the victim’s family been notified?” Ji Chenjiao asked as he returned to the living room.

“They’ve been informed. Should we conduct the interview, or will you?” a colleague from the precinct asked.

“I’ll do it,” Ji Chenjiao replied.

“Captain, come take a look,” An Xun called from the master bedroom.

Ji Chenjiao nodded to the precinct officer and walked over to the bedside. The victim’s eyes and mouth were slightly open. Compared to the wound on her neck, her expression wasn’t particularly terrifying.

“Preliminary cause of death is a severed carotid artery caused by a sharp weapon. No other fatal injuries or signs of struggle on the body. She was likely killed in her sleep,” An Xun said, holding the mangled neck with both hands. “The killer struck the artery with the first stab, then followed with five more — possibly out of rage. Time of death is estimated to be early morning yesterday.”

Ji Chenjiao frowned. “Early morning yesterday, April 27th… She lay here for a day and a half before being discovered. Was this outfit put on her postmortem? Was the body moved?”

“The victim was indeed changed into different clothes, but based on the bloodstains and livor mortis, the killer dressed her immediately after the murder, right here.”

Ji Chenjiao had already inspected all the clothes in the apartment. Despite being heavily stained with blood, the dress on the victim was clearly well-made. In fact, it was the same one Liu Yuchun wore in her most recent and most popular video on her the Hat Queen account.

At that moment, a commotion erupted outside the door. A precinct officer shouted sternly, “This is an active crime scene — no civilians allowed!”

Ji Chenjiao was used to curious onlookers, but then a familiar voice called out, “Who said I’m a civilian? I’m Captain Ji’s suspect!”

Ji Chenjiao: “…”

Ling Lie straightened up and even gave a salute. “Captain Ji! Your suspect has come uninvited! Are you surprised? Delighted?”