4.29作业

初版“Han Yue stared at the lily pin on Yan Hao’s shirt button. He remembered breaking a beaker in the lab three days ago while mixing poison. This was his seventh attempt to poison Yan Hao, but the previous six had all failed.

On a rainy night ten years ago, he hid behind the funeral home door. Through the frost-covered glass, he saw his father’s body, burned by sulfuric acid, being placed into a body bag. The lawyer from the Yan family threw a DNA report at him. The 0.3% blood similarity was blurred by raindrops on the paper.

“Detective Yan, your coffee today has double the caffeine?” Han Yue stirred his thermos, dark liquid swirling with white pills. He let Yan Hao catch him hiding cash in his office—a pile of 200,000 yuan stacked in the surveillance blind spot.

Yan Hao suddenly pulled up Han Yue’s collar, exposing a dark scar under his collarbone. “Last week, why did the potassium chloride you put in my coffee match the emergency medicine I used to save you three years ago?” Handcuffs clicked as Han Yue noticed a flame tattoo on Yan Hao’s wrist.

In the interrogation room, Han Yue stared at Yan Hao’s torn shirt. A thorn-shaped tattoo covered the scar from a bullet fragment. Ten years earlier, the boy who took an explosion for him flashed into his mind, more painful than the needle pricks in his hand now.

“You father gave me fake death drugs back then,” Yan Hao pulled out a crumpled will. “The cyanide you’re using now? Same factory batch number.” He opened a dusty file. The DNA report showed the man with sulfuric acid burns was actually Han Yue’s real father.

On the day the case closed, Han Yue saw his own poison bottles in the evidence room. On the label, red writing said: “The explosive device Yan Hao took for him ten years ago contained gene drugs that could alter DNA test results.”
AI改版：Han Yue pinned a lily brooch onto the third button of Yan Hao's suit. Just then, the surveillance camera behind the sandalwood screen in the study started to rotate. This was his thirteenth attempt to adjust the murder schedule, and he had failed in the previous twelve because Yan Hao, the young master of the Yan family, could always see through people.

Ten years ago, on a stormy night, Han Yue shrank in the morgue of the funeral parlor. Through the frosted glass, he saw his father's sulfuric - acid - disfigured body. The Yan family lawyer threw a paternity test report in his face and said, "Mr. Han, the similarity between you and the deceased is only 0.3%. You're not even a love child."

"Detective Yan, would you like to try my newly - mixed whiskey?" Han Yue twirled a silver spoon filled with ice cubes in his glass. Cyanide crystals floated in the amber - colored liquid. He shook a USB flash drive in front of Yan Hao. The surveillance video on it showed Yan Hao's father pushing a business rival into the swimming pool, and the victim's gold - rimmed glasses were still stuck in his mouth.

Suddenly, Yan Hao grabbed Han Yue's wrist and pressed the gun muzzle against the base of the lily brooch. "Han, are the twenty billion yuan in your Swiss bank account for buying a grave?" The metal watch chain brushed against Han Yue's carotid artery, revealing a subcutaneous implanted micro - bomb remote control.

Han Yue laughed lowly and bit open a cyanide capsule. But in the midst of the pain, he saw Yan Hao rip open his shirt. There was an identical thorn rose tattoo on his chest, with a fresh scar under the ink - still - wet tattoo. The memory of the boy taking an explosion for him ten years ago suddenly pierced through his mind.

"The drug your father injected into me back then was a fake death drug." Yan Hao broke the wire of the detonator and slapped the real will on the table. "Your father, Mr. Han, changed the inheritance rights in his will before he died. The signature on the document that sent your father to the mental hospital is very similar to the hand that's holding the gun right now."

When the police siren pierced through the rain, Han Yue slumped on the floor full of broken glass. Yan Hao was using the Swiss Army knife Han Yue had given him to cut open his palm and dripping blood into his father's ashes box. "Uncle Han, we've been calculating this chess game for ten years."
AI自己写版本When Han Yue pinned the lily brooch onto Yan Hao’s suit collar, the surveillance camera was descending from the attic skylight of the old mansion. This was his twenty-first attempt to revise the explosive device blueprint, and the previous twenty had all failed because of Yan Hao—the young master who could see through steel and concrete with a single glance.

Ten years ago on a snowy night, Han Yue knelt in the morgue of Yan Pharmaceutical Factory. Through frost-covered glass, he watched his father curl up beside a liquid nitrogen tank. Yan’s lawyer threw a DNA report at him, sneering, “Mr. Han, your blood similarity to the deceased is 0.1%. Even a stray dog is worth more.”

“Mr. Yan, would you like whiskey with ice tonight?” Han Yue twirled a silver flask, amber liquid swirling with cyanide crystals. He deliberately let Yan Hao catch him hiding cash in the office fire extinguisher compartment—twenty thousand yuan tucked away in the shadows.

Yan Hao suddenly grabbed his wrist, pressing a gun muzzle against the lily brooch’s clasp. “Han, are those fifty million in Cayman Islands accounts for your burial shroud?” The metal cuff scraped his neck artery, exposing a subcutaneous detonator.

Han Yue laughed bitterly, biting into a cyanide capsule. But in the agony, he saw Yan Hao tear open his shirt—revealing an identical thorn rose tattoo, its fresh ink pressing down on a bullet scar. The memory of the boy shielding him from an explosion ten years ago shattered his resolve.

“You father injected me with fake death drugs back then,” Yan Hao snarled, yanking the detonator wires. He slammed a will onto the table. “The signature altering the inheritance rights… it’s written in the same handwriting as the hand holding that gun now.”

When sirens wailed through the snowstorm, Han Yue slumped among shattered glass. Yan Hao was carving his palm with the titanium knife Han Yue had gifted him, letting blood drip into his father’s urn. “Uncle Han,” he said quietly, “this chess game has lasted ten years.”