Chapter 7 – The Unspoken

Does the son of a murderer also become a murderer?

Or is it that inferior genes are inherently passed down through bloodlines, generation after generation?

Yan Ru bent down and pulled the red-and-green woven bag out from under the bed.

He borrowed the small knife I carried with me to try and undo the tightly sealed stitching of the bag’s opening. But after fumbling with it for a long time, he only managed to tear a small slit in it.

Watching his awkward movements, I heard murmurs from the onlookers.

“Dragging his feet like this—could it be a guilty conscience?”

Yan Ru clearly heard those comments too. His hands paused almost imperceptibly before he continued trying to undo the stitching with his head lowered.

Seeing this, I stepped forward, crouched beside him, took the knife from his hand, and with a single slash and pull—

The stubborn stitching that had given Yan Ru so much trouble came apart effortlessly in my hands.

Yan Ru froze for a moment, his eyes filled with unmistakable surprise and bewilderment as he looked at me.

“There’s a trick to opening these woven bags. Didn’t you know?”

Yan Ru said nothing.

Seems he didn’t.

I forced a dry laugh. “Alright, I guess I look more like a street vendor than you do.”

This was meant to be a lighthearted joke, but for some reason, saying it out loud suddenly made me feel uncomfortable—an indescribable discomfort.

Yan Ru lowered his head and pulled the bag open, exposing its contents to everyone’s gaze.

Inside, piece after piece of clothing was neatly packed in transparent plastic bags, stacked tightly in the woven bag.

But the moment I saw them, my brow furrowed involuntarily.

The clothes were bright and colorful, and even without touching them, I could tell from sight alone that they were made of various fabrics. Some even had floral patterns or images of people—definitely a style suited for young people.

But they were women’s clothes.

How could they be women’s clothes? From what Yan Ru had said earlier, he clearly dealt in men’s clothing.

I glanced at him discreetly.

When Yan Ru saw the women’s clothes inside, his hand on the edge of the bag froze for two seconds, his pupils contracting sharply. But he quickly regained his composure, pulling the opening wider and saying to the man surnamed Sun, “If you want to look, go ahead.”

No matter how well he pretended, his initial reaction couldn’t be faked.

A bold thought suddenly surfaced in my mind.

Connecting it to his previous behavior and the words that had made me suspicious… a rather absurd guess took shape—one that even I found hard to believe.

He had shown no reaction to the renowned Weiyao Technology, and many of our questions had been met with vague, imprecise answers. Even with the woven bag—something he should have been very familiar with—he struggled to open it properly…

I had assumed it was because Yan Ru was guarded.

But now, it suddenly occurred to me: perhaps Yan Ru himself didn’t know what was inside the woven bag. That would explain why he was so surprised when he saw the women’s clothes.

A street vendor, who personally took the train to a wholesale market to pick out goods, yet didn’t know what his own merchandise looked like?

That made no sense.

Only two explanations came to mind.

First, the woven bag didn’t belong to Yan Ru—it was stolen goods he hadn’t had time to open yet. That would explain why he didn’t know what was inside and why he gave random answers to our questions.

But this explanation didn’t hold up. A woven bag was too conspicuous—if Yan Ru had really stolen it, the owner would only need to search the train carriage thoroughly to find it.

Second, the woven bag did belong to Yan Ru, but for some reason, he didn’t know its contents.

For example—amnesia?

Thinking about it, both explanations struck me as absolutely ridiculous.

How could an amnesiac even board a train?

Over on the other side, the man they called “Brother Sun,” surrounded by the crowd, bent down and began picking through the clothes in the bag with two fingers, pretending to examine each piece before tossing them carelessly onto the floor.

Even Gu Lanshan couldn’t take it anymore. He stepped forward and said, “He already let you look. Isn’t this going too far?”

“If I don’t take them out, how am I supposed to see if there’s stolen goods inside?” retorted the man surnamed Sun, still acting with impunity—likely emboldened by the crowd behind him.

A laughable and idiotic kind of confidence.

Yan Ru watched all of this in silence, the furrow between his brows forming a deep crease. He didn’t step forward to stop it—given his build, it wouldn’t have been difficult. Instead, he stood there dazed, like a bystander.

As if those clothes had nothing to do with him.

“Let him look all he wants. Why stop him?” I lounged lazily on the bed and pulled out my phone.

“Hah, don’t think you can—what are you doing?!”

Brother Sun’s words were abruptly cut short. His already small eyes widened abruptly, and the flat bridge of his garlic-like nose flared unnaturally with his agitation. The imposing demeanor he was trying to project only made him look even more ridiculous and ugly.

And right in front of him was my phone, camera pointed directly at him.

“You’re recording me?!” Brother Sun demanded.

I nodded earnestly. “Yeah, I am. Is that a problem?”

We live in a highly technologically advanced society. Even illnesses like depression and schizophrenia—once considered difficult to treat—now have solutions thanks to Weiyao Technology. The ways and channels for spreading information are also diverse. Countless people film and post videos about their daily lives, hoping that one ordinary moment would suddenly explode online and transform them into overnight sensations.

So, if I want to document my life, isn’t that perfectly normal?

Holding my phone steadily in one hand, I kept the lens trained on Brother Sun.

Someone in the crowd said, “Isn’t that a violation of his portrait rights?”

I stared silently at the person who’d spoken, my expression—or so I thought—perfectly calm. But the other person shrank back and retreated into the crowd without another word.

Brother Sun opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but his gaze faltered when it met mine. Still, he tried to sound tough and justified. “Let him record! We’re not doing anything shady—we’re helping the police, aren’t we?”

The crowd murmured in agreement.

But under the watchful eye of the camera, he did rein in his actions, no longer throwing the clothes around like before.

The woven bag wasn’t large, and it was soon emptied. There was no trace of the so-called Jade Guanyin Statue inside.

Brother Sun clicked his tongue, unwilling to believe it, and even got on his hands and knees to peer under Yan Ru’s bed. Still, he found nothing.

“If it’s not here, we should move on,” the woman who’d lost her belongings hurriedly said, helping him up. “Thank you so much, Brother Sun.”

Brother Sun seemed to relish being called “Brother Sun.” He stood with the woman’s help but still shot me a resentful glare before leading the crowd away to the next section of bunks.

“Just you wait…”

After tossing Yan Ru’s belongings all over the floor, he thought he could just walk away?

But just as I was about to speak, Yan Ru’s right hand landed on my shoulder, stopping me. In a low voice, he said, “I’ll clean it up. Don’t start a fight.”

Since Yan Ru had said that, I had no grounds to keep pressing the issue.

Gu Lanshan sighed as well and bent down to help Yan Ru gather the clothes. With three grown men working together, the clothes were quickly repacked into the woven bag.

“Who knows if all this ruckus will actually help find anything,” Gu Lanshan muttered, brushing dust off his hands.

I ignored him, focusing instead on Yan Ru.

Gu Lanshan sighed again and, finding nothing else to do, kicked off his shoes and climbed back into the upper bunk.

Outside the window, the scenery remained unchanging, like a false backdrop pasted over the glass, making me want to tear it away violently.

Yan Ru suddenly spoke. “Thanks for earlier.”

I leaned lazily against the wall and said offhandedly, “No big deal. I just can’t stand people like that, ganging up to bully others.”

Yan Ru said, “It’s a kind of collective unconsciousness. Maybe many of them knew it was wrong, but under the influence of the group, they couldn’t help but go along with it.”

Collective unconsciousness.

What did that mean?

“You might be right,” I said, nodding in agreement.

“Actually, I kind of admired what you did back there,” Yan Ru added after a pause. “But you really did violate his portrait rights.”

I scoffed. “That old, fat pig? What’s there to film? If I were going to film anyone, it’d be someone like you.”

With that, I opened my phone’s gallery and showed Yan Ru. There were no videos inside—let alone any of that old man.

Yan Ru’s brows twitched slightly, and when he looked at me again, his eyes were full of amusement.

“You tricked him?”

“Obviously,” I said matter-of-factly. “I just made a show of it, and he backed off. Filming him would’ve been a waste of storage space.”

At that, Yan Ru finally let out a laugh. His deep-set eyes curved, his lips tilting into a genuine smile, softening the usually stern lines of his face. It was like watching the east wind melt the last of the winter ice—a sight that made one’s heart flutter.

This was the first time I’d seen Yan Ru smile like this since meeting him, as if he’d momentarily let his guard down and allowed himself a moment of ease.

That bold guess of mine resurfaced, stirring restlessly in my chest. Unable to resist, I called out, “Yan Ru.”

“Hm?” He looked at me intently, his dark pupils reflecting my face.

I swallowed and asked quietly, testing the waters, “Did you… not know the bag had women’s clothes in it from the start?”

The smile on Yan Ru’s face faded slowly, his eyes locking onto mine as if searching my expression for any trace of malice or goodwill.

I maintained a sincere demeanor.

The air between us grew heavy, the surrounding noise fading away as silence enveloped us. Just as I thought he wouldn’t answer, I heard his reply.

“Yes.”

A single word, confirming all my suspicions.

For some reason, a secret, unnameable thrill rose from deep within me—unstoppable, inexplicable, and impossible to put into words. I didn’t even understand why I felt so pleased to learn that Yan Ru had amnesia.

Wasn’t that strange?