The fluorescent tubes in Fang Zhe's office had begun to flicker, casting a stroboscopic pallor over the two crime-scene photographs that now occupied permanent real estate on his desk. He had not gone home in two days. The stale coffee cups had multiplied like fungi, and his shirt bore the map of a sleepless night—creases and stains that told a story of obsession too advanced for irony.
Mei's absence was a hollow echo in his chest, but he had already learned to compartmentalise that pain, filing it away in a drawer labelled "Later" that he knew would never be opened. What consumed him now was the pattern—the geometry of the red strokes, the rhythm of the killings, the voice of the anonymous caller who had promised six more acts. Two down. Five to go. The mathematics of murder had never felt so much like a countdown to his own dissolution.
He needed a new angle. Lin Yuan had vanished, and the surveillance on his studio had yielded nothing but dust and the smell of turpentine. Xu Wei remained a ghost, his trail cold from the moment he left his rented room. But Fang had noticed a footnote in Lin's file—a reference to an art dealer named Song Qiming, known in underground circles as "Old Song," who had brokered several of Lin's banned works for private collectors. Old Song was a fixer, a man who moved between the official and the illicit with the ease of a riverboat captain navigating fog.
Zhao had tracked him to a teahouse in the Old Quarter, a labyrinth of narrow alleys where the colonial-era buildings leaned toward each other like tired old men sharing secrets. Fang went alone, leaving Zhao to monitor the deputy mayor's funeral preparations—a grim affair that would be attended by half the provincial bureaucracy, each of them secretly wondering whose chest would receive the next brushstroke.
The teahouse was called "Half Moon," a crumbling two-storey structure with a faded sign and a courtyard overgrown with bamboo. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of jasmine tea and sandalwood incense. Old Song sat in a corner booth, a wizened man in his seventies with a shaved head and a goatee that had gone completely white. He wore a traditional changshan of dark silk, and his hands, when he raised his cup, were tattooed with faded blue characters—a relic of some long-forgotten underworld.
"Detective Fang," Old Song said without looking up. "I was wondering when you'd find me. Sit. The tea is still hot."
Fang slid into the opposite seat, his eyes scanning the room out of habit. Two other patrons—a couple arguing in hushed tones—sat at a distant table, paying no attention. The teahouse was quiet, insulated from the city's roar by thick walls and a century of accumulated stillness.
"You knew I was coming," Fang said.
Old Song smiled, revealing a gold tooth. "I know many things. That's why you're here. You want to know about Lin Yuan. About his student. About the red strokes that have been decorating our dear officials like holiday ornaments."
Fang leaned forward. "Then talk."
Song poured a cup of amber tea and slid it across the table. "Lin Yuan is a genius—no question. But genius is a double-edged blade. It cuts both ways. I've known him for fifteen years, ever since he was a starving student selling ink wash on street corners. I've sold his early works to collectors who now keep them in vaults, waiting for his death to drive up the price. But Lin never cared about money. He cared about truth. And truth, in this city, is a commodity more dangerous than heroin."
"His student, Xu Wei. What do you know about him?"
Old Song's expression darkened. "Xu Wei was a prodigy too—but a broken one. Orphan, state home, no family. He attached himself to Lin like a barnacle to a ship, desperate for approval. Lin taught him everything—brush technique, colour theory, composition. But he also taught him something else: that art could be a weapon. That beauty could be a form of vengeance. Xu Wei took that lesson to heart. Too much, perhaps."
Fang pulled out a photograph of Xu Wei—a gaunt young man with hollow cheeks and intense eyes, the kind of eyes that seemed to look through you rather than at you. "When did you last see him?"
"Two weeks before he disappeared. He came to me, frantic, clutching a sketchbook. He said he had discovered Lin's 'true masterwork'—not a painting, but a performance. A series of acts that would purge the city of its corrupt fathers. He wanted my help to finance it. I refused. I told him he was insane. He laughed and said, 'Insanity is just genius that hasn't been framed yet.' Then he left."
"Did he tell you who the targets were?"
Song shook his head slowly. "He showed me the sketchbook. Pages and pages of diagrams—floor plans, security rotations, notes on pigments and drying times. There was a list of names, but he covered them with his hand when I tried to read them. I saw only one character—the surname 'Chen.' That was enough for me to know it was real."
Fang's blood ran cold. Chen Guangli had been the second victim. Xu Wei had known the name weeks in advance. "Do you still have the sketchbook?"
"No. He took it with him. But I have something else." Old Song reached into a satchel beside his chair and withdrew a small, leather-bound journal, its cover worn and stained with paint. "This is Lin Yuan's early notebook—from before he met Xu Wei. I bought it at an auction five years ago. It contains his philosophical musings, his earliest plans for a 'total work of art.' I never thought much of it until now. But after the second stroke, I re-read it. You might find it illuminating."
Fang took the journal with gloved hands. He opened it to a random page and read a passage written in elegant, tiny characters: "The ultimate sacrifice is not the victim, but the artist himself. To create a work that transcends mortality, one must be willing to become the final brushstroke. The canvas is the world; the paint is blood; the signature is oblivion."
He closed the journal, his throat dry. "Lin Yuan wrote this?"
"Yes. But here's the question, Detective. Did he write it as a manifesto for himself—or as a warning against those who would take his ideas too far? Lin Yuan is many things: a genius, a provocateur, a martyr in his own mind. But he is not a killer. He is too much of a perfectionist. He would never settle for a reality that falls short of his vision. Xu Wei, on the other hand, is a romantic. He believes that imperfection is the only true art. And that, my friend, is what makes him dangerous."
Fang pocketed the journal and stood. "If you hear from either of them, you call me immediately. I'll leave my direct line."
Old Song nodded, his eyes glinting with something between pity and amusement. "Be careful, Detective. The hunt is changing you. I can see it in your posture—the way you lean into the mystery, the way your pupils dilate when you talk about the strokes. You are becoming a connoisseur of atrocity. And that is a taste that cannot be unacquired."
Fang turned away without responding. The old man's words stung because they rang true. He had indeed begun to appreciate the terrible beauty of the murders—the precision, the composition, the sheer audacity. When he looked at the photographs now, he no longer saw victims; he saw brushstrokes. He saw a narrative unfolding, and a part of him—the part he was desperately trying to suppress—wanted to see how it ended.
That evening, Fang returned to his office and began reading the journal cover to cover. Lin's early writings were feverish, almost prophetic. He spoke of art as a "spiritual surgery" that could excise the tumours of corruption. He referenced Buddhist iconography, Daoist alchemy, and Western philosophers in a chaotic collage that was equal parts erudite and unhinged. But interspersed were practical notes—recipes for pigments, lists of materials, and sketches of what appeared to be ceremonial altars.
One page caught his attention. It was a list of seven vices, each paired with a symbol and a location:
贪 (Greed) — West Hill Villa
权 (Power) — Golden Lotus Hotel
奢 (Extravagance) — Pearl Tower Penthouse
伪 (Hypocrisy) — Central Courthouse
妒 (Envy) — Garden of Serenity
惰 (Sloth) — Eastern Industrial Complex
傲 (Pride) — The Final Canvas
Fang's heart raced. The first two locations matched the victims' residences. The third—Pearl Tower Penthouse—was the home of property tycoon Jin Dawei, a man notorious for his ostentatious wealth, his fleet of foreign cars, and his ties to several dubious land deals. Jin was also a close associate of the late General Gu. If Xu Wei was following Lin's schema, Jin would be the next target.
Fang grabbed his phone and dialled Zhao. "Get me everything on Jin Dawei. His schedule, his security, his movements for the next 72 hours. And put a detail on the Pearl Tower—but discreetly. I don't want to spook him."
Zhao's voice crackled with fatigue. "Sir, we don't have the manpower. The deputy mayor's funeral is tomorrow, and the provincial director has ordered maximum security for all attendees. We're stretched thin."
"Then stretch thinner. I'll take personal responsibility. Just do it."
Fang hung up and stared at the journal again. Lin's handwriting grew more erratic toward the end, the characters becoming spiky, almost angry. One final entry, dated two months before the first murder, read: "He has taken my blueprint. He believes he is fulfilling my prophecy. But he is only a copyist—a forger of my vision. The true artist must reclaim his work. Or destroy it."
Fang read that line three times. "He"—that could only refer to Xu Wei. But "the true artist"—was Lin speaking of himself, or someone else? And "destroy it"—did that mean Lin intended to stop Xu Wei, or to complete the work in his own, more perfect way?
The questions swirled like dervishes in his mind. He reached for his coat and headed for the door. He needed to find Lin Yuan before Xu Wei struck again. But as he stepped into the corridor, his phone buzzed with an unknown number. He answered, and a breathless voice—female, young, trembling—spoke.
"Detective Fang? My name is Su Ling. I was Lin Yuan's assistant. I know where he is. But you need to come alone. And you need to come now. He's planning something—something worse than what Xu Wei has done. He told me... he told me that the final stroke must be his own."
The line went dead. Fang stood frozen, the journal clutched against his chest. His mind raced through possibilities: a trap, a confession, a rescue. But beneath the calculation, a darker thrill coursed through him—the thrill of being invited into the inner circle, of witnessing the masterwork before it reached its climax.
He stepped into the elevator, and as the doors slid shut, he caught his own reflection in the polished steel. His eyes were bright, feverish, the eyes of a man who had stopped caring about justice and started caring only about the next revelation.
The third stroke was coming. But it was no longer just Xu Wei's hand he had to fear. It was Lin Yuan's. And perhaps—whispered a voice from the abyss—it was his own.
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