The rain-soaked black garbage bags looked like some kind of jellyfish. They were wet, limp, and crammed together, numbering in the hundreds, while the raindrops drummed against them with a rustling sound.
Song He felt like a fisherman sorting jellyfish by the sea. He trampled through the pile in his rain boots, forcefully turning over each garbage bag to check the numbers on them.
In a meticulous laboratory, even the garbage bags were numbered. The Brain Institute Laboratory was no exception.
"What numbers does your laboratory have today?" the principal asked.
"NY1006 through NY1029," Song He said.
The principal did not mind the filth either. He stepped into the pile of garbage bags in his rain boots and bent down to rummage through them.
The two of them dug through the mountain of garbage, like two animals foraging in a landfill.
"Is that person suspicious?" the principal asked.
"He himself isn't suspicious. We've known each other for years, and his background is clean. He works with complete dedication." Song He paused. "But his behavior at the time was very strange. I think it's better to investigate and get to the bottom of it, so I won't have a thorn in my side."
"What exactly was strange about it?" the principal asked curiously.
"The sheet of paper he snatched away—I only saw the pen marks showing through from the back. The strokes definitely weren't Russian. I tested him by asking whether he was writing a love letter to his Russian girlfriend, and he actually admitted it," Song He said.
"That's what makes it strange. When people from the same hometown meet, they still chat in their local dialect. If two Russians were courting each other, why would they write a love letter in Chinese? And afterward, he tore up the love