"You're not bad," Ren Ye remarked, giving a thumbs up.
Lao Huang exhaled heavily, staring into his coffee. "If I approve these conditions, the reviewers will probably think I'm in cahoots with you," he muttered, taking a long, bitter sip.
The two sat in silence for a while, the ambient sounds of the street filling the void. Ren Ye's gaze wandered across the road, narrowing as a faint smile tugged at his lips.
On the other side, a young kindergarten teacher, flanked by three staff members, led a little girl, no more than three years old, out of the gate. Her small steps were hesitant, her tiny hand gripping the teacher's.
Ren Ye stood abruptly, his movements precise and deliberate. Lao Huang stayed seated, observing quietly as Ren crossed the street.
The little girl stopped as he approached, looking at him with wide, timid eyes.
"Duoduo." Ren Ye squatted down, his voice low and gentle. "You've grown so much."
The child blinked up at him, her gaze curious but wary. "Who are you?" she asked, her small voice trembling.
Ren Ye froze for a moment, his chest tightening. He reached out, carefully stroking her soft hair as sunlight bathed them both. "I'm your father's friend. His best friend."
"They say…" The little girl hesitated, her lips trembling. "I don't have a dad. How can you be friends with someone who doesn't exist?"
Her words struck like a blade. Ren Ye clenched his jaw, his voice faltering as he replied, "You have a dad, Duoduo. And you must never forget him."
He pulled out the envelope Lao Huang had given him earlier, its edges crinkled from being gripped too tightly. Ren slipped it into the little girl's small backpack. "Take this to your mom, okay? Tell her to read the letter inside."
"Mom says I can't take things from strangers," she said softly, fidgeting.
"He's not a stranger, Duoduo. He's friends with your mom, too," the kindergarten teacher interjected with a gentle smile.
After a long pause, the little girl nodded. "Thank you, uncle."
Ren Ye's lips curved into a faint smile. He stood, brushing dust off his knees. "Goodbye, Duoduo. Be good, okay?"
The child waved, her tiny hand trembling. "Goodbye, uncle."
The moment passed quickly. The staff guided the little girl back toward the kindergarten, her small figure disappearing behind the gates.
Ren Ye stood rooted to the spot, watching her until she was completely out of sight.
"You've done enough for their family," Lao Huang's voice came from behind him. He'd walked over, his expression unusually soft. "The past is the past, Xiao Ren. You can't let it hold you forever."
Ren Ye turned slightly, his gaze distant. "Do you know why I fired seven shots to kill those suspects?"
Lao Huang shook his head, waiting.
"Because if I didn't, I wouldn't be here," Ren Ye said, his voice hoarse. "But without my colleague, I wouldn't have made it either." He looked down, his fists clenched. "I hate them for what they did. But more than that… I hate myself."
Lao Huang stayed silent, letting the weight of the confession settle between them.
Ren Ye exhaled deeply, his voice steadier now. "Do you know how much a martyr's pension is? Twenty times the average income, plus forty months' salary. Sounds like a lot, right? But that's barely over a million. With that, you're supposed to support four elderly parents and raise a child. In this society, is that too much to ask for?"
Lao Huang felt a chill run down his spine. The quiet intensity in Ren Ye's words struck him harder than any argument could. He recalled their earlier negotiation—the demands, the seemingly excessive requests—and suddenly, they didn't feel excessive at all.
"This kindergarten," Ren Ye gestured at the modest building, "has the lowest fees in the area. But that child's father? He was a martyr."
With that, he turned and walked toward the business car parked nearby, his hands stuffed into his pockets.
Lao Huang remained standing, his mind racing. After a moment, he pulled out his phone, dialing a number.
"Hey, Lao He," he said, his tone unusually firm. "I need your help with something. Can you get me a spot in the second elementary school? It's for a friend's kid. She's about three years old."
"Second elementary school?" came the incredulous response. "Brother, that's nearly impossible! Just last month, my cousin—"
"Don't give me that." Lao Huang cut him off. "Make it happen. One more favor for someone, one more meal on your plate. Got it?"
He hung up before the other man could argue further. Turning back, Lao Huang took one last look at the kindergarten.
Ren Ye had brought him here for a reason. And for once, Lao Huang wasn't going to let bureaucracy or excuses get in the way.
In the afternoon, Lao Huang accompanied Ren Ye to several familiar places: his old unit, the school where he spent his youth, even the little snack bar he frequented back then. They crossed paths with people Ren Ye considered significant in his life, though none of them were his father or sister.
It wasn't that he didn't want to see them—he didn't dare. He feared that the fragile courage he'd painstakingly built over the day would shatter the moment he faced them.
This hesitation, this avoidance, was undoubtedly irresponsible when viewed through the lens of familial duty. Yet, there was something else stirring within Ren Ye—something unsettling, yet enticing. The "weirdness" he had brushed against earlier in the day lingered in his mind, pulling at him like a half-remembered dream.
He was scared. He wanted to go.
Perhaps these three years hadn't fundamentally changed who Ren Ye was. Outwardly, he seemed calmer, quieter—even restrained. But deep within, he had never fully accepted the role of a murderer. He didn't want to remain trapped in mediocrity, not when a world larger than his past was beckoning him.
This afternoon felt less like revisiting his life and more like quietly saying goodbye to it. Yesterday, after all, he was still pressing the pedal of a sewing machine in prison.
Now, as evening fell and twilight painted the horizon in muted golds and purples, Ren Ye sat in the guest room. The notebook Lao Huang had handed him rested in his lap, its blank pages inviting, yet heavy with unspoken purpose.
Across from him, Lao Huang leaned casually against the TV cabinet. His arms were crossed, his gaze fixed on Ren, yet he said nothing.
The room was filled with the sound of ticking—steady and unrelenting.
"Da, da, da..."
Ren Ye's fingers absently traced the notebook's spine. The rhythm of time pressed into his ears, not as a gentle reminder, but as a countdown.
Then, it came—a voice, neither loud nor soft, yet carrying an undeniable weight.
[First-Order Stargate - Qingliang Town. Opening countdown: 10:00.]