Gazing at An Zhi from such close proximity, Wen Yiqian couldn't help but marvel—how could a human face be sculpted with such flawless beauty?
At that moment, a faint, elusive fragrance wafted into his nostrils.
His nose tingled. Coupled with the fear and the rain he had endured throughout the day, his budding cold betrayed him.
"Achoo!"
The sneeze erupted with no warning. And An Zhi, being so near, had no time to dodge.
Thus, her exquisite face was splattered… with saliva.
The air turned to stone.
An Zhi stared at him, gritting her teeth, eyes blazing with fury as though she could skin him alive on the spot.
"I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I caught a cold in the rain," Wen Yiqian stammered, reaching out instinctively to wipe her face.
Mid-gesture, he hesitated. They weren't close, and it didn't seem appropriate—especially not across genders. Besides, even if it was his own saliva, using his hand felt repulsive. He quickly withdrew.
"You're disgusted by me now?"
To An Zhi, the scene played out differently.
He reached out, then recoiled with a look of aversion—wasn't that disgust?
"I didn't even flinch at your spit, and you dare look at me like that?!"
"I… I didn't mean—" Wen Yiqian was at a loss.
"Enough, An Zhi!" barked Li Weiguo, unable to contain himself. "Go wash your face!"
With a scowl that could slice steel, An Zhi shot Wen Yiqian a glare and stormed out of the interrogation room.
Earlier in the day, she had quite admired him—handsome, intelligent, and brave. A man who fearlessly subdued a deranged killer. Who wouldn't be intrigued?
But now, all that fondness had crumbled into dust.
"Why is my luck so goddamn awful?" Wen Yiqian sighed under his breath.
"Let's get back on topic," Li Weiguo said, tapping the table. "Explain to me—how did you know Tian Buyi was a murderer?"
He paused. "If your answer holds water, I might just let the impersonation charge slide."
"Well… I'm a detective," Wen Yiqian said, unveiling his premeditated excuse.
"A private investigator?" Li Weiguo's sharp eyes narrowed with suspicion. "If you're lying, I can expose you with one phone call."
"Feel free," Wen Yiqian replied, calm and composed. Then, in his heart, he added, 'I'd be impressed if you could.'
The male protagonist in his novel—a high-IQ sociopath—never left any trace. Nothing useful could be dug up. At best, an investigation might turn up some vague facts: Wen Yiqian lived mysteriously, had no clear occupation, wandered aimlessly every day, and never lacked money.
Which, come to think of it, matched the image of a private detective perfectly.
Li Weiguo, seeing the certainty in his eyes, began to believe.
Wen Yiqian seized the opportunity. "Tian Buyi has a history of violent crimes. He masked them as suicides or accidents. The victims' families, suspicious of foul play, hired me to investigate."
"You're saying you already suspected Tian Buyi but never alerted the police?" Li Weiguo roared, yanking him by the collar. "Do you know how many innocent people might have died because of that lunatic?!"
"I only had suspicions—nothing conclusive. It wasn't until today, by pure chance, that I encountered him and sensed he was about to strike."
This, conveniently, explained how he knew Tian Buyi's name in the first place.
Li Weiguo's fury swelled. "You happened to be there this time. What if you hadn't? How many more elderly folks and children would've died?!"
"I'm sorry… but this is my job. I have a professional code to uphold." Wen Yiqian's voice was apologetic yet firm. "As a private investigator, without the client's consent, I cannot report findings to the police."
"Professional code?" Li Weiguo sneered. "Sounds more like greed."
"I won't deny it—I do need money." Wen Yiqian spoke with quiet honesty.
Li Weiguo was momentarily silent.
Professionalism or profit, Wen Yiqian had risked his life to save others—and that alone set him apart from most.
Li Weiguo stared at him for a while, then finally sighed. "It's late. You can go."
Outside the precinct, Wen Yiqian exhaled deeply.
His vision swam, and his knees buckled—he barely managed to find a step to sit on.
He understood his body was simply reaching its limits. The unrelenting strain, both physical and mental, was finally demanding a toll.
Reflecting on his day: he'd been thrown into the world of his own novel, faced down two psychopaths, danced on the edge of death twice—and lived.
He hadn't allowed his mind a moment's rest. Anyone would be drained.
A glance at his phone—it was past one in the morning.
Day one in the world of his own fiction had finally come to an end.
As he stared into the still, ink-dark night, a quiet emptiness welled up inside him.
If this was only the beginning… what lay ahead?
Considering his current situation, he almost pitied himself.
A bitter smile curled his lips as he shook his head.
He must be the most unfortunate protagonist in literary history.
And yet—he had cried, laughed, trembled with fear, braved danger, bled, and prevailed. He had apprehended two serial killers and saved a helpless pair of grandparents and their grandchild.
All things considered, this day had been more vivid and meaningful than any in his previous life.
Back then, he'd spend his days in his room, watching shows, playing games. Time slipped away unnoticed.
He never imagined a single day could feel this long.
"This… isn't bad," he murmured to himself.
If possible, Wen Yiqian wished he could go home, take a hot shower, and slurp a steaming cup of instant noodles.
As for tomorrow—who cared?
Living fully in the present, cherishing each fleeting minute—that was enough.
"No light will wait for me to arrive;Right or wrong, come what may—The unknown, I won't dare to divine…"
Humming softly, he rose from the steps and walked into the night.
The rain-soaked pavement shimmered with puddles, glimmering beneath the streetlights.
His shoes and clothes were already drenched, but at this moment, he was like a mischievous child, deliberately stepping through each little pool of water as if it were the most natural thing in the world.