4

Rong Qian steadied her thoughts, shoved aside the chaos spinning in her head, and finally stepped out of the car.

Inside the precinct, she spotted Captain Zhou waving her over. "Rong Qian, where's that photo? Forensics told me you had it—bring it here so everyone can take a look."

All eyes turned to her with curiosity.

But instead of answering, she simply handed a slip of paper to Chen Jia, the officer in charge of background checks. Her face was grim. "Jiajia, run this license plate. I need to know who owns that vehicle."

Chen Jia, sipping her soybean milk, set it aside immediately. "What happened with the car?"

With everyone watching, Rong Qian finally explained—how she'd been followed and nearly attacked earlier that morning. But she left out the parts about the car crash… and Shen Yi.

The moment Captain Zhou heard there were suspects possibly carrying firearms, his expression hardened. This wasn't minor.

As a criminal detective, Rong Qian knew the risks. Being targeted was part of the job—but if guns were involved, it was no longer routine.

"Do you have any suspects?" Zhou asked.

She shook her head. "None. I've been on the force five years and haven't offended anyone, let alone gun-toting gangs. I've got no leads—only the plate number."

"Understood," Zhou nodded. "From now on, stay cautious. Don't go out alone. We've got a whole team of officers—you'll have backup. I'll assign Zhang Hao to stay with you. That way I can rest easy."

Zhang Hao, caught off guard by the sudden assignment, quickly nodded. "Sure!"

Rong Qian had no objections either.

He strode over cheerfully and thumped his chest. "Don't worry, Sister Rong. I'll protect you!"

She gave him a sidelong glance. "You? You can't even beat me in a spar."

Zhang Hao's smile stiffened. "That's 'cause I go easy on you. You're a girl—I can't hit back too hard. Besides, I…"

He trailed off, the last words stuck in his throat.

"Besides what?" she asked with a raised brow.

He coughed. "Nothing."

Rong Qian didn't bother prying. With the others now focused on the morning's incident, she finally brought up the missing photo—though not the truth.

She told a small lie: she hadn't secured it properly, and it flew out the window while she was driving.

Captain Zhou didn't question it—his attention was elsewhere. "It's lost then. Not much we can do."

After some thought, he officially handed the case over to her, assigning Zhang Hao and Chen Jia to assist.

On the surface, the case was simple: identify the deceased and wait for possible family claims. It kept her in the office—and out of danger.

What he didn't know was that this case would take her far from safety—and far from the present.

This was exactly what Rong Qian needed. She had questions—too many—and this was her chance to get answers.

Zhang Hao sidled up to her. "Hey, did the photo help? Could you ID the body?"

That question jolted her—she'd nearly forgotten.

Was the skeleton really Shen Yi?

She didn't answer. Instead, she pulled over a chair, sat beside Chen Jia, and asked her to look up someone named Weilong.

Zhang Hao stood behind them. "Who's Weilong?"

"An actor," she said, eyes still on the screen. "The one in the photo."

"Weilong?" Zhang Hao rubbed his chin. "Never heard of him."

Neither had Chen Jia's search turned up anything useful. She shook her head after combing through multiple databases.

Rong Qian tapped her fingers on the desk, thinking. Then, she jotted down a new name on a slip of paper.

Chen Jia glanced at it. "Shen Yi? Who's this?"

"I wish I knew," Rong Qian muttered. "Just run it."

Chen Jia didn't ask further. She typed the name into the system.

Again, tons of unrelated results. Nothing that matched.

Frustration built—until a small detail caught Rong Qian's eye.

A social media account under the name Shen Shuhuai included a reference to Shen Yi in a short article.

"Open that," Rong Qian said quickly.

Chen Jia clicked it—but it was locked.

Not a problem for her. A few taps later, she had bypassed the restrictions and brought up the full post.

It was a biographical entry. A profile.

Of Shen Yi.

The moment the page loaded, a black-and-white portrait appeared.

Rong Qian's heart skipped.

She had braced herself, but the jolt still came.

His face.

That unforgettable face. So vivid, so refined.

She couldn't help but remember the warmth of his hand when he slipped the watch onto her wrist. How real it felt. How strong, yet gentle.

Even in monochrome, his features were stunning—straight brows, deep-set eyes, elegant bone structure. His every line spoke of nobility and calm authority.

He wore a tailored suit, seated in the back of a luxury car, gazing out the window with a look that seemed to whisper farewell—tenderness and longing etched in every detail.

"Damn. That man's gorgeous," Chen Jia muttered. "Too bad he lived in the wrong era. We'll never get to meet him."

Rong Qian blinked, drawn back to the page.

Beside the photo was a short biography.

Shen Yi, stage name Weilong, renowned actor.

Born July 24, 1956. Vanished May 4, 1988. Presumed dead after years of being missing. Declared legally deceased at the age of 32.

Rong Qian's breath caught.

1956?

She remembered seeing him—talking to him. He'd touched her hand.

But if he was born in 1956… when exactly had she traveled to?

She closed her eyes, pressing her fingers to her brow, and mentally retraced every step.

Yes—she'd crashed.

Yes—the photo had landed in her hands.

And then—he appeared.

Could it be… the photo had pulled her into the past?

And when the camera flash went off—it brought her back?

It sounded absurd. Impossible. But it was the only theory that made sense.

Chen Jia, still reading, gave a low whistle. "This guy was insane. Graduated from Harvard at 18, double master's degrees, fluent in seven or eight languages, award-winning in piano, violin, acting—you name it, he mastered it."

And it didn't stop there.

The article revealed more: at six, he immigrated with his family to the U.S., where he was raised. His father was a business tycoon. Shen Yi inherited the collapsing empire before he even turned 20—and turned it around while simultaneously pursuing his acting career.

Though raised abroad, his heart belonged to his homeland. He returned to China, dedicated himself to charity, and gave away nearly all his acting income to philanthropic causes.

Chen Jia shook her head. "This guy sounds too perfect. Why haven't we heard of him before?"

Zhang Hao, peering over her shoulder, echoed the doubt. "You sure this isn't made up? No one's that flawless."

Rong Qian said nothing, but her heart was pounding.

He's real, she thought.

He was real.