A Fresh Crime

I must be insane.

Even in my wildest dreams, Wu Qingchen had never imagined that one day he would be sitting, dressed in a wrinkled shirt and equally wrinkled pants, layered with a bulletproof vest and a life jacket, two slabs of bulletproof glass standing upright before him, attending an emergency session of the United Nations. In front of him sat rows upon rows of people of every skin color—yellow, white, black—faces etched with all the emotions humanity could muster: anxiety, panic, surprise, hope, and more.

I must be insane.

Wu Qingchen bowed his head, pressing hard on his aching temples, wishing desperately to escape this dream.

This absurd dream was just as surreal as the one he’d had five hours earlier, when he’d been in an old house a thousand kilometers away—perhaps even more so.

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There’s a rumor—perhaps unfounded—that when managers in the home renovation market promote wooden doors to customers, aside from extolling their aesthetics, eco-friendliness, and health benefits, their main selling point is the door’s gentle, pleasant sound when knocked.

But whether it’s an iron door, a wooden door, or one of those plastic doors that even mid-tier markets refuse to sell, once it’s been knocked on for a full five minutes without response, some kind of “temperamental” environmental factor inevitably transforms the initial pleasant “knock knock knock…” into a much less agreeable “bang bang bang…”

And then, into something utterly divorced from “pleasant”—“BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!”

The effect was immediate.

Half a minute later, the door slowly opened, revealing a young man still yawning.

No one, roused halfway from sleep by such a racket, could possibly be delighted. Even as he yawned, the young man’s face perfectly conveyed his irritation and impatience.

But not for a second longer—at the first clear look at his visitors, all trace of yawning, irritation, and impatience evaporated, his sleepy eyes snapping wide open.

That was understandable—not everyone, upon waking from a nap, finds two stern-faced police officers and two even more severe-looking soldiers standing at their door.

“Wu Qingchen?”

There was no “What took you so long to answer?” nor any polite “Sorry to bother you.” As the door opened and the young man glanced at him, the officer at the front stepped forward as if by habit, his right foot naturally blocking the gap between the doorframe and the door.

“Yes… That’s me…” The young man instinctively retreated, his left hand—just now used to open the door—hanging awkwardly at his side, tugging at his wrinkled trousers.

“You moved here on May 3rd, 2011?”

“Yes…” The young man, now confirmed as Wu Qingchen, who had indeed moved here on May 3rd, 2011, swallowed nervously.

“You graduated from Jiang County West Elementary? In fourth grade, you got into a fight with a classmate—an argument that left a scar at the root of your left eyebrow, seven millimeters long?”

“What… Yes… Yes…” Wu Qingchen answered, baffled. Was this about a scuffle from over a decade ago? Or had some old injury finally come back to haunt him? Unconsciously, his hands left his wrinkled pants to fidget, futilely, with his equally wrinkled shirt.

The officer seemed not to notice Wu Qingchen’s panic or nervousness. He stared at Wu Qingchen’s left brow for a long moment, then lowered his head to compare a few rumpled pages in his hand, and began firing off a series of questions.

Some were simple—about Wu Qingchen’s past, his studies, his work, his resignation—easy enough, demanding only perfunctory “yes,” “yes,” “I think so” answers.

But others were more troublesome: questions about the small scars left by fights, outdoor work, chores, or even just the random quirks of the human body.

For instance: “Is there a five-millimeter, half-moon-shaped scar on the first joint of your left ring finger? On the back of your right forearm, thirteen centimeters up, are there two black dots with radii of 0.3 and 0.2 millimeters?” …

Questions like these—no one in their right mind could remember all that.

Thankfully, the middle-aged officer and the soldier who had sidled up at some point didn’t seem to care much for Wu Qingchen’s answers. They simply inspected Wu Qingchen’s body, carefully checking against their files.

What was going on? Since when did the police need to verify someone’s identity this thoroughly before making an arrest? No, arrest? Why would they be arresting me? No, no—on what grounds would they even arrest me?

Suddenly aware of this, Wu Qingchen grew annoyed—made all the worse by the officer’s treatment, handling him as though he were some kind of performing monkey, making him roll up his pant leg again and again, tilt his head again and again.

Finally, perhaps for the seventh or eighth time, when the officer requested, “Raise your left hand a bit higher, higher,” Wu Qingchen finally lost his composure.

This young man, who had had no idea what was happening since he opened the door…

This young man, who hadn’t managed a single word of his own since this all began…

This young man, whose dignity, right to know, and even right to his own home had been ignored since the start, now heard, for the seventh or eighth time, the officer’s gruff “Higher, a bit higher,” and raised his left hand—

Only a little… not a bit higher…

That way, the police and soldiers got their cooperation, and Wu Qingchen got to express his annoyance—all without wasting any time. The inspection, though painstaking, was remarkably quick; in three or five minutes, Wu Qingchen’s hands, forearms, and calves—nothing too embarrassing—had been scrutinized several times, and the officer’s files had reached the last page. At last, he made a slightly more demanding request: “Mr. Wu, please lift your shirt—just one last spot.”

Still wanting to be angry, Wu Qingchen acquiesced.

He lifted his shirt with care—a purely instinctive wariness. Probably his sleeping posture had been awkward, snagging a zipper or button, and his abdomen was a little sore, so he avoided the painful spot as he raised his shirt.

Because he kept his head down and his senses were dulled, Wu Qingchen didn’t notice that the two always-stern police officers and the two even more severe soldiers, who had shown no expression from the moment he opened the door, now wore looks of astonishment as he lifted his shirt.

Following their gaze, Wu Qingchen glanced down:

The spot being stared at had no black dot, no scar, no swelling, no marks of any of the previous checks—only a small, round dent, about five millimeters in radius, ten millimeters deep—

Otherwise known as a navel.

Except the skin was a little duller than when he was eighteen, this was just the ordinary abdomen of a young man.

But…

Strange? Wu Qingchen looked more closely at his belly. Strange, why was there a red mark? That’s about where it hurt!

So, he raised his right hand and pressed it gently.

Immediately, there was a unanimous gasp.

“What are you doing!” “Put it down!” “Stop!” “Hands off!”

Wu Qingchen did even better: he raised both hands.

From the textbook surrender pose, one could tell how severe those four shouts had been.

No one laughed. It was as if, with his hands raised, Wu Qingchen might unleash a deadly attack, or as though a hidden assassin lurked in the bright hallway. The four men stared at Wu Qingchen, glanced about searchingly, then appraised each other, before, after a long pause and finding no danger, finally easing a little.

“From now on, don’t make any sudden movements…” Compared to a few seconds prior, the middle-aged officer’s face was a bit pale, sweat shining on his forehead. Perhaps feeling his request was too broad, he added, “Just behave as usual, but try to keep your movements small.”

“Yes… yes…”

Do I look that dangerous? Is it that my pocketless shirt could hide a gun, or that I could draw a knife from my navel?

The moment the four men shouted, Wu Qingchen thought he’d be shot on the spot—his mind went blank, his legs nearly gave out. Though the officer’s tone was gentler now, Wu Qingchen still felt rigid, his tongue clumsy.

“Alright, you can put your hands down. What’s wrong with your stomach? Are you feeling unwell? Any sensation?” Another soldier, standing nearby, noticed Wu Qingchen’s stiff movements as he lowered his hands. He half-raised his own hand, as if to pat Wu Qingchen on the shoulder, then thought better of it and drew back.

Wu Qingchen didn’t notice—he simply answered, “Uh, just a bit—maybe I slept on it funny. It feels like… like…”

“Like you tripped over a branch and fell on a rock, but the rock was round, so it didn’t really hurt?”

“Huh…” Wu Qingchen was astonished.

That description was almost unnervingly precise.

Because it was exactly the last scene in Wu Qingchen’s dream at noon.

At lunchtime, Wu Qingchen had a bizarre, absurd dream.

In the dream, he suddenly found himself in a countryside like those in Western period films—blue sky, white clouds, endless rolling hills, green grass, a bubbling stream, a breeze rustling through tall trees.

The absurdity was, in this lovely, idyllic landscape, Wu Qingchen wasn’t on horseback, nor accompanied by a clueless, fair-haired beauty, but instead held an unfamiliar tool, standing among plants he’d never seen, with two strangers beside him…

All sweaty, faces smeared with dirt, bodies aching—they seemed to be engaged in some sort of farm work he’d never heard of.

Even more absurd, the people in the dream spoke to each other—or to Wu Qingchen—but he couldn’t understand a word, nor did he know what he was supposed to do among the plants.

After fumbling around for a while, he did what seemed natural: left the thicket, put down the tool, and lay on the grass to rest.

He didn’t know how much time passed before one of the strangers came over, began to speak, and—perhaps because Wu Qingchen hadn’t understood or answered—suddenly, inexplicably, started waving his tool angrily.

Wu Qingchen grew frightened, stood up to leave quickly, but tripped on a branch and fell on a rock. The rock was round; it just jarred him, not really painful.

At that moment, Wu Qingchen was woken by an unimportant phone call. He hung up, set his phone to silent, tried to sleep again, but his head felt swollen, and he lay there in a daze until the banging on the door finally roused him.

That was the strange dream Wu Qingchen had at noon, its final scene matching the soldier’s description exactly.

Wu Qingchen’s astonishment was obvious, and finally drew a cough from the second police officer, who had been standing quietly in the hallway near the wall. This officer, hair already streaked with white, glanced at the other soldier and said, “No more questions, right? This isn’t the place…”

“No more,” the second soldier replied, shaking his head. “In the city, you’re the experts. Still… you know, in a case like this, no one can be too careful.” He raised the phone he had been holding behind his back and dialed quickly, “Yes… confirmed… yes… yes… yes!”

After hanging up, he nodded to the white-haired officer, who stepped forward, produced his badge, and said, “Mr. Wu Qingchen, assisting the police with investigations is the duty and responsibility of every citizen. There is a major case requiring your cooperation. Please pack your things and come with us.”

Upon hearing “major case,” Wu Qingchen had absolutely no desire to “come with us.”

Perhaps from nerves, his lips trembled, and what he’d meant to say—“What crime did I commit?”—came out as, “Did my matter commit a crime?”

No one laughed at this. Suddenly, a voice came from the stairwell: “Yes, your matter did commit a crime—a big one, too… suspected of kidnapping all of humanity… How’s that for a charge? Big enough for you? And pretty original, too.”