There Are No Ghosts in This World

At a police station seven kilometers away from Wu Heng, Li Guoqiang stepped through the main entrance, his face weary. It was time for his shift.

Though he wore a crisp black suit and shirt, looking neat and sharp, they could not hide the heavy circles beneath his eyes or his haggard face.

"Hello, busy?"

He greeted the bespectacled man in a white shirt sitting in a wheelchair, who was watching over the emergency phone.

The other man remained silent and did not even look at him.

Li Guoqiang did not mind. As though he had expected this, he walked straight to his seat.

After spending the past few days together, he had learned that this colleague was not targeting him. It was simply his personality—he treated everyone the same way.

Li Guoqiang carefully laid his right hand on the desk.

His arm was in a cast. He had suffered a gunshot wound sixty-two days ago.

His injuries had been severe at the time; his whole body had been hurt, with his left arm the worst of all.

As a result, he had lain in the hospital for forty-nine full days before regaining consciousness.

Li Guoqiang rubbed the area of the gunshot wound through the cast with his left hand. It felt a little itchy, probably because the wound was healing, but the cast made it impossible to scratch. The sensation was unbearable.

Looking at his arm, he could not help recalling what had happened before.

Sixty-two days ago, he had still been a criminal investigator. While patrolling a community garage, he had noticed something suspicious about a car and stopped it.

He then discovered a female corpse hidden in the trunk.

The driver had turned out to be a serial killer. But the repeat offender had drawn his gun