Detective Harold Wang of Hanshan City, age forty-nine. He had handled murders and uncovered hoaxes—but he had never seen a "child" like this.
That day was a gray, hazy afternoon. The sunlight was dim, like covered by a layer of gray cloth. The office was thick with cigarette smoke and fatigue. I had just brewed some tea when the call came in.
"My son said a classmate invited him out. He hasn't come back all afternoon… and his phone is off…"
The missing boy's name was Leo Wang, nickname "Little Gus." Thirteen years old, seventh grade. His father was the one calling, voice anxious and tinged with a restrained sob.
To be honest, I've seen too many thirteen-year-olds run away, play out all night, and avoid calls. But for some reason, after I hung up, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong with this case.
We pulled the surveillance footage from the school entrance. Four boys left together.
Leo was at the back, walking slowly, as if someone were forcing him. His expression—was wrong. In fact, he had no expression. This wasn't a casual outing. Nor was it kids skipping class. He looked like a prisoner being marched away.
The other three were also seventh graders. After checking their identities several times, I was a bit stunned. What was this? An open casting call for juvenile delinquents?
Even stranger—at 10 p.m. that night, someone used Leo's account to transfer 188 yuan to one of the boys. The login IP showed… it wasn't from Leo's phone.
That's when I understood—this wasn't a disappearance. He had been taken away. And then "handled."
The following afternoon, we brought in the three boys. They were still in school uniforms, their collars dusted with chalk. When they walked in, heads down, they didn't cry or panic. They looked like kids who had broken classroom rules.
I had expected denial, lies, finger-pointing. But Ethan Zhang, the ringleader, spoke first:
"We buried him. Behind the shed at my house."
I froze for two seconds. "What did you say?"
"…We killed him."
He said it so calmly, as if he were admitting to not turning in his homework.
I looked into the boy's eyes. That wasn't a look I had seen in any adult criminal. No fear. No regret. Not even hatred—just emptiness. No emotion. Only execution.
That, to me, was more terrifying than rage.
When we dug up the body, it was behind the abandoned shed, where tall grass had covered everything. Leo was buried in the coldest corner, still tightly clutching his dictionary.
That night, I sat in my living room and lit a cigarette. Halfway through, I stubbed it out. Suddenly, I felt—our society is too lenient, too blindly trusting, of the word "child."
These three kids were not born monsters. But through countless jokes, stomping, and provocations—they became monsters.
They were someone's children. They were students. They were the blind spots of the system. Like gasoline cans, never taught how to handle fire. Until one day, they lit themselves—and destroyed someone else.
I asked Ethan Zhang, "Do you regret it?"
He was silent for a few seconds.
"I'm kind of glad he's gone… but also kind of sad, because… the teachers finally noticed us."
In that moment, a chill ran down my spine.
Leo Wang's father sat outside the interrogation room in silence. He looked hollowed out.
I walked over and said just one sentence: "I'm sorry. We were too late."
He shook his head. "It wasn't you. It was the whole world that was too late."
I knew this case would make headlines. I knew someone would be held accountable because of the public backlash. But I also knew—these three weren't the only ones. And Leo wasn't the first.
I just hope—next time, we won't be too late.