The first shooting occurred on June 20.
Around 2 a.m., a burst of gunfire erupted from the park in the autonomous zone—like a crack of thunder in the dead of night. Neighbors were jolted awake; some called the police immediately.
Xia Yu was shaken awake in her tent at the medical station. Students on the medical team took turns on night duty; tonight was her shift. Rubbing her sleepy eyes, still half-conscious, she was half-dragged, half-led to the park. Jinshui summers were hot, but perhaps because it was the dead of night, she felt a chill in the air and sneezed several times.
The park in the autonomous zone lay south of the police station, built around a small hill. A fitness trail encircled it, with relatively more streetlights—brighter than the surrounding area. A few people were already gathered on the trail in small groups, whispering to one another. At the park's center was a small square with a statue of a local notable—though Xia Yu had never learned who it was, and few of her classmates knew history, so no one could explain. Surrounding the square was a grove of trees, with pavilions and covered walkways scattered among them. In spring, the pavilions would have offered views of blooming flowers. But here, the lighting was sparse and many lamps were broken, offering little illumination; the park's center was shrouded in darkness, and the woods at night looked like a black hole that swallowed all light.
Xia Yu reached the park entrance and peered into the darkness—she felt a twinge of fear. But several students were with her, including some tall young men, all carrying flashlights. The one in front wore a motorcycle helmet and carried a pistol. He told Xia Yu: "Ding Dejin is already on the scene—he disarmed the shooter. Otherwise, we wouldn't have dared come."
Xia Yu imagined Ding Dejin charging fearlessly into danger, just as he'd done in the Seven Islands, and felt a lump in her throat. She grabbed her medical kit and hurried into the park's darkness.
In the black woods, under a pavilion with no streetlight, scattered beams of light swayed chaotically. A small crowd had gathered on the path, blocking the way to the pavilion; some craned their necks, shining flashlights or phones toward it. Xia Yu pushed through the crowd and raised her own light. She saw a stocky figure crouched in the pavilion, back to the crowd, a flashlight clamped in his mouth, working on something with a rustling sound. She called out: "Ding!" and pushed forward.
Ding Dejin glanced back, saw Xia Yu, and took the flashlight from his mouth: "Good timing—help me bandage him."
Beside him lay a young man, probably a high schooler, a South Islander, gaunt, with cracked, ulcerated lips. He was sprawled on the ground, pale as death, making a sharp whistling sound with every breath—like a whistle in his throat. Xia Yu followed Ding's hands: the boy's chest was soaked with blood, and Ding had a towel pressed over it.
Another person lay nearby, moaning intermittently—clearly a gang member, covered in tattoos on his arms and legs. He'd been shot in the thigh and seemed more stable; he'd pressed his own clothes against the wound, cursing and wailing.
Xia Yu gasped and moved to help, but Ding barked: "Gloves!" Then added: "Wear two layers."
Xia Yu fumbled, putting on gloves, her eyes darting between the two wounded men. Ding remained calm: "Treat this one first—he's critical. Right chest wound, bullet perforated his upper lung. Help me bandage him."
Xia Yu snapped back to focus, nodded, crouched beside the boy, cut open his shirt, located both entry and exit wounds, and under Ding's direction, poured iodine, packed the wounds with gauze, covered them with more layers, and wrapped them tightly with elastic bandages.
After stabilizing him, they moved to the second patient. Only then did Ding explain: "I was patrolling when I heard the shots. I came over and saw some punk firing a pistol."
"You heard gunfire and still ran toward it?"
"He'd emptied his magazine—otherwise I wouldn't have dared. He looked high. I tied him up and handed him to the student council."
"Has an ambulance been called?" After tending to both, Xia Yu was drenched in sweat. She glanced at the time—nearly 3 a.m. Her inexperienced bandaging had taken a while. She wondered: why hadn't the ambulance arrived yet?
Ding frowned, checked his watch: "Should've been here..."
Just then, a siren pierced the night from the south side of the zone. But instead of approaching, it stayed two streets away, wailing in place. Xia Yu and Ding exchanged puzzled looks. A student ran over from a distance, flashlight bobbing, and shouted: "The police are blocked at the entrance. The ambulance can't get through either. Guan wants you to take the wounded to the medical station first—see if we can get them to the hospital ourselves."
"The police can't get in?" Xia Yu repeated, wondering if she was still dreaming. "What does that have to do with the ambulance?"
"I don't know—the EMTs say they'll only enter after the police clear the scene."
Xia Yu had no choice. She directed the students to carry the two patients back to the medical station. Guan Shoujie was already there, clearly just awakened—hair disheveled, far less composed than usual. His first question: "What happened?"
Ding briefed him. Guan, despite having anticipated trouble, was flustered by the reality: "How are the two?"
Xia Yu said: "The younger one—probably a high schooler—is critical, chest wound, life-threatening. The other's been shot in the thigh, heavy blood loss—if not treated soon, he'll also be in danger."
Guan scratched his head, visibly agitated, muttering: "I feared this—and it happened!" He sighed and told Xia Yu: "The police are blocked at the zone entrance. They came in riot gear, making a big scene about investigating. For days, rumors have been circulating that they plan to clear the zone by force. The zone's full of strangers, plus radical students—many didn't know about the shooting; they thought the police were here to raid us. They blocked the entrance. We barely managed to get the police to pull back."
Xia Yu was confused: "Now that the misunderstanding's resolved, why won't even the ambulance come in?"
"Because emergency protocol says—in a shooting, EMTs only enter after police secure the scene."
"What kind of shitty protocol is that!" Xia Yu swore. "The shooter's already caught! They're just letting people die?"
Guan shook his head helplessly: "We can't prove he doesn't have accomplices. EMTs need to protect themselves—it's reasonable."
Xia Yu clenched her jaw, veins bulging on her forehead. She took two deep breaths and finally said: "We can't wait any longer—people will die. Get me a car—I'm taking them to the hospital."
Ding offered to go with her, but she refused: "Ding, stay here—you're needed more. I'll take some med students."
Xia Yu arrived at Jinshui University Hospital with the two wounded just after 3:30. She'd hoped to find an ambulance after leaving the zone—the EMTs had just left, back to base. She slammed the horn in frustration.
At the ER, the South Islander high schooler was lifted onto a gurney and rushed to the operating room. On the way, Xia Yu saw him stir slightly, his lips moving in a faint whisper:
"Mom..."
After they'd taken him into surgery, Xia Yu slumped onto a bench in the hallway. Her nose stung, and tears slipped down her cheeks.
The surgery lasted all night. When Zhao Tingyu shook her awake around 7 a.m., Xia Yu realized she'd fallen asleep.
The high schooler had died of his wounds hours earlier. The other patient remained in critical condition, transferred to the ICU, his fate uncertain.
Xia Yu felt her head splitting. She rested on the table for a long time before looking up, eyes red. She asked Zhao Tingyu: "If we'd gotten here sooner—would it have been different?"
Zhao Tingyu couldn't simply say yes or no. She gently stroked Xia Yu's dark hair and said: "Don't dwell on it. You did everything you could."
"I can't stop thinking about it—it just keeps going around in my head. Should I not have wasted time at the medical station? Should I have brought them straight to the hospital? Should I not have looked for the ambulance after leaving the zone? Whether they were good people or not—they shouldn't have died like this..."
Zhao Tingyu pulled Xia Yu into a tight embrace, letting her bury her face in her shoulder. She took a deep breath and said softly: "This isn't your fault. You don't have to blame yourself."
"Then whose fault is it?"
"No one's." Zhao Tingyu sighed. "Maybe that's just life."
Xia Yu heard the answer. She shook her head slowly, then buried her face in Zhao Tingyu's arms and let the tears flow freely.
On June 20, details of the zone shooting began to emerge in the media. Jinshui police stated that after the shooting, officers had attempted to enter the zone to treat the wounded but were blocked at the entrance. Police records showed: "Hostile individuals prevented police from advancing, so police could not fully secure the scene. Emergency personnel refused to enter." Officers described to reporters how they'd walked into the zone in riot gear and encountered groups of protesters blocking the entrance, shouting "The wounded aren't here!" and driving them out.
Some city council members challenged the police account, saying "the claim that people blocked medical aid is utterly implausible." A Jinshui police official said they were investigating via body cameras and public footage; some clips had been released, and they did show protesters blocking the entrance and yelling.
Mayor Zhang Zhenyang declined to comment. Police Chief Zhou Guoliang told reporters this was the inevitable result of the zone's rejection of policing—when it declared "no police," it also rejected official security. Several council members criticized the emergency responders for not arriving sooner and demanded the zone cooperate with them. Some, noting the victim was a South Islander teenager, feared a right-wing premeditated attack. Local shopkeepers expressed growing unease and considered closing. One video criticizing EMTs for refusing entry drew mocking comments: "You wanted an autonomous zone, right? You got what you asked for. Newland has no obligation to provide international aid." Some commenters claiming to be EMTs stressed: "EMT lives matter too."
Zhao Wenlong, just resuming his campaign, seized the opportunity to attack Jinshui's inaction: "Jinshui has a mayor who does nothing—who doesn't even know if he'll keep his job—and he talks about 'building a better world.' If he won't do it, I will." Zhao offered no specific plan, only saying the federal government would monitor the situation. Days earlier, he'd signed an executive order on police reform, strongly opposing police budget cuts—only further restricting chokeholds except in life-threatening situations. He said: "If you defund the police, the most vulnerable will suffer the most."
That morning, Guan Shoujie and Chang Baichuan held a rally in the zone to mourn the victims, calling on people to stop drinking and using drugs to avoid further incidents.
The rally was held on a street behind the station. Earlier, a group of artists had come to the zone and painted a massive mural on one wall, featuring Lin Fuqiao's portrait surrounded by South Islander civil rights slogans and graffiti. In recent days, many zone residents and visitors had come to pay respects, leaving wine, fruit, incense, and ghost money at the portrait's base. Several copper basins were placed there for burning offerings.
The portrait of the high schooler killed in the shooting was also placed beside the mural, with similar offerings piled before it. Chen Li followed the crowd, carrying a bag of ghost money, which he poured into a basin. He watched the flames consume it in an instant, dusted off his hands, and said: "Life is so fragile. He just graduated high school a few days ago—and now he's gone. Though he hadn't been idle—he'd been in the May 25 movement from the start."
"High schoolers these days are that free? Graduating despite all the protests?" Ding Dejin's voice came from beside him—he looked tired, squinting.
Chen Li chuckled helplessly: "Newland's basic education has long been a disaster, especially for South Islanders. They don't even have graduation exams—students can barely read a news article. This kid wasn't going to college anyway, so what was he even learning?"
Ding sighed: "Not going to college, but joining a civil rights movement—how do you even assess that?"
"Does he even know what this movement is about? Or was he like those gang members, just drifting along?"
Ding nodded: "We just don't want to think of it that way." He paused. "When I was trying to save him last night, I smelled a sweet scent on him—marijuana. Look at him—only eighteen, skinny, sagging skin—he'd been smoking for years."
Chen Li pulled out the hospital records: "Weight loss, premature aging, skin lesions, ulcers, blackened teeth, tooth loss—all signs of long-term drug use. At least he didn't have HIV. By the way, Ding, thanks for reminding Xia Yu to wear gloves."
"Just a reminder—basic stuff. Xia Yu's too impulsive, charging ahead without thinking. She cares about everyone—except herself."
Chen Li agreed: "She grew up abroad, that's part of it." He returned to the subject: "Ding, what exactly happened last night?"
Ding recalled: "These past few days, I'd gathered a few people to patrol—basically walking around the zone every few hours. Last night was my turn. Around 2 a.m., I reached the park entrance—I wasn't planning to go in—but then I heard gunfire from inside. I went in, crouched in the bushes near the pavilion, and saw three people—two already on the ground, the third holding a pistol, clearly not in his right mind, crying and laughing—high as a kite. I watched for a moment—he'd emptied his magazine and wasn't reloading. Some people were stirring, voices outside the park; I was afraid he'd be provoked and do more damage. So I rushed him, disarmed him, and handed him to the students. Then Xia Yu arrived, and we treated the wounded. When she heard the EMTs wouldn't come in, she was furious and took them to the hospital herself. I wanted to go too, but she said her classmates would handle it. I stayed and gathered whoever could patrol to check for other threats."
Chen Li patted his shoulder: "You had a rough night."
Ding shook his head. "Are you here as a cop? The police can't get in, and we can't hand over the shooter—he's stuck in the station. JSU students can do student movements, but dealing with thugs is different. They just play dumb, and the students can't handle it."
"I am here to investigate—it's a shooting, can't just ignore it." Chen Li looked at the photo Ding had taken after catching the shooter—a South Islander man, around his age, with earrings, lip piercings, arms covered in tattoos. Chen Li pointed to them: "Typical gang marks—from the port district, probably dockworker gangs. But I haven't seen this exact design; might be a smaller gang." He pulled out his phone with a photo of the ICU patient and showed Ding: "Gang tattoos are meant to distinguish each other. This guy's tattoos are different—same port district style, but the details are off. Not the same gang."
"Online speculation was gang rivalry—could that be it?"
"But the dead high schooler had no tattoos. Was he just caught in the crossfire?" Chen Li mused, then smiled bitterly: "Could he have just been unlucky to walk by at 2 a.m.?"
Ding snorted: "Strolling past drug users at 2 a.m. in the park? Not exactly an innocent."
"Don't let the media hear that—they'd tear you apart." Chen Li joked. "At the station, from the chief down to the beat cops, everyone's walking on eggshells—scared of saying the wrong thing about South Islander issues."
"Do the media really think silencing people makes problems go away?"
"They think banning negative words about South Islanders makes them equal."
Ding squinted, thought for a long time, then shook his head: "South Islanders don't need so called 'Equal Rights'. They need liberation." He paused, then added: "Real liberation."
Chen Li didn't understand: "Isn't that the same?"
"Equal rights still plays by the rules. Liberation means rejecting the game altogether."
In the station's interrogation room, Chen Li met the shooter, still bound to a chair. He was now sober, terrified, insisting he remembered nothing and had done nothing. Chen Li placed the pistol before him, showed photos from the scene—the gun was his, his fingerprints on it, the empty magazine. The shooter couldn't deny it, but claimed he'd been hexed, "controlled by demons."
"That's what he's been saying—talking nonsense, no use," a student said.
Chen Li dismissed the students, shut the door, put on gloves, cracked his knuckles—and before the man could react, slapped him across the face. The sound was like a sudden thunderclap on a summer day. The man was stunned, looking at Chen Li in disbelief—then the second slap came.
Both were hard blows, knocking out one of his black, rotten teeth; his mouth filled with blood. Chen Li grabbed his collar, forcing him to meet his eyes: "Don't think your act works on me. I've seen plenty." He released him, dropping him back into the chair, and straightened his clothes. "Remember now? Then answer me properly."
The man's eyes were wide, barely daring to breathe, nodding frantically. He confessed everything.
He was from a small gang in the port district. He'd heard the zone offered free food, shelter, alcohol, even marijuana, so he'd sneaked in to freeload. To avoid the protest crowds, he slept during the day and came out at night. He'd befriended the high schooler. That night, they'd been doing drugs in the park—how many rounds, he'd lost count. In a haze, he thought someone was approaching him, patting him down—in his drug-addled state, he assumed either a thief or a rival gang. High as he was, he'd pulled his pistol and fired wildly until his magazine was empty. Then a figure lunged from the bushes, disarmed him, and handed him over.
"So—no gang rivalry at all—just a drug-induced shooting?"
The man nodded nervously, staring at Chen Li.
"That high schooler, just graduated—you killed him?"
He started crying, shaking his head: "I didn't know—I didn't mean to..."
Chen Li released him, speechless.
After the interrogation, Chen Li met Guan Shoujie in the station's conference room. Guan had been up all night, exhausted. Gone was his passionate oratory—he sounded desperate: "Chen Li, now that the police can't get in, everyone's terrified. We've got a real problem. What do you think we should do?"
Chen Li felt a cold laugh inside—didn't you want a society without police? But he kept his face neutral: "I've done a preliminary investigation. The shooter was a drifter in the zone, got high with someone, and when another person approached—maybe to steal from him—he panicked and fired wildly, hitting two."
Guan was silent for a long moment, then asked hesitantly: "That's it? Nothing more complicated?"
Chen Li shrugged: "I'd call it involuntary manslaughter due to drug intoxication—but if the prosecutor pushes, it could be murder."
Guan waved his hand: "I know that—I'm asking about the case. Why so simple? No gang conflict, no motive?"
"What motive were you looking for? It's pretty straightforward."
Guan clicked his tongue, shook his head: "That's worse—it just shows our management is terrible."
Chen Li thought: You think it wasn't? He held back and asked: "I heard you were up all night—organizing patrols?"
"With what? Once people heard there was a shooting, they all kept their distance." Guan sighed. "Chang came to talk with me—we discussed it until morning."
"About what? Strengthening security? Calming people?"
"No. We discussed next steps. Chang thinks the zone is about to collapse. The question now is how to end it gracefully."
That was a sudden shift. Chen Li took a moment to absorb it: the zone had failed, and they were looking to cash out.
"We might contact Liberal lawmakers, propose a police budget cut, and then—let the zone dissolve."
On the evening of June 21, another shooting occurred in the zone. A 17-year-old high schooler was shot in the arm. This time, the students had learned—they got him to the hospital immediately. The victim was discharged the next day and refused to speak with police. Chen Li's investigation suggested it was a shooting over an argument.
On June 22, after two shootings, Mayor Zhang Zhenyang held a press conference. He stated: "Violence has overshadowed the peaceful protest," adding: "We cannot let violence define this movement. Jinshui will not tolerate repeated gun violence."
Chief Zhou Guoliang also spoke: "Some people are looting, burning, and destroying property in the zone. As police, we cannot stand by. I cannot watch people die in the streets and do nothing. To restore order and stop the violence, it's time for everyone to go home." Still, he criticized the council's ban on tear gas, saying it had "prevented police from helping victims in time."
In response, council members stuck to their narrative, claiming the zone's refusal to admit police was actually about helping emergency responders, though they admitted "the reality is that emergency aid couldn't be delivered."
At the press conference, Zhang and Zhou jointly announced that police would soon reoccupy the station and night activities in the zone would be canceled, but Zhang pledged no forceful clearing.
Some zone leaders and residents supported the official stance; some civil rights groups issued an open letter suggesting the zone be limited to operating between 8 a.m. and 8 p.m. to maintain security.
Some businesses, residents, and property owners in the zone filed a class-action lawsuit against the city, accusing it of excessive tolerance of the zone, causing losses and deprivation of rights. They demanded compensation for property damage, business loss, and rights deprivation, and that public roads be restored.
After intense media coverage, public opinion turned. Calls to dismantle the illegal zone and restore order became mainstream. Some civil rights activists and South Islander leaders publicly supported the restoration plan. The Jinshui Daily News reversed its stance, publishing an editorial titled Protest, Yes—But Not an Autonomous Zone and a special report, The Irony of a Police-Free Zone: In the End, We Still Need Police.
On June 23, Zhang Zhenyang announced a 20 million dollars cut to the Jinshui police budget for the latter half of the year—5 percent of the annual budget—and said further reductions of 10-15 percent were possible.
Due to the pandemic, Jinshui's revenues had fallen and expenses surged, creating a 378 million dollars shortfall. The police cuts, along with 20 million dollars in transportation and park infrastructure cuts, were meant to cover the gap.
After two shootings, panic spread through the zone. Businesses closed; most protesters scattered. A few holdouts continued camping on the sidewalk outside the station. Everyone knew the farce was ending.
On the evening of June 30, Zhang Zhenyang signed an executive order declaring the so-called "Free Newland Autonomous Zone" an unlawful assembly and authorizing police to clear it.
Around 10 p.m., Chen Li arrived at the zone and found Xia Yu at the medical station, packing unused medicines and bandages into boxes. The camp was nearly empty—only a few tents still had lights on, their occupants hurriedly packing to leave.
"Everyone else has gone. Only Guan's still in the station," Xia Yu said, organizing boxes. "Do you need to see him?"
"What's he doing there?"
"Reliving the glory days—he's been a big shot this past month."
"Captain going down with his ship? He's got some spirit." Chen Li chuckled and helped out. "Anyway, my job is just making sure everyone gets home safe."
Soon they were done. Xia Yu pulled up two chairs, and they sat side by side, watching the bustling street. People loaded luggage into cars; student council members directed traffic with loudspeakers; the flags and banners they'd once raised high now lay on the ground, trampled; the huge banner reading "Property of the People of Jinshui" still hung over the station entrance—but one corner had come loose, fluttering in the evening breeze.
"I feel like the past month has been a dream," Xia Yu said.
Chen Li turned to look at her—her face outlined by the light, her dark hair gleaming, half-closed eyes bloodshot, lips dry and peeling. She took a deep breath, sighed, her expression full of exhaustion. If it was a dream, it had been a nightmare.
He handed her a bottle of water: "You haven't rested all month. Go home, take a bath, get some rest."
She lifted her collar and sniffed: "Do I smell?"
"You can still joke—so you're not too down."
"Not as bad as I expected. I thought I'd feel angry, sad, disappointed—but actually, I feel lost." She looked up at the stars—in Jinshui's bright night lights, only a crescent moon was visible.
"Online, people called the zone a street fair—that's a funny analogy," she continued. "A fair always ends. No one expects it to last forever."
"But after all the sacrifices—what did we gain?" Her voice trembled. "A farce, a backdrop for everyone else's performance, and in the end, no one answers for the dead."
Chen Li nodded: "Twenty-odd days, 65 reported incidents, four shootings, two minors dead, many wounded. Before, I'd have said people made their choices—they bear the consequences. Or, in harsher terms, they asked for it."
"And now?"
"Now—I wonder if holding someone accountable for two deaths is too small-minded." He shook his head, unsure what expression to wear. "As of this morning, 3 million confirmed cases, over 130,000 dead—and our President Zhao doesn't even blink. Can we say all 130,000 brought it on themselves?"
"Zhao keeps saying 'maybe that's just life'—he'll never take responsibility." Xia Yu clenched her jaw. "In the May 25 movement, the ones who suffered, the ones who died—were either South Islanders or ordinary Serians."
"The Iwasaki case: it was children like Ai Mengqi who were tortured; Ma Jilan was the scapegoat; the big names on the island got away scot-free. The Egoless Sect: Xiao Meng and the other children—who answers for them?"
"I don't understand why it's always the bottom who suffer—while the top players walk away unscathed. Li, have you seen anyone actually trying to solve these problems? Even in our own zone, it's the same. The shooting killed a South Islander nobody—while the council members who lie to our faces are as safe as ever."
Xia Yu gasped, tears streaming. She stared at the starless sky, her eyes filled with grief, anger, and profound confusion: "We talk about freedom—but do most people really have the freedom to choose? Not even going far—did the residents and shopkeepers in the zone ever have a choice to say no?"
Chen Li sighed, put his arm around her shoulders, and guided her head onto his shoulder. She didn't resist, just leaned into him and sobbed:
"How did our country become like this?"
"Lin Fuqiao died and set the whole country on fire—who's been held accountable? How many have died since May 25—who even remembers their names?"
"I can't forget him—that high schooler, whispering in my ear: 'Mom... Mom...'" Tears poured down her face. "I don't even know his name—but I know Lin Fuqiao's plea wasn't more noble than his."
On the morning of July 1, Jinshui police deployed armored vehicles and massed riot police to clear the "Free Newland Autonomous Zone" in the city center. At least 32 remaining demonstrators were arrested. No casualties were reported.
