Chapter 111 - The Silent Decoy
Inside the sterile confines of the hospital room, the air was thick with the sharp, cloying scent of antiseptic. Lu Linjiang stood by the window, his gaze fixed on the sprawling city below as the afternoon sun began its slow descent, casting long, jagged shadows across the linoleum floor. The room was eerily quiet, save for the rhythmic hum of the life-support monitors—monitors that were now connected to nothing but empty air.
"Luo Jia has been moved?" Xu Sichen asked as she stepped inside, her voice hushed as if afraid to disturb the phantom of the patient who had occupied the bed only hours before. She looked at the bed; the sheets were pulled taut, the pillows fluffed with a precision that felt unnatural in a place of suffering.
"Mhm," Lu Linjiang replied, not turning around. "Keeping him here was just asking for trouble. He’s a liability in a room this exposed."
The absence of Yang Bo and Tang Hua made the room feel cavernous. Xu Sichen shifted uncomfortably, her hand instinctively resting near her holster. "Are you certain he’ll make a move tonight? The risk seems astronomical, even for someone as calculated as our suspect."
Lu Linjiang finally turned, a grim, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Luo Jia is the last loose thread. He knows the truth about what happened to Guzman and Martina. According to the 'meeting minutes' Yang Bo fabricated, Luo Jia suffered a psychological collapse and slipped back into a coma upon hearing of their deaths. To an assassin, that’s a golden opportunity. If they don't strike now to deliver the final blow, they risk him waking up and pointing a finger directly at them. It’s a gamble they have to take."
"And if he does come?" Xu Sichen pressed. "What’s the plan?"
"We adapt," Lu said simply, checking his watch. "Where is that boy? I told Yang Bo to get the equipment an hour ago."
As if summoned by the mention of his name, the door handle rattled. Yang Bo slipped into the room, looking uncharacteristically furtive. He was lugging a large, heavy bag made of thick black nylon. Without a word, he kicked the door shut and turned the deadbolt with a sharp *click*.
"Got it, Captain," Yang Bo panted, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. He unzipped the bag with a flourish, revealing a high-fidelity medical training mannequin. However, this wasn't a standard classroom model. It had been meticulously modified with theatrical wax and professional-grade makeup. The skin was a sickly, translucent grey, and the hollows beneath the eyes were bruised with a haunting realism that mimicked the final stages of viral exhaustion.
"Good grief," Xu Sichen whispered, recoiling slightly. "That’s... uncanny."
"Grotesque is the word you're looking for," Lu Linjiang remarked, stepping closer to inspect the decoy doll. He reached out, adjusting the mannequin’s head so it rested at a slight, helpless angle on the pillow. "But in this light, through the observation window, it’s perfect."
Yang Bo began the delicate process of setting the stage. He threaded the IV line into the mannequin’s silicone arm, carefully drawing a small amount of tinted fluid into the tube to simulate blood backflow—a subtle but vital detail that would convince a trained eye that the 'patient' was still biologically active. They worked with the grim focus of stagehands preparing for a tragedy, ensuring every shadow and every piece of medical equipment served the illusion.
While the trap was being set at the hospital, the atmosphere across the city at the private residence of Wang Ling was far more jovial, though no less tense for Jiang Cheng. He sat at the dining table, the clinking of silverware and the boisterous laughter of his companions feeling like a dull roar in his ears. He felt a persistent, prickling sensation on the back of his neck—a premonition he couldn't shake.
A servant entered the dining room, carrying a nondescript cardboard box. "Dr. Jiang? A courier just dropped this off. It’s marked as urgent medical correspondence."
Jiang Cheng’s heart skipped a beat. He excused himself from the table, ignoring Wang Ling’s playful ribbing about 'workaholics,' and took the package to a side table. His movements were clinical and precise as he picked up a silver letter opener. He sliced through the heavy packing tape, the sound echoing in the sudden lull of conversation.
As the flaps of the box fell away, Jiang Cheng’s breath hitched. Nestled within a bed of silk padding was a peculiar object—an hourglass of exquisite craftsmanship, yet its contents were wrong. Instead of simple sand, the glass bulbs held a swirling, iridescent mixture that seemed to catch the light in a way that felt predatory.
He reached in, his fingers closing around the cool glass. As he lifted it, he noticed a small, metallic protrusion near the base—a temperature sensor, its tiny red light beginning to pulse with a steady, rhythmic throb. The realization hit him like a physical blow, turning his blood to ice.
