Xiang Zhen’s Suspicion Grows
Xiang Zhen wasn't an overly cautious man, nor was he given to paranoia.
As the chief editor of The Beijing Daily, he had spent years refining his instincts. Journalism was a battlefield, and a good journalist knew when to trust their gut. He had built his career on that instinct, and it had never failed him.
And right now—
Something was wrong with Song Rui.
At first, he had chalked it up to stress. Investigating Lin Cheng, one of the country's most influential actors, was no small task. Song Rui had been digging into him, determined to expose his corruption, and she had never been one to back down from a fight. It was reasonable to assume that the pressure was finally getting to her.
But that wasn't it.
It wasn't just stress.
It was her.
The way she spoke, the way she carried herself, the way she looked at things as if they were completely foreign to her.
Something had changed.
And the more Xiang Zhen observed her, the more he became certain—this was not the Song Rui he knew.
It started with small things.
The first thing he noticed was how quiet she had become.
Song Rui had never been a reserved person. She was outspoken, sharp-witted, and confident. She had a way of commanding a room, of filling the space around her with her presence. When she spoke, her voice carried weight—sometimes sarcastic, sometimes blunt, but always certain.
But lately?
She had been hesitant. Measured. Careful.
She still answered questions and still held conversations, but something about the way she did it felt… wrong. As if she was choosing each word with excessive caution, as if speaking was an unfamiliar task she had to concentrate on.
At first, he thought she might just be exhausted. Maybe overworked.
But then there was the way she wrote.
Song Rui had always been fast on a keyboard. She typed with the efficiency of someone who had done it a thousand times, her fingers flying over the keys without hesitation. But when Xiang Zhen passed by her desk one day, he noticed her staring at the keyboard, her fingers hovering above the letters as if she didn't recognize them.
And that was when the first real alarm sounded in his mind.
He didn't say anything. He didn't want to overreact.
But the more he watched her, the more uneasy he felt.
The most glaring change, however, was the way she spoke.
Song Rui had always been direct. She spoke in a modern, casual manner—sometimes a little rough, sometimes playful, but always with a tone that fit her environment.
But now—
Her speech was too formal.
It wasn't just the words she used, but the way she pronounced them. Her tone was too deliberate, too precise, too old-fashioned. It was subtle, but Xiang Zhen caught it.
She avoided contractions.
She enunciated words too carefully.
She didn't swear as much.
She didn't throw around casual slang.
It was as if someone had placed an 18th-century noblewoman inside Song Rui's body and expected her to blend in.
And no matter how much he tried to rationalize it—he couldn't shake the feeling that this woman wasn't Song Rui.
That afternoon, Xiang Zhen decided to test her.
Song Rui—or the woman pretending to be her—was at her desk, fingers moving across her laptop far too slowly.
Xiang Zhen approached, hands tucked into his pockets.
"Song Rui."
She flinched.
It was slight, but Xiang Zhen saw it.
That was Red Flag #2.
Song Rui didn't flinch. She had been chewed out by CEOs, had confronted politicians, had been threatened by powerful people, and she never flinched.
He narrowed his eyes. "Busy?"
She hesitated. Just for a second. Then she nodded. "Yes."
Another hesitation.
Too careful.
He pulled out a chair and sat across from her, studying her face.
She looked like Song Rui.
But at the same time… she didn't.
"You know," he said casually, tilting his head, "I was just thinking about that hotpot place we went to after that corruption investigation. What was it called again?"
Her expression froze.
For just a second. A brief, fleeting second. But Xiang Zhen caught it.
Because the real Song Rui would have answered instantly.
Instead, the woman in front of him looked lost.
"…Hotpot?" she echoed uncertainly.
Xiang Zhen leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table.
"Yeah. The one you said had the best broth in all of Beijing."
She stared at him. Her fingers tightened on the edge of the desk.
Then she gave him a weak smile.
"I… do not recall."
There it was.
That strange, old-fashioned way of speaking.
Xiang Zhen felt something cold settle in his stomach.
Because now—he was sure.
This woman was not Song Rui.
He didn't confront her.
Not yet.
Instead, he simply nodded, pretending to accept her answer.
But inside, his mind was racing.
Who was she?
What had happened to the real Song Rui?
And, most importantly—
Did she know that he was onto her?
For the rest of the day, Xiang Zhen watched her closely. Every movement, every hesitation, every small mistake.
She didn't recognize people's names as quickly as she should have.
She struggled to use her phone—as if touchscreen technology was something foreign to her.
She avoided slang, choosing words that sounded too formal, or too unnatural.
And there were moments—brief, fleeting moments—when she looked around as if she had never seen the modern world before.
By the time the sun had set, Xiang Zhen had made up his mind.
He needed answers.
And he was going to get them.
That evening, after most of the office had cleared out, Xiang Zhen finally made his move.
Song Rui was still at her desk, frowning at her laptop screen as if the very concept of email confused her.
Xiang Zhen stepped forward, his tone casual.
"You've been acting strange lately."
She stiffened.
"I—" She hesitated. "I do not know what you mean."
There it was again. That strange, old-fashioned way of speaking.
Xiang Zhen narrowed his eyes.
He wasn't stupid.
And he had spent too many years chasing the truth to ignore what was right in front of him.
This wasn't Song Rui.
"Who are you?" he asked quietly.
The woman in front of him inhaled sharply.
For a moment, she didn't answer.
And in that silence, Xiang Zhen knew—he was right.