The Missing Room

  It was around five when I woke, throat dry from the heat blasting through the vents. The car hummed in park, engine idling softly in the pre-dawn stillness. The horizon hadn’t formed yet, just a blue smear outside the windshield. Now and then, a distant, muffled clang—maybe from a steel plant still working—echoed faintly.

  I didn’t wake Yang Kuo, slumped in the driver’s seat, deep in the kind of sleep that only exhaustion could forge. Instead, I twisted back, groped behind my seat, and found a water bottle by touch—cool plastic against my fingers.

  Next to us, the dark silhouette of the Xinglin precinct building loomed like a monument—motionless, undecided.

  My phone buzzed. A message from Dad, sent four hours ago:

  “Understood. Please be careful. Come home to Mi’an and focus on your exams. Remember, you’re not training to be a police officer. Don’t push yourself. If it gets too difficult, consider switching to another psychiatric hospital for your internship.”

  A soft knock on the passenger-side window made me jump.

  "Ahhh—!" Yang Kuo jolted awake, fists flailing. His hand slammed into the steering wheel—BEEP. A brief, chaotic honk.

  I grabbed his shoulder. "Yang Kuo!"

  He turned toward me, gasping.

  "Look at me. You’re awake. Morning."

  "Morning," he mumbled, exhaling, slowly steadying.

  Outside the window stood a policeman.

  "You from Mi’an?"

  I lowered the window halfway, and the cool morning air rushed in.

  "Yes," I said. "Good morning."

  He nodded toward the station building. "Third floor. Conference room one. Go left when you’re in. Parking’s available. We’re still in session."

  Without waiting, he turned and jogged up the steps.

  We climbed to the third floor. Office doors stood wide open. Fluorescent lights blazed. Noise poured out—voices, keyboards, the occasional burst of laughter, then quiet again.

  Through glass walls, officers clustered in working groups. Some scribbled notes. Some typed rapidly. Others gestured as if teaching—whiteboard markers flashing.

  Yang Kuo pointed to a metal bench at the hallway’s far end. "I’ll wait there," he said quietly.

  "Alright," I nodded, squeezing between two officers and slipping into the crowded conference room.

  "Xiao Zhang, hold up. Li Zhenyu’s people just arrived," someone called.

  The crowd shifted. A middle-aged woman—calm but authoritative—waved me forward. Her eyes scanned my face briefly, efficiently.

  I sank into a chair that had just been vacated. The room refocused.

  Xiao Zhang resumed, red laser pointer darting across a wall-mounted precinct map.

  "We’ve combed the entire Guishu area, plus adjacent districts—Wuyang, Jiapeng. Spiral Tower at the center. Three full-grid sweeps in two weeks. 158 officers involved."

  "Surveillance from hotels, bars, and entertainment venues—mostly reviewed. Round two begins this afternoon. With reinforcements and local committee help, it should go faster this time. Still looking at 24 hours minimum."

  He grabbed a water bottle. Three fast gulps. Gulp, gulp, gulp.

  "As of 11 p.m. yesterday—382 calls. Nineteen in-person walk-ins. All but ruled out. Updated flyers hit the streets at dawn. That’s the update."

  He nodded toward the front row. "Chief Wang?"

  "Right. Let’s review the basics on Yin Xiong."

  Chief Wang rose, early forties, police blues rumpled. He pulled down the upper half of the whiteboard, revealing another layer.

  "Yin Xiong. Male. Sixteen. Sophomore at Haiqi No. 9 High School. Lives with parents and grandmother—four total—in Unit 13C, 166 Dongfang Street. Santornio Complex."

  "One pedestrian gate—south side, beside the property office. Two garage exits in the north, about 800 meters apart. Rest of the compound is all green space."

  "Mother: Kang Min, forty, homemaker. She called 110 on July 5—said her son had been missing for 24 hours. Time of departure? Unknown."

  "Father: Yin Zhengchang, forty-five. Branch manager at St. Tekash Bank. Grandmother: Zhang Shufen, seventy-two. Retired from the power plant."

  The red laser dot settled on a photo of the boy—blue T-shirt, jeans, smiling with a backpack. Hair cropped short on the sides, longer on top. A bicycle lay tipped over nearby.

  "Top student. Teachers liked him. Peers liked him. Piano instructor praised him. But introverted. Almost no social interaction. Family says he barely left home—just school and piano practice."

  "Father was abroad during the disappearance. Returned three days after the report. Grandmother was away for a choir event. Came back the following day."

  Wang paused. Loudly blew his nose into a tissue. Continued.

  "Here’s the strange part. Why we escalated. Three overlapping districts. Hundreds of security cameras. And not a single frame. Spiral Tower’s coverage is airtight. No blind spots. Every floor has at least two HD cams."

  He glanced at the woman in charge.

  "Go on, Wang Meng," she said.

  "Let’s play the 110 call."

  Xiao Zhang placed a palm-sized speaker on the table and hit play.

  Beep.

  "Hello, 110 Emergency Center. Are you reporting an incident?"

  "My child... my child…" A woman sobbed. Then static. Then—"He’s been gone a whole day and night… I…"

  "What’s your location?"

  "Thirteen-C, Spiral Tower. Guishu East Street."

  "Please stay on the line. Officers are en route."

  Beep.

  Zhang pivoted his laptop for everyone to see.

  "Now for the Hawkeye bodycam footage. Zhong Ling and Ning Bo arrived at 9:20 p.m.—ten minutes after dispatch."

  Near the door, two officers nodded—one held a file folder, the other had a pale patch on his neck.

  Video played.

  A heavy, bronze double door creaked open. A slim woman in a red tracksuit peeked out. She looked too young to be forty. Loose hair down her back, but her bangs were pinned up with a braided crown. Pale, sharp features. Puffy red eyes.

  "Did you place the call?"

  She staggered toward the lens. Static hissed. The chubby officer stepped in and caught her.

  "Easy. Sit down," he said, guiding her toward a plush couch.

  "Son or daughter?"

  "My son… I don’t know when he left. I’ve been sick… in bed."

  The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Her home was upscale. Behind her—six feet back—stood a yellow wooden pedestal, topped with silver rods like an abstract sculpture. Two dark wood folding screens stood behind it, possibly separating a bedroom or study.

  A head poked into the meeting room.

  "Director Bai, the parents are here."

  "Have them wait a moment," Bai Moli said. She stood, glanced through the glass wall. An officer drew a blind, covering the whiteboard.

  I turned around. Through the lower half-frosted panel, I spotted Yang Kuo sketching. A bald man helped Kang Min into a chair near him, then walked away.

  "Alright. Guishu group—go grab food. Zou Zhizhi, Cheng Xingguang, take the parents to my office."

  Only then did I realize those two were in plain clothes.

  "Everyone else—stick to your assignments or rest. Yan Hui, draft a one-hundred-word bulletin. Deliver to my office in thirty. Dismissed."

  Chairs scraped. The crowd dispersed.

  Bai Moli looked my way, then began organizing her notes. Her long chestnut hair was tied loosely at the nape, strands spilling down to her waist.

  Forties, maybe? After seeing Kang Min, I didn’t trust my instincts anymore.

  "Director Bai, I’m Jiang Yi."

  "Thought you were coming tomorrow. Li Zhenyu says you were instrumental in the 5.11 case."

  I blinked. "Me? That’s a misunderstanding. It was him." I pointed to Yang.

  "Him? That little puffhead?"

  "Yes. Met him last summer at a detention center. He can draw. His sketch cracked the case."

  "Detention? What’d he do? Priors?"

  "No idea. This is the second time we’ve met."

  "And you are?"

  "Psych counseling intern. Sent by Taixin to assist Professor Li. Li had Yang pick me up with a borrowed Santana. Told me to follow him to Haiqi and report to you. That’s all I know."

  "You’re a therapist?"

  "Intern. Switched from medicine. Finished foundational training. Studying for my license. Li promised once I finish 3,000 hours, I’m done."

  "I see what old Li’s trying to do..." she muttered.

  She rose, gathered her things. "Come with me."

  As we walked past the open office area, she leaned toward me.

  "You and puffhead—maybe the prototype Li’s been dreaming up for years… Just didn’t picture it looking like this."

  She trailed off, half to herself. At the corner, she nodded toward Yang.

  "Bring him too," she said.

  Prototype

  Bai Moli’s office was more than just an office—it was a compact command center, seamlessly merging workspace, meeting area, and multimedia functions into one.

  Yang Kuo had been trailing behind me, but the moment we stepped in, he surged forward and halted before a giant screen, eyes locked on the data.

  It was the largest monitor I’d ever seen. A glowing crosshair split the screen into four quadrants: one held a vivid pie chart, another pulsed with stacked streams of data, the third displayed a rotating red 3D structure—perhaps a building, perhaps a machine—looping through a pre-set sequence, while the last was a plain desktop screen, quiet amid the chaos. Among so much motion and noise, the idle desktop felt like an open window—a small square of stillness, daring to be untouched.

  Behind Bai Moli’s desk stood a floor-to-ceiling wall of matte-black wooden cubbies—stark, utilitarian, and completely uniform. No hint of aesthetic ambition, just rows upon rows of square compartments, each about half a meter deep. Not a single one was empty. Most were packed with case files and briefing folders—zero awards, certificates, or personal trophies. Only the bottom-right cubby deviated: nestled inside were four or five wool-felt kittens, uncannily lifelike, as if they might twitch or purr—if not for their scale. A few compact toolkits sat neatly beside them, lined up like weapons she might someday need.

  Yang Kuo turned his head, seemingly by accident, and only then noticed Bai Moli. She was seated in a minimalist black armchair by the coffee table. Across from her sat Kang Min and Yin Zhengchang. To their left were the two detectives—Zou Zhizhi and Cheng Xingguang.

  "Sorry," Yang Kuo muttered, swallowing hard.

  "No worries. Jiang Yi, you two can sit over there." Bai Moli gestured toward a few barstools in front of the screen that could rotate 360 degrees.

  She exchanged a brief glance with Zou Zhizhi.

  "The case has been transferred to the sub-bureau. We completely understand how stressful this must be for you," Zou said in a calm, reassuring tone. Cheng, meanwhile, kept fiddling with his phone, though his gaze occasionally drifted toward Kang Min.

  "We truly appreciate your efforts. We trust the police will help us find our son." Yin Zhengchang adjusted his glasses. His glasses, watch, polished shoes, and tailored suit all whispered money. Yet half his face was shadowed by unshaven stubble, and fatigue tugged at his features.

  Zou leaned forward slightly. "Can either of you think of anyone you may have offended? Even from years ago? Someone who had close contact with your family—relatives, friends, former employees?"

  "Are you suggesting our son was kidnapped?" Kang Min and Yin Zhengchang turned to him in unison.

  "We can't rule it out," Zou replied evenly.

  "I don’t believe I have enemies. I’m always busy with work and hardly see my son... It’s already been half a month," Yin said, frowning deeply.

  "Neither do I," Kang Min added. "I usually just go to the supermarket, the wet market—sometimes the mall. Our son spent most of his time with his grandmother. He couldn’t be apart from her."

  Zou’s phone buzzed. "Mm-hmm. Yeah, okay. On my way."

  "Mr. Yin, could you come downstairs with me? There’s a file I need you to look over," he said, rising to his feet.

  "Oh? Alright." Yin Zhengchang blinked, then followed him out. As the door clicked shut behind them, Kang Min turned to glance toward it, then sat up straighter, her face clouded with quiet thoughts.

  Silence settled in, thick with things left unsaid.

  Bai Moli leaned forward and gently clasped Kang Min’s clenched fist, locking eyes with her.

  "You need to take care of yourself. We’re doing everything we can to solve this case. You saw those meeting rooms, didn’t you? Nearly everyone in them is focused on this. These people have spent half their lives chasing down criminals—sacrificing meals, family, sleep. Most crimes? They’re not planned. People just... snap. And the rare ones that are? They always slip up. Eventually."

  She gave Kang Min’s hand a reassuring pat, then leaned back into the sofa. Her fingers lingered briefly, not just in comfort—but in pressure.

  "And these days, with how complete our data systems are—vanishing without a trace in a city like this? Almost impossible." She nodded toward the massive screen behind us, her gesture quiet but deliberate.

  The screen flickered faintly—pie charts rotating, numbers shifting, a red 3D model turning slowly like a heartbeat in the dark. Calm in its glow, yet heavy with implications.

  Kang Min followed her gaze. Her brow remained furrowed as she gave a slight, silent nod. Her fingers twitched just once in Bai Moli’s grip before she let go.

  I stifled a yawn, my jaw tightening as a tear sprang to my eye from the effort. I dabbed at the corner of my eye with my glasses cloth, then caught sight of Yang Kuo’s sketchbook in his hands. I reached out and gestured for him to pass it over. He handed it to me without a word.

  I flipped through a few pages, careful not to make a sound that might disturb the ongoing conversation.

  Aside from the occasional muffled murmur seeping in from the hallway, the only sound in the office was the rhythmic tapping of Cheng Xingguang’s fingers on his phone. Swipe. Tap. Type. Swipe. Tap. Type. Among everyone here, he was by far the busiest.

  My patience wore thin as I skimmed over page after page of abstract patterns, landscapes, and film-style thumbnails. Finally, I jumped to the most recent sketch.

  It showed a woman, eyes brimming with tears, cradling a teenage boy as if he were an infant. The boy slept peacefully in her arms, long lashes resting against his cheeks, mouth slightly parted.

  That hairstyle. That nose.

  Wait—was that Kang Min?

  A soft beep from the console sliced through the silence, crisp and clinical, like a needle dropped in an operating room.

  I glanced up.

  Yang Kuo was no longer watching me. He had turned slightly to the side, one hand hovering over the control panel in a gentle, practiced motion. The other moved through the air with slow, balletic precision—as if coaxing invisible signals from the ether, syncing with something only he could sense.

  His face was serene. Focused. As if he were tuning a delicate instrument.

  I held my breath.

  Was he… controlling something?

  Or was I imagining things entirely?

  Zou Zhizhi and Yin Zhengchang walked back in after a few moments.

  "Alright then, let’s wrap it up for today. If anything comes up, keep your phones on and contact us immediately."

  Zou glanced at Kang Min, then turned to Yin Zhengchang. "Just a word of advice—stay away from online news. People are just speculating wildly, and the media’s often careless with the facts. We won’t be releasing anything unless it directly helps the investigation or pertains to the basic facts."

  He paused, then added, more firmly, "There’s still a lot of work waiting. We need to stay focused."

  At that, Yin Zhengchang and Kang Min exchanged a brief look—subtle, but telling. As if, between them, a silent understanding passed: letting the police take the reins might, after all, serve their best interests.

  Bai Moli gave a subtle nod of agreement from her seat, as if to say: go on, we're done here.

  "Of course. Thank you for your efforts." Yin Zhengchang gripped Zou’s hand firmly, then turned to shake hands with Bai Moli and Cheng Xingguang as well. When his eyes landed on me, he offered a polite nod before walking out with Kang Min.

  "They just had Yin Zhengchang ID a security guard from Spiral Tower—he had absolutely no recollection. The guy’s got a prior—seven years ago, detained for assault—but the employer never ran a background check. Honestly, I think we can take him off the board. As for Kang Min…" Zou hesitated, flipping through his notes. "Nothing solid. Not yet."

  "Kang Min..." Cheng finally broke his silence, his voice quiet—but resolute. "She’s a problem."

  The room froze. Even the hum of the electronics seemed to recede.

  "She had the means," he continued, his tone steady and deliberate. "The motive’s flimsy, sure—but that doesn’t mean we toss it. I want to trace this thread."

  He leaned forward, folding his hands. "There’s more. The footage we reviewed earlier? That wasn’t all of it. There are two additional segments—one of them covers the precinct’s initial contact with the boy’s grandmother."

  He glanced toward Bai Moli, checking for her approval. She gave a slight nod.

  "The grandmother—Zhang Shufen—accused Kang Min of harming the boy. No details. After Yin returned from overseas, he spoke with officers. Nothing explicit, but he strongly implied ongoing tension between Kang Min and his mother. It’s a classic domestic fracture. Emotions have been running high in that household. And if this line holds," Cheng said, his voice lowering, "we’d be justified in issuing a summons."

  My stomach dropped. A summons? For Kang Min?

  Bai Moli exhaled sharply, then shook her head. "Not without motive. Push too soon, and the whole thing unravels."

  She looked at Zou. "Start by ruling out those two weak eyewitness reports from this morning."

  "I agree, Director Bai. I also think—" Zou began, but she cut him off and turned to me.

  "What about you? What’s your take?"

  "Me?" I blinked. "I mean… it’s hard to say. They’ve all been under an enormous amount of pressure. Two weeks of uncertainty—it’s no surprise emotions are frayed."

  "And you?" she asked, turning to Yang Kuo.

  "This system must be a simplified terminal linked to a larger command and data analysis network, right?" Yang Kuo said, gesturing toward the equipment on the table.

  "What?" Zou Zhizhi gaped at him.

  Bai Moli’s expression shifted—complex, unreadable. Before she could respond, Cheng Xingguang jumped in. "He’s right. Remote ops, permission layering, event-priority routing—it’s designed for real-time tactical control."

  "Awesome," Yang Kuo murmured, almost to himself, as if the rest of the room had already faded away.

  "From now on, bring both of them along. Don’t treat them like a burden. They’re part of Li Zhenyu’s off-book task group—officially listed as observers."

  "Of course, Bai Bureau. You know I wouldn’t dare cross you… and I definitely wouldn’t mess with Professor Li." Zou gave a stiff nod, his grin more for form than comfort.

  A knock at the door interrupted them. Several officers stood outside, including two older detectives in their forties or fifties. The group behind them carried notebooks and folders.

  "Come in," Bai Moli called.

  The door clicked shut behind us, cutting off that world like a page turned—clean, final, unread until it’s too late.