Despite countless times witnessing Yan Su's knack for seeing through what others missed, Owen couldn't help but be curious about how he pieced everything together.
Leaning against the piano, Owen gestured for Yan Su to continue.
With a fluid motion, Yan Su slid his wheelchair back, placing his long legs neatly on the piano bench, crossing them with ease.
The light filtering through the stained glass windows cast a faint blue hue in his pale eyes, giving him an otherworldly prince-like quality.
"The information you provided about her aligns perfectly with her résumé: Sorrel Fraser University, graduate studies in journalism and mass communication. But the reality is…"
"She didn't wear gloves in this cold weather because they reduce finger sensitivity. In a high-temperature room, her scarf is close to her neck, indicating she's sweating. She keeps her coat and scarf on, ready to leave, signaling a lack of security."
"The cuffs of her pants aren't tight; she's not wearing boots. Given the snow outside, her loose pants likely conceal something—specifically, a gun. Would a student carry a gun? Unlikely, especially an Asian, since obtaining a gun permit is difficult. If she's a high-profile protection subject, that's another story."
"The over hour-long drive from downtown here left no seatbelt marks on her coat. She doesn't buckle up, likely due to a need for quick response in emergencies—seatbelts can hinder movement. Is this something you taught her, or is she just overly cautious? Early stages of paranoia are common in witness protection. Given she's been at SFU for a year yet remains vigilant, it suggests her experiences and adversaries are more complex than typical witnesses."
"When she entered, she scanned the bookshelf and relaxed briefly upon seeing records of European soccer leagues. Her gaze skipped over books on media like they were nothing, but lingered on the cell biology and pharmacology section for over five seconds, subconsciously tapping her right hand on the envelope. This indicates not only observation but also memorization, a habitual intake of knowledge related to her field."
"Her right hand rested on her left—she's not left-handed. But she handed things to me and retrieved the book with her left, likely due to a faint scar from an electric shock on her right wrist, suggesting a deeper injury before."
"Although she applied cream under her eyes, a careful inspection reveals a darkened area from sun exposure. Besides being under a Middle Eastern woman's black cloak, I can't imagine anything else leaving such an imprint. She even paused at the Arabic Quran on the shelf, confirming my suspicion."
"Her hands carry the scent of medical beeswax oil and talcum powder. Those who frequently sanitize their hands to prevent skin dehydration use beeswax oil, while those needing dexterity in rubber gloves use talcum powder. A surgeon requires twelve years of study; she's at most twenty-three. Thus, she must be involved in lab-based pharmaceutical research in biology or cell sciences. The strong scent indicates she's not just casually handling it; she's coming from a lab."
"The sudden appearance of this girl, combined with your concern for her safety, speaks volumes."
Yan Su tilted the résumé toward the light, revealing a transparent impression on the paper.
"She must have written something on the sheet preceding this one. Does a mass communication student really use Morse code to jot down a phone number?"
"As for her parents, I only considered that after noticing your expression, confirming she's a witness protection subject."
"She's likely still conducting relevant experiments, which means she possesses essential knowledge or skills in this field. Yet in biological research and pharmacology, talent isn't enough; it's all about experience. Given her youth, it points to parental influence—growing up in labs and beginning her own research. Moreover,"
He tapped the résumé, "her birthday is February 29th—today. It's one-thirty PM; she hasn't eaten lunch, indicating her birthday is fabricated. But her parents' deaths are real."
"A Middle Eastern couple of renowned scientists, with their young daughter entering witness protection after their betrayal and murder, possibly handing all their secrets to her beforehand. This arrangement is a means to obtain protection."
The library fell silent, Owen's face reflecting utter amazement.
"Of course, there are other possibilities," Yan Su added, his dark brows steady on Owen. "For instance, she might have recently traveled to the Middle East, worked part-time in a beeswax oil shop, has varied hobbies, enjoys soccer, is intrigued by cryptography and pharmacology—rebellious, neglects her seatbelt, and pretends to wield a fake gun. Paranoid tendencies abound... contradictory?"
"My conclusion rests on the most plausible scenario."
He inadvertently revealed a hint of arrogance, "Your expression gave me the answer. Thank you!"
Owen's expression darkened.
He added dryly, "Being expressive has its drawbacks."
Owen was frustrated; after growing up together, did he really have to wear a poker face?
Yan Su rose, returning the white book to its place on the shelf.
Owen stared at the card Zhen Ai had sent, asking, "Aren't you going to take a look?"
"I'll do it later," Yan Su replied dismissively, slipping the card back into the envelope, displaying little interest.
Owen leaned in to examine Zhen Ai's résumé. Her educational journey was straightforward—high school in China, university in the U.S. He tilted the paper to the light and, sure enough, saw impressions.
While the symbols varied, they unmistakably resembled Morse code:
/****-/-**..*..*-**..**-*/****-/-***..*..-*/****-/*-..--*..**-..***..-/****-/*----..*****..-----/****-/**---..*****..-----/****-/-----..****-..****-..*----/****-/**---..-*-*--/****-/
A record of a phone number, a name, and a contact.
"Pretty clear," Owen muttered, reading aloud, "Delf Ben Agust, 150-250-0441-2! Wait, is that a Chinese phone number?"
Clear?
Yan Su paused, his gaze shifting to the paper in Owen's hand, and he realized it was not merely a name and number but rather a death threat.
Owen's face paled. "While some witnesses disrespect life and might kill, Ai wouldn't…"
Yan Su interrupted, "Does she write with her left or right hand?"
"Right hand."
"She's injured her right hand, so how could she leave such deep impressions on the second sheet?" Yan Su furrowed his brows. "This code wasn't written by her."
"Ah, I overlooked that," Owen admitted, a hint of irritation at himself. "With her cautious nature, if it were her writing, there wouldn't be any marks."
Yan Su looked at him, "Does she have a roommate who knows Morse code? Haven't you investigated her surroundings?"
Instead of diving deeper, Owen quickly dialed Zhen Ai's number, but it went straight to voicemail.
He bolted for the exit.
"You should pray this threat isn't directed at her," Yan Su remarked coolly, watching Owen begin to relax before adding, "But the odds aren't in your favor."
"…"
Zhen Ai silenced her phone upon entering the school library, only realizing later that she had missed several calls.
Returning Owen's call, she could hear the relief in his voice as he bombarded her with questions, followed by a note that he and Yan Su were on their way to gather more details. As the call ended, she caught Owen mumbling about canceling the tracking, sounding frustrated.
"Let them die if they have to," a detached voice responded from the other end.
Zhen Ai returned to her dorm to wait. As evening fell, students filled the campus, heading home or out on dates, colorful figures against the white snow.
Standing beside a small, stout snowman, she soon spotted Yan Su approaching through the wintery landscape.
Her first reaction was surprise.
He was not in his wheelchair; his legs were fine and long.
Having sat in the chair before, he appeared even taller and slimmer now, clad in a long black coat and gray scarf, radiating a noble charm reminiscent of a gentleman from a British film.
As Zhen Ai smiled politely, her breath formed a white mist in the cold air, quickly swept away by the wind. Yan Su, unprepared for her smile, froze, his expression becoming even more rigid, as if the chill had solidified him; only his light brown eyes glimmered like stained glass in sunlight.
Zhen Ai stuffed her hands into her coat pockets, feeling the cold seep through her feet as she waited, trying to fill the silence with conversation. "Did Owen drive you here?"
It was a pointless question, akin to asking about the weather, but it served as a good opener.
Yan Su, however, seemed to disagree with the value of her comment.
He looked at her silently, his pale eyes reflecting the snow's brightness. "A giant bird carried me here."
The original phrase was: "I hitchhiked a giant bird."
It was hard to tell whether it was classic American humor or a sarcastic retort to a trivial question.
Zhen Ai sensed it leaned more towards the latter.
Finding it difficult to respond, she eventually asked, "Is Owen parking? Waiting for him here?"
"Let's go inside to wait." He took long strides toward the dorm, lost in thought before suddenly stating, "The cold weakens one's psychological defenses."
Zhen Ai gazed up at the sky, struggling to connect with his jumpy train of thought.
As they entered the building, he abruptly stopped, causing Zhen Ai to nearly bump into him.
Yan Su turned to her, his eyes as clear as the outside snow. "Owen said when you saw my card, you described me as seemingly low-key but inwardly arrogant and proud?"
Zhen Ai stopped in her tracks, unprepared for the closeness, looking up at his composed face and feeling an inexplicable pressure.
Despite her embarrassment, she confessed, "Yes."
"Arrogant, proud," he repeated slowly. "While I appreciate those words, I assume you don't agree."
As he continued walking, she replied, "It's not that I disagree; I just think humility is a good quality."
Straightening his back, he climbed the stairs, staring ahead. "I disagree with those who consider humility a virtue. To a logician, everything should be as it is—underestimating or exaggerating one's talents violates the truth."
Zhen Ai paused, instinctively replying, "Sherlock Holmes' 'The Greek Interpreter.'"
"A fan of Sherlock Holmes?" His brow arched slightly, a fleeting hint of meaning passing through his clear eyes, but he quickly returned to his previous tone. "Clearly obvious."
Zhen Ai remained unfazed, pondering for a moment before asking, "Owen mentioned he'd take me to a birthday dinner soon. Will you join us?"
He replied blandly, "What was supposed to be an extraordinary deciphering adventure has turned into a cozy birthday dinner. 'Cozy' fits me perfectly, right?"
Zhen Ai chuckled, finding it amusing how he could twist sarcasm so artfully.
Noticing her laughter, Yan Su's expression hardened as his mind filled with analysis.
Her laughter seemed illogical.
From a logical standpoint, it made no sense; even behavioral analysis yielded no hidden meaning.
Why was she laughing at something that wasn't funny?
The incongruity unsettled him slightly.
As they reached the door, she turned back to him. "Owen said you figured out the death threat from my résumé. Can you explain? I'm very interested in ciphers…"
Before she could finish, the door swung open, releasing a heavy scent of blood.
Zhen Ai's hand trembled as an ominous premonition washed over her. Pushing the door open slowly, she was met with the horrifying sight of her roommate, Jiang Xin, sprawled in a gruesome pool of blood, a horrifying gash across her neck.
Yan Su walked past her, maintaining his usual demeanor. "I guess you won't be having dinner tonight."