Love's Bullets

Smoke and Gunpowder

The body lay twisted in the center of the room, a red stain soaking through white marble like spilled wine. Detective lan  Zhan lit a cigarette with steady hands, even though he’d kicked the habit a year ago. Crime scenes like this had a way of dragging old vices back from the grave.

"Third body this month," Officer Yuan muttered behind him, voice muffled by the latex mask. "Same signature. Single shot between the eyes, no signs of forced entry."

Lan zhan stared at the bullet hole. Clean. Professional. “This wasn’t a message. This was personal.”

"Yeah," Yuan said. "And guess who owns the building."

Lan zhan turned his head slowly.

“Wei ying.”

Lan zhan exhaled smoke through his nose like a dragon barely holding back fire. He hadn’t heard that name in months. Not since the night everything went sideways—the night he let a wanted man go where they met face to face and let himself feel something he shouldn’t have.

He crouched beside the body, eyes scanning the room. Expensive taste. Minimal mess. But there—tucked beneath the victim’s jacket—was a calling card. Black, with a silver emblem: a lion's head in profile.

Lan Zhan took it in gloved fingers. “This is his mark.”

“You think wei ying pulled the trigger?”

Lan zhan stood slowly, jaw clenched. “maybe,” he said. “He’s too smart.”

Too smart. Too dangerous. Too beautiful.

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Rooftop across from the crime

POV: Wei Ying

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Wei Ying crouched in the shadows, the rain soaking through his hoodie, cigarette burning low between his fingers.

From here, he had a perfect view of the alley. The body. The cops. And him.

That detective.

The tall one. Too calm. Too still.

Lan Zhan.

Wei Ying had heard the name in passing—quietly spoken, rarely repeated. A clean badge with dirty instincts. Sharp as a blade, cold as a coffin. Didn’t play by politics. Didn’t scare easily.

And apparently, didn’t miss a damn thing.

Wei Ying watched as Lan Zhan knelt beside the body—his message, his perfectly sculpted lie—and unraveled it like a threadbare coat.

He should’ve felt annoyed. Frustrated. Even worried.

But instead...

He smiled.

The bastard was good.

No hesitation, no panic. Just cold, quiet precision. Like a hunter tracing invisible footprints.

Wei Ying took another drag of the cigarette, eyes narrowing as Lan Zhan found the button he’d missed.

Well, shit.

The detective was even better than expected.

Below, Lan Zhan stood and said something to a junior officer. His expression hadn’t changed since he’d arrived—stoic, unreadable—but Wei Ying had been in this game too long not to notice the way his shoulders tightened.

He knows there’s more to it.

Wei Ying tapped ash off the end of his cigarette, heart calm even as his mind raced.

This wasn’t supposed to be a puzzle. Just a warning. A shift in power. A quiet revenge.

But now…

Now he wanted to see what Lan Zhan would do next.

“Let’s see how deep you’ll dig, detective,” he whispered, before vanishing into the night.

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