Qin Guan was losing his mind.
The moment the words "Xinhe Hotel" left his lips, he wished he could claw them back from the air and swallow them whole. But spoken words, like spilled water, could never be retrieved.
Xinhe Hotel.
He clenched his fists in frustration—Why? How could someone as calm and rational as him blurt out such a critical detail so recklessly? Was it some subconscious urge to outmaneuver Xu Ruyi? But this was no time for petty rivalry—not in front of the police, not at such a pivotal moment. He, of all people, knew the consequences of careless words.
Just like with the car keys, he hadn't realized how much trouble this slip would cause. One clue always led to others, often ones that buried you deeper. As a seasoned defense lawyer, he understood this tactic—the police lured suspects into talking, then pounced on their mistakes to unravel the truth. In court or during interrogations, he never slipped. His clients praised his airtight strategies.
So why today? Why mistake after mistake?
The car key disaster still loomed, and now he'd handed the police "Xinhe Hotel" on a silver platter. Another thread for them to pull.
"Xinhe Hotel? How do you know about it? Have you been there, Qin Guan?" Old He's gaze sharpened like a blade. "Explain. Now."
What could Qin Guan say?
He retreated until his back hit the wall, swallowing hard, his head bowed as if dunked in ice water. His brilliant, unbeatable mind—now a tangled mess of miscalculations and loss of control.
"Qin Guan!" another officer barked.
He stayed silent, eyes shut, cuffed hands pressed to his stomach. Maybe feign illness—buy time to untangle this chaos.
Chaos. Since Xu Ruyi's "accident," his mind had raced nonstop. Fear, stress, dread—without them, would he have gone to Xinhe Hotel to silence Qi Min? Afterward, the pressure had only intensified, compounded by Xu Ruyi's traps and a night in interrogation. Exhaustion and hunger had eroded his famed composure. A good night's sleep might have restored him, but now…
"Stomachache? Now?" Old He scoffed. "This is a hospital. We'll expose your act in seconds. Stop playing games."
They didn't even call a doctor. Qin Guan had no choice but to double down. He slumped against the wall, groaning, tears squeezing out. "It's… real. Chronic gastritis… Ask her…"
Xu Ruyi knew about his condition. She said nothing, coldly nodding to Auntie Feng, who fetched doctors.
Minutes later, two physicians arrived. One checked Qin Guan's tongue and prodded his stomach; the other ordered medication. "If it's real, this will work," the doctor said, forcing pills into his hand.
Qin Guan swallowed them. These frantic minutes weren't enough—nowhere near enough. But the charade couldn't last. Qi Min's phone had shackled him. As her失踪案's prime suspect, he couldn't hide behind legal technicalities anymore.
"Xinhe Hotel? Where's that? Downtown?" Xu Ruyi's voice cut through the tension. She furrowed her bandaged brow, feigning ignorance. "I've lived here forever but never heard of it. I don't stay in hotels much."
She gave him no breathing room, luring him into another trap. Qin Guan lifted his eyes, staring at this stranger swathed in gauze.
He remembered their first meeting: a shy high school girl in a white dress, hiding behind her father. Later, she'd written him letters in delicate script, filled with admiration. When he got into university, she'd knitted him a lumpy scarf, painstakingly following tutorials. She'd visited him on holidays, folded a thousand paper cranes—each holding a wish—for his birthday. In his dorm, she'd washed his sheets, tidied his closet, slipped money under his mattress.
On their wedding day, she'd glowed, clutching the marriage certificate, sleepless with joy.
Where was that girl?
In just a few years, she'd become this—a cold, calculating stranger.