Three years later, I was a senior at H City Institute of Technology.
Life as a senior was easy and laid-back. A few classes per week, and the rest of the time was ours to do as we pleased. My roommates were either grinding in League of Legends all night or busy sweet-talking freshman girls into love motels. Almost everyone had a partner.
Everyone but me.
I spent my nights with dark circles under my eyes, buried in the medical library, devouring every forensic science book I could find.
Because I never forgot the day my grandfather died—never forgot the promise I made with Officer Sun. If the "North River Blade" ever returned, I swore I'd be the one to bring him to justice.
But right now, I was far from strong enough. So I had to keep growing.
That afternoon, I was returning some overdue books when I ran into my roommate and best friend, Wang Dali. He came running over, eyes wide with excitement.
"Yo, Yangzi, did you hear? Someone died on campus today!"
"Where?"
"By the lake. Some guy hanged himself. A whole convoy of police cars drove onto campus! Can you believe it? I mean, girls hanging themselves over heartbreak is one thing, but a dude? What was his deal—dumped by his girlfriend or failed the CET-4 English test?"
He looked like he was enjoying the gossip way too much. I gave him a cold look.
"Dali, show some respect, will you? The guy just died. He might not have reached the end of his natural life—those kinds of deaths bring heavy resentment. If his spirit hears you gossiping, don't be surprised if he pays you a visit tonight."
Dali spat three times for luck. "Tsk, tsk, you're such a buzzkill. Anyway, wanna go check it out?"
"Sure."
We headed to the artificial lake, where a crowd had already gathered. Police had set up a cordon. An old locust tree stood at the center of the scene, a leather belt dangling from one of its branches. The body had already been taken down, and a forensic doctor in a lab coat was crouched over it, examining.
"Strange…" I muttered.
"What?" Dali craned his neck.
"This spot's just a few steps from the lake. Why hang himself instead of drowning?"
"Easy," Dali said with a smirk. "He probably wanted to drown himself but chickened out. Autumn nights are cold, man—who wants to die cold and wet? Hanging was just more… comfortable. Makes perfect sense, right?"
"Oh absolutely. With logic like that, Sherlock Holmes would be out of a job."
Dali, not the brightest bulb, took it as a compliment. "You know it! I should've studied criminal psychology."
As we moved to get a better view, Dali suddenly jabbed my shoulder. "Yo! Check out that policewoman!"
I followed his gaze and spotted her—tall, slender, flawless skin, wearing tight jeans and a leather jacket over her blue police shirt. She stood arms akimbo, her gaze locked on the corpse, brows slightly furrowed. Short hair, fresh face—barely older than me. Swap the uniform for something more fashionable and she could easily pass as a model or livestream influencer.
Dali practically drooled. "I swear, I've seen it all—but this is the first time I've wanted to get arrested. How many years for assaulting an officer? Asking for a friend."
I ignored him, refocused on the corpse. That was more my kind of thing.
Eventually, I found an angle to get a better look.
The deceased was a male, early twenties, average build. He wore a hoodie. His eyes bulged like a goldfish, and a deep ligature mark wrapped around his neck. His face was ghostly pale above the mark, dark red below. A long, red tongue lolled from his mouth.
According to ancient forensic texts like The Washing Away of Wrongs, a person only sticks out their tongue in a hanging death if the rope is positioned below the Adam's apple—an anatomical detail often exaggerated in horror films, but rooted in truth.
The scene was grotesque. But I wasn't scared.
I was fascinated.
Judging from the mess in his pants, he'd lost control of his bodily functions at death—a common sign of hanging.
But something didn't sit right.
I wanted to get closer, but a cop stopped me. "Stay outside the cordon. This is a crime scene."
Just then, the policewoman approached the forensic doctor. "Dr. Qin, suicide or homicide?"
The white-haired old man pulled off his gloves. "Cause of death is asphyxiation by hanging. No signs of struggle or restraint. Suicide."
She nodded. "Alright. Let's pack up the scene and take the body back."
"No need to dissect it. I've seen plenty of hangings—this one's clear as day."
I bit my lip. I couldn't stay silent.
Something in me snapped.
I stepped over the cordon and marched straight into the scene.
"Yangzi! Are you crazy?" Dali shouted behind me. "You're really going to flirt with her?! I was joking!"
I ignored him. Everything else faded as I walked straight toward the policewoman, pointed at the forensic doctor, and said loudly:
"He's wrong. This isn't suicide. This man was murdered."
The policewoman blinked, stunned—eyes narrowing as curiosity replaced doubt.