Chapter 76: Human-Filled Soup Dumplings

I spotted Huang Xiaotao's satchel half-hidden in the shrubbery. "Stop hiding—I know you're in there."

The bushes rustled, and she emerged, hands clasped behind her back, grinning. "How did you spot me? I thought I had you fooled."

I broke down my reasoning: first, her crossbody bag has a thin strap—if someone yanked it off, the strap would be torn. Second, with her martial training and police instincts, she wouldn't go unnoticed if she were really kidnapped. And most telling of all…

"I smelled your signature scent on those bushes," I said.

"Scent?" She sniffed at herself. "I never wear perfume—where would a scent come from?"

"I mean… your natural scent," I stammered, wiping cold sweat from my brow. Better not let her think I was some lovesick sap.

She laughed at my little joke. We found a bench and sat for a moment. She yawned, voice thick with fatigue. "This week nearly killed me—we shut down an illegal workshop and tail-ed suspects four nights straight. I've slept under twenty hours all week."

"Detectives really have to do that kind of work?" I asked, surprised.

"You think I get to handle big cases every day? Most of the time it's paperwork and petty disputes. That's a cop's life—thank goodness you only come out for the major cases. Honestly, I wanted to sleep in all day after you invited me out last night, but I already said yes."

No wonder she looked worn out—and she'd even applied light makeup to hide it. I felt a pang of sympathy.

"How about I take you home to rest?" I offered.

"You moron! You invite me out and then kick me home?" She flashed a mischievous grin. "A guy with half a brain would say, 'Want to rent a room and rest awhile?'"

I blushed, knowing she was teasing. "Sorry… My bad."

She stood and shook her head. "Forget it. I'll just nap here."

"Here?" I protested. "You'll catch a chill."

Before I could finish, she lay down on the bench—her head gently resting in my lap. My heart leapt. That was abrupt!

"Don't take advantage," she murmured with her eyes closed.

"I… I wouldn't!" I stammered.

Within minutes, she was softly snoring. Even in sleep she looked beautiful—but playing human pillow had my legs going numb fast. I dared not shift for fear of waking her. Bored and stuck, I sat dazed, mobile in my pocket but unreachable, and stared off at the park's flowers and birds.

Two hours later, she stirred, yawned, and stretched luxuriously. "That nap was amazing. Thanks."

"No problem," I said, shaking my pins back to life.

She smoothed her clothes and laughed. "You're quite the gentleman, aren't you? Reminds me of a joke."

"A joke?" I asked.

She launched in: A man and woman share a bed. The woman draws a line down the center of the mattress and warns, "If you cross this line tonight, you're a beast." Next morning, she sees he hasn't budged and scolds, "You're less than a beast!"

I'd heard it before and blushed. "So he gets called a beast no matter what—cheeky!"

She grinned. "You're so honest. Want to stay at my place tonight? I'll make you an omelet."

"Um… that's awkward. I have class tomorrow."

She teased, "See, your face is red again. You want to go, don't you?"

I froze, mortified.

She laughed. "Okay, I won't tease you more. I'm hungry—let's find something to eat."

She stood, checked on me. "Come on!"

"My legs are asleep!"

Once I could walk again, we left the park by another gate. I scanned for a good restaurant when a mouthwatering aroma hit us.

"Smells like dumplings," she said, eyes lighting up.

"Soup dumplings, I think," I agreed. Hungry truly sharpens the senses.

We followed our noses to a tiny neighborhood dumpling stall—just a single cook in an oil-splattered apron. The first basket of dumplings had just steamed, and locals were snatching them up.

"These must be amazing," I said. "Good food hides in the unlikeliest places."

I ordered ten dumplings. "They'll be great for late-night snacks if we can't finish."

"Sure," she smiled.

Soon a second basket emerged. The owner filled our order and we sat on a bench nearby to eat. Each dumpling was pillowy thin, bursting with fragrant broth and generous filling—steaming juice spurted from every bite. They were divine.

And just 80 cents each. I thought of how lucky the neighborhood was.

Before she could take another, I frowned. "Wait—don't swallow that!"

She stared, half a dumpling in hand. "What—did they adulterate the pork?"

"Worse," I said, brushing the filling onto the bench to examine. With my enhanced vision, I spotted something unmistakable in the minced meat. "Spit it out!"

She saved herself, spluttering and wiping her mouth. "Gross! Are you sure?"

I spread the filling in daylight. "Look at these skin ridges—that's human epidermal patterning. Only humans have fingerprints and skin whorls like this."

She gasped and backed away. I nearly swallowed it myself.

We called the police. "This place sells… human meat-filled soup dumplings," I reported.

"Great," she muttered, "there go my weekend plans."