The Black Weapon
Lin Sheng turned the key in his front door. When he entered, the hallway light was on, and the floor lamp in the living room glowed with orange light—that particular color temperature his wife Fang Ran had insisted on buying. "Warmer is better," she had said. Her blanket lay folded neatly on the sofa, and on the coffee table sat a cup of unfinished tea. Everything appeared normal, so normal it seemed as though she had merely stepped into another room.
The studio door stood open.
He walked over and stopped at the threshold, where he saw her.
Fang Ran sat in the chair by the window, hands resting on her knees, palms facing upward. Her head was slightly bowed, hair falling down to cover half her face. She wore that navy blue sweater, the one she wore most often—the neckline was pilling, and he had suggested several times she replace it, but she said it was comfortable. She sat there quietly, as if asleep.
Lin Sheng called her name.
She didn't move.
He walked in and brushed the hair from her face.
A knife protruded from her right eye. The handle was black, the blade buried about two inches deep, firmly lodged without trembling. Her left eye was closed, lips slightly parted. Her expression showed no pain, no struggle—so peaceful it didn't seem like the face of someone who had died.
Lin Sheng's gaze moved downward. Her left pant leg was soaked through, blood seeping from the inner thigh, running down the chair leg onto the floor where it had pooled by her feet—black, with dried edges. The femoral artery. One cut.
He crouched down, hands on his knees, not touching her.
The streetlight outside illuminated the orange curtains from within, casting light across her face and the knife handle. The studio walls were covered with paintings—deep reds and browns, intense colors hanging silently behind her.
Lin Sheng recognized that knife.
He remained crouched there, looking at her for a long time, then stood and walked to the doorway to call his colleague.
When the call connected, he said, "Old Zhou, come to my house."
Old Zhou asked what was wrong.
He said, "The fifth one."
Old Zhou arrived quickly, bringing the medical examiner and two investigators.
Footsteps began echoing in the stairwell. Lin Sheng sat on the living room sofa, hearing the door open, hearing Old Zhou enter and walk to the studio doorway, where he paused without speaking. After a moment, Old Zhou turned around, walked over to him, and placed a hand on his shoulder, pressing gently.
Lin Sheng said, "Inside."
Old Zhou nodded and led his team in.
Camera flashes began firing in the studio, one after another. The orange floor lamp was moved out to the hallway and replaced with cold white investigation lights. The white light leaked through the door crack, casting a cold-colored strip across the hallway floor. Lin Sheng sat on the sofa, watching that strip of light, motionless.
When the medical examiner emerged, Lin Sheng stood and asked about the time of death.
"Around eleven last night," the medical examiner said.
Lin Sheng said nothing and sat back down.
Old Zhou came out of the studio and sat across from him. They sat facing each other for a while, neither speaking. Finally, Old Zhou broke the silence, his voice low.
"Sheng, you know the regulations."
"I know," Lin Sheng said.
"When a case involves a family member, you must recuse yourself. You can't participate in the investigation until it's closed. Orders are for you to go home and rest. I'll update you on any developments immediately."
"This is my home," Lin Sheng said.
Old Zhou fell silent for a moment, then said, "Go somewhere else then—relatives, friends, anywhere."
Lin Sheng didn't move. He stared at the cold tea on the coffee table for a while, then said, "I'll leave after you finish here."
Old Zhou glanced at him but said no more.
They worked in the house for nearly two more hours—photographing, sampling, recording, discussing in low voices. Occasionally someone came out to ask Lin Sheng questions, which he answered steadily, as if discussing someone else's affairs. Near dawn, everyone gradually departed. Old Zhou was the last to leave, stopping at the door to look back at him.
"My condolences, Sheng."
Lin Sheng nodded.
The door closed.
The house fell quiet again, quieter than before everyone had arrived, as if something had been taken away with them. The cold white lights were gone, the orange floor lamp returned to its corner, bathing the living room in warm light as before.
Lin Sheng remained on the sofa, unmoving.
The studio door was closed—Old Zhou had shut it before leaving with his team. Lin Sheng stared at that door for a long time, then stood, walked over, and pushed it open.
The studio looked as it had before. The chair remained in its original position, the bloodstains still on the floor, but the knife was gone, taken as evidence. The paintings still hung on the walls—deep reds and browns appearing dark in the cold daylight. The curtains weren't drawn; outside, the sky was beginning to show hints of gray-white, the streetlights still glowing orange, mixing with the gray-white sky in an indescribable color.
He wandered around the studio without purpose, simply walking.
He stopped beside a row of easels against the wall.
There was a very small painting, the canvas no larger than A4 paper, mounted in a simple wooden frame. The image showed a dining table with a pot of fish soup, rendered in warm yellows and whites, with only a hint of sunset-tinted red in the background corner where the kitchen sink hid in shadow.
Lin Sheng stood before that painting for a while, remembering that day.
It had been two years ago. To help restore his wife's vision, he had bought a live fish from the market. Being his first time handling a live fish, he had made quite a mess of the kitchen. When he carried the fish soup out of the kitchen, his wife, who had been waiting by the kitchen door, smiled slightly.
That evening, she had entered the studio. Whether moved by Lin Sheng's thoughtfulness or because the fish soup had helped her vision, it was the first time she had picked up a paintbrush since her accident.