Chapter 55: Bitter Swallow · 13

“Meng, aren’t you busy today? I thought you weren’t coming.”

Lao Qu handed him a cigarette, but Meng Duimo just took it casually while still gazing at the sky.

After a long pause, he said, “I had to come see it at least.”

The May rain poured down freely, drumming against the glass-domed ceiling with a lively patter.

Inside, light music played—seemingly the bridesmaids practicing their dance.

Lao Qu had been involved in the 3.25 Cult Case too. Not long ago, he’d pored over the files until his head spun, half-worried it would delay the wedding.

He hesitated, then finally asked in a secretive whisper.

“Did your unit get that thing?”

“Which one?” Meng Duimo replied offhandedly. “The Civilized New Trend inspection notice?”

“That’s nothing.” Lao Qu’s face was grim as he shook his head. “Our court and the procuratorate next door both got death threat letters.”

Meng Duimo turned to look at him, furrowing his brow in thought.

Ever since Instructor Tong’s arrest, protesters had shown up demanding his release.

The bureau saw stuff like that all the time—even murder cases brought out weeping elderly folks crying injustice. Standard procedure handled it.

“Our Public Security Bureau has that heavy air of menace; regular folks don’t dare cause trouble lightly,” Lao Qu said. “The court and procuratorate look like civilian offices—no guns like you guys. We’ve gotten threats before. Nothing new.”

“What did the letter say?”

“Preaching their doctrine, spreading the gospel—going in circles to demand we release him without charge. Or else truth and retribution would deliver a harsh death penalty to us.”

Meng Duimo thought it over, then said, “I’ll arrange more patrols in your area and double-check the camera blind spots.”

“Hope no snakes come flying out at my wedding,” Lao Qu said with thanks, though he still chuckled wryly. “By their teachings, a heretic black hand like me would get bitten eighty times over into Swiss cheese.”

He nursed the cigarette for a good while before heading back. At a glance, Meng Duimo spotted the groomsmen and bridesmaids waltzing.

The music had shifted from trendy K-pop to classy classical tunes.

Lao Qu delighted in playing matchmaker for the singles around him, seizing every chance these past couple days to spark some chemistry.

Meng Duimo usually walked at an unhurried pace, but seeing those dancing pairs quickened his steps unconsciously—a touch of haste he didn’t notice.

He scanned them one pair at a time, flicking his gaze rapidly to the next face upon recognition.

As if hoping to spot that person amid the crowd… yet dreading it too.

Lao Qu was snapping photos nearby, eager to capture moments for posterity, when Meng Duimo gave him a light pat.

Meng Duimo cleared his throat, as if only then deciding what to say.

“I’ve got something to discuss with Prosecutor Lin. Have you seen him?”

“Prosecutor Lin headed back to the office early—think the boss is setting him up on a blind date.” Lao Qu fiddled with the focus, then added, “Prosecutor Xu’s here today too. Want to chat with him?”

“Sure.”

For a moment, the man seemed to forget why he’d come.

He lingered at the edge of the dance floor, watching the swirling couples, then said his goodbyes and left after a few minutes.

I thought you might stay to dance.

Even if not with me.

At the procuratorate, another death threat arrived five days after the first.

The new girl felt like she’d stepped into a TV drama, clutching the letter’s photocopy with a thrill.

Lin Shanyan reminded her to seal the file away, then carried on with his work as if nothing had happened.

During lunch break, someone brought it up amid gasps of surprise tinged with unease.

“How are you all so unfazed?”

“What’s to fear?” the boss said, sneaking in some knitting. “Once someone threatened to bomb the place. Security pinned him before he even entered—turns out he had an alarm clock tucked in his belt, set for yesterday.”

Others chimed in more seriously, reassuring the newbie.

“Security’s top-notch around here—cameras everywhere. Put your mind at ease.”

Lin Shanyan sipped his coffee and glanced at his phone again.

Messages had stalled at that midnight exchange. Work chats since then got few replies from Meng Duimo in the group.

His subordinate was efficient, cross-checking cases swiftly and steadily—clearly well-trained by the man himself.

Lao Qu had thrown together a weekend outing for KTV and dinner, inviting everyone, including Lin Shanyan.

He’d booked theater tickets but canceled them on the spot. “Sounds good.”

The invite went out to Meng Duimo’s side too—no reply after three or four hours.

Meng Duimo had been away on a business trip for days, just back in the city.

A week of rainy days left the sky dim and lifeless, stirring his urge to hole up and hibernate.

Staring at the message, he wondered if Lin Shanyan would show—yet doubted how much longer he could keep up the act.

He was on the verge of giving up.

Three years apart, and their reunion started with blood and kisses in the car.

Meng Duimo knew full well that he wasn’t a good person.

Whenever he caught sight of Lin Shanyan in private—especially that cold, aloof demeanor of his—a twisted fire would ignite inside him.

He told himself that the urge to destroy was just another facet of desire.

Back when they’d torn into each other like wild animals, it had truly been love.

[Meng]: I have a meeting soon. Can’t make it.

[Qu]: Alright, see you at the wedding then.

[Meng]: I’ll have someone drop off a bottle of wine for you shortly. It’s been aging for years—pure perfection. Drink up and enjoy yourself tonight.

[Qu]: Whoa, that’s generous! Thanks, Meng Zi. I’ll knock it back with the crew tonight [laughing heartily].

The red wine arrived at the restaurant in no time, just as Lao Qu was ordering dishes. The maître d’ glanced at it and nodded approvingly.

“Now that’s rare—Latour, and authentic too.”

Lao Qu didn’t know the first thing about wine; he just drank whatever was fun.

“A buddy of mine sent it over. That’s how we roll with good friends.”

“This one’s got a hint of cinnamon. You can’t get it easily here in the country,” the maître d’ said, eyeing the bottle curiously. “Did your friend pick it out to suit your taste? He knows his stuff.”

Lao Qu chuckled. “In that case, I gotta do it justice tonight. A few glasses at least.”

The private room filled with over a dozen young men and women, all fresh off work and buzzing with the relief of prisoners finally released. Some had brought flower bouquets and balloons, others a cake. They chatted about hitting karaoke next, then where to party afterward—weekend nights like this were too precious to waste sleeping at home.

Lin Shanyan sat in a quiet corner, looking a touch awkward at first.

“Lots of folks from the Court here tonight. Make some new friends?” Lao Qu came over to greet him warmly. “Order whatever you want. Have fun.”

The young man smiled and nodded, handing over his gift.

“I got you and your wife a matching pair of gem brooches. May your love be stronger than gold, and your marriage last a hundred happy years.”

It was the second gift Lao Qu had received that day. He thanked him profusely, insisting it was too much.

That jogged his memory—he called over a server to decant the wine. Tonight, everyone would get a taste of that fine French vintage.

Lin Shanyan fiddled with his phone for a bit, occasionally trying to join in conversations before giving up. The room thrummed with noise, erupting in laughter and the clink of glasses like boiling water bubbling over.

Seated among strangers, he kept glancing toward the door whenever it swung open.

Latecomers trickled in, someone ordered milk tea, others popped in and out for work calls.

He couldn’t quite say what he was waiting for.

He just desperately wanted to see that one person.

Dinner stretched from seven to nine-thirty. Bellies full, the group lounged with fruit platters and idle chat.

Lao Qu noticed the good wine nearly gone and came over to pour Lin Shanyan a glass.

“You’re not really into it tonight, huh?”

“Work’s been draining,” Lin Shanyan said with a smile. “Figured I’d come here to recharge, get a taste of real life—instead of dreaming about overtime back home.”

He raised a hand to stop the pour.

“No, really—thanks anyway.”

“You driving tonight? Call a designated driver,” Lao Qu suggested casually.

“Didn’t drive,” Lin Shanyan replied offhandedly. “Used to have a bit of a drinking habit. Bad for the health, so I quit.”

“Oh, got it! I’ll drink it for you then, brother!”

But Lin Shanyan’s mind wasn’t on the meal at all. He hadn’t even registered the wine’s label.

The food was tasteless; he was just waiting.

Like in some TV drama, he half-expected that in the banquet’s final minutes, someone would burst through the door, breathless: “Sorry I’m late, everyone.”

The night rain drummed relentlessly against the window ledges.

The group was glued to variety show gossip, oblivious to the downpour.

Lin Shanyan turned to stare at the sheets of rain for a few seconds.

He thought they were still playing that hot-and-cold game, tormenting each other.

In truth, it might have ended long ago.

But fate loved its cruel jokes.

Their lives had settled into calm routine, drifting further apart—until a week later, when the wedding went off without a hitch. All the groomsmen ended up at the same table.

Lao Qu had assigned seats haphazardly. As people settled in, he realized the two were side by side.

The two men locked eyes in silence.

“…”

“…?”

The venue pulsed with energy, pop love ballads blaring nonstop amid bouquets of crimson roses everywhere.

Lao Qu was double-checking the program with the emcee when he spotted his old buddy back from overseas. He hurriedly added a chair.

“Everyone, sorry—squeezing in one more seat. Might be a bit tight!”

“No worries!” the crowd called back. “The merrier, the better!”

What had been ample space suddenly felt crowded. Lin Shanyan froze for a moment, unprepared, as his knee brushed against Meng Duimo’s.

Meng Duimo shot him a subtle glance, betraying nothing.

The young man had no idea what his own face looked like right then.

A mix of innocence and quiet grievance, wrapped in that same cool composure.

Meng Duimo tamped down the restless heat stirring inside him, convinced all over again that he’d been right to skip dinner that day. Otherwise, something was bound to have gone wrong.

Every time he laid eyes on Lin Shanyan, it felt like facing a heavenly tribulation.

Meng Duimo stayed silent, and Lin Shanyan kept his gaze lowered over his Sprite, his words few and far between.

Their knees pressed together, having lingered in contact so long that they could no longer tell where one ended and the other began—yet neither pulled away.

Lao Qu had just been about to head off for a touch-up when his nephew clapped him on the shoulder. Delight lit up his face.

“You made it! Aren’t you studying up in Beijing?”

“Come on, come on—grab a seat right here!”

Everyone got the hint and shuffled their chairs to squeeze in some space, waving him over enthusiastically.

The bride’s table was packed to the gills too. That was just how weddings went—guests brought good fortune.

Lin Shanyan ducked his head and scooted his chair, trying to make room for his knees. He didn’t want to bump into strangers.

But in his haste, he ended up in the wrong spot. From toes to thighs, he was flush against Meng Duimo. Both their breaths hitched for a few seconds.

Ever since that bloodletting in the bathroom last time, they hadn’t exchanged more than a couple of sentences. Now this sudden closeness was like pouring oil on a blaze.

The young man kept his head down, staring at his phone as he refreshed Weibo over and over.

The suit jacket was too thin; he could even feel the firm, taut muscle along the other man’s thigh.

There was no way he could eat now.

Meng Duimo shot him a sidelong glance and said coolly, “Prosecutor Lin.”

“Hm?” Lin Shanyan replied. “Does Officer Meng need something?”

The man leaned in even closer with clear intent, until they were nearly pressed together from calf to shoulder.

“Your ears are red.”

Lin Shanyan turned his head away, face impassive.

Pay him no mind.