The dull thud of the car door closing severed the connection to the grayish daylight outside. Lu Chenzhou leaned back into the seat, the scent of leather rising to meet him, mingled with cleaning agents and a faint, almost imperceptible sourness. The car started, smoothly merging into the sparse morning traffic. Lu Chenzhou's gaze fell on the car window. The dark tinted film filtered the world into a murky, dark green haze; streets, pedestrians, the steamy heat rising from breakfast stalls all became silent, sliding blurs of color. His left hand rose unconsciously, his fingertips tracing a few faint lines in the air—'87.11.3'. That date, along with the cold bronze badge, now lay heavily in the inner pocket of his jacket, pressed against his ribs. The details from the art gallery scene replayed automatically in his mind. The distorted *Starry Night*, the victim's tightly clenched hand, the slight wear on the edge of the badge… and Gu Zhixing's gaze clinging to his back. That gaze had weight, like water-soaked gauze, wrapping around him layer by layer. He needed to know exactly where this badge came from. The car turned onto an old street, flanked by residential buildings from the 1990s, clothes drying on balconies outside swaying slightly in the morning breeze. Lu Chenzhou suddenly spoke, "Pull over at the newsstand ahead." The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror, didn't ask, and turned on the signal. The car stopped by the roadside. Lu Chenzhou pushed the door open and got out. The owner of the newsstand was stacking newly arrived newspapers onto the racks. He bought a local map and asked for a bottle of water. As he paid, his gaze swept over a few dusty old yearbooks on the stall—*Jiangcheng Municipal Yearbooks* from 1995 to 2000, their plastic covers yellowed. The owner looked up, sizing him up. "Sold by weight. Five yuan per jin." Lu Chenzhou pulled out the one for 1997. It was thick, the edges of the pages already brittle. He quickly flipped to the appendix for "Municipal Cultural Institutions," his finger sliding down the list. City Art Museum, City Museum, City Archives… His finger stopped. City Archives, old address: 217 Zhongshan North Road. Note: Relocated to new site in 1998; old building abandoned in 2003. He closed the yearbook and pulled out the one for 1996. Same section, the appendix had an extra line of small print: "...A batch of commemorative badges were custom-made and issued the same year, numbered 001-500, to recognize outstanding archival workers and partner units for the year." "I'll take them all," he said, stacking the yearbooks together and placing them on the scale. Back in the car, the rough covers of the yearbooks rubbed against his fingertips. Lu Chenzhou opened the appendix page of the 1996 volume, staring at that line of small print. Badges. Numbers. Archives. Relocated in 1998. Abandoned in 2003. Abandoned. He closed his eyes. A map of the city unfolded in his mind, streets intersecting like blood vessels. The art museum was in the east of the city; the old archives site was on the edge of the old industrial district in the west, almost a diagonal line. But the timing aligned—the year the badges were issued, the old building was still in use. If the badge came from there, if something was still left there… Lu Chenzhou stood at the mouth of a narrow alley, looking up into the depths of the shadows. Moonlight couldn't reach here; only a mostly broken streetlight at the distant intersection flickered intermittently, casting brief, sickly yellow halos. Before him stood a four-story concrete building, square and blocky, most of its windows devoid of glass, like empty eye sockets. The outer wall was covered in dark water stains and cracks, the original cream-colored paint faintly discernible. The main door was secured with a rusted chain lock; a sign hung crookedly beside it, the characters blurred: "City Arc… Old Site… Danger… Keep Out." Wind whistled through the empty windows, a low, mournful sound like a sigh. The air carried a complex smell—the dry scent of aged dust, the sour-musty odor of rotting paper, and deeper, a faint, charred smell, as if from a fire many years ago, its scent having seeped into the brickwork, never to dissipate. Lu Chenzhou stepped out of the shadows. He had changed into a dark jacket, his shoes soft-soled, making almost no sound on the ground. The corner of his left eye twitched slightly, very faintly. He ignored it, walking to The chain came loose, fell, and struck the iron door with a dull thud. Lu Chenzhou quickly reached out to catch it, gently placing the chain on the ground. He pushed the door open. The hinges let out a dry groan, piercingly loud in the silence. He only opened it just wide enough to slip through sideways, entered immediately, and loosely closed the door behind him. It was thicker, heavier inside, oppressive as if it had physical form. He stood still for a few seconds, letting his eyes adjust. Then he took a pen-shaped mini flashlight from his pocket and pressed the switch. In the beam of light, countless dust particles danced, slow and dense, like a silent blizzard. The musty smell in the air instantly sharpened, rushing straight into his nostrils, carrying the uniquely sweet-rotten odor of aged paper. Underfoot was a thick layer of dust, mixed with plaster fragments and unidentifiable debris. He lifted his foot, placed it down; the dust stirred slightly, tumbling in the light. Darkness swallowed everything again. But those few seconds were enough for him to sketch a rough spatial layout in his mind — an entrance hall, facing a corridor, rooms on either side. The interior of the building was more dilapidated than he had imagined. The ceiling had collapsed in multiple places, revealing twisted steel bars and hollow floor slabs. Large water stains marred the walls, sections where the plaster had peeled off entirely, exposing the blackened bricks beneath. He remembered the old floor plan. The Archives Management Department should be on the second floor, east side. He took a deep breath. The taste of dust choked his throat, slightly itchy. Suppressing the urge to cough, he turned on the flashlight again, this time cupping his left hand loosely around the light, letting only a faint circle leak out. The beam skimmed the ground, illuminating a small area ahead. He stepped forward, avoiding protruding rubble and toppled cabinets on the floor. The corridor was long. The flashlight beam swept past doors on either side — some tightly shut, others half-open, dark voids inside. One room was piled high with rusted iron racks, like the skeletons of giant beasts. Another had a large, jagged hole in the floor, revealing deeper darkness below. He skirted around it; a soft *crunch* came from underfoot — he had stepped on and shattered a loose piece of plasterboard. The sound echoed through the empty building, quickly absorbed by the silence. The stairs were at the end of the corridor. Concrete steps, edges chipped, the handrail long gone. He stepped onto them, planting each foot firmly, controlling his force. The dust left clear footprints on the steps. The situation on the second floor was worse. A whole section of the corridor ceiling had collapsed, bricks and plaster piled into a small hill, blocking half the path. He turned sideways, squeezing through the narrow gap between the debris and the wall. His jacket rubbed against the rough wall surface, producing a sandy friction sound. The corridor was long. The beam of his flashlight swept past doors on either side—some tightly shut, others half-ajar, revealing pitch-black interiors within. One room was piled high with rusted metal racks, like the skeletons of giant beasts. The floor of another had collapsed into a large, gaping hole with jagged edges, exposing an even deeper darkness below. He skirted around it, a faint "crunch" sounding underfoot—he had stepped on and shattered a loose piece of plasterboard. The wood groaned under the strain, slowly inching inward to create a crack. The room was large, tall. Most of the originally neatly arranged iron filing cabinets had toppled over, lying every which way, like blocks haphazardly knocked over by a giant. Papers were scattered everywhere, rotting into indistinct smears in the dust. Sweeping the flashlight beam, he could see some pages still bore traces of printed forms or handwritten characters, but most were blurred beyond recognition. The smell of burnt material in the air was more pronounced here, its source seemingly nearby. Carefully stepping over the fallen cabinets, he walked deeper into the room. Based on memory, the row of independent storage cabinets against the inner wall should have held personnel and memorabilia-related materials back then. His foot suddenly kicked something. It rolled away with a *clatter*, hitting an iron cabinet with a crisp metallic clang. The flashlight beam followed the sound. It was an empty tin biscuit box, badly rusted. The sound seemed exceptionally loud in the deathly silence, its echo buzzing through the empty room. He held his breath, ears straining to catch any subtle movement — only his own heartbeat, pounding heavily in his chest. Against the inner wall stood a row of independent green metal filing cabinets, taller and sturdier than the toppled iron ones. Five in total. Three had their doors wide open, empty inside. The fourth door was tightly shut, its keyhole rusted solid. The fifth— Lu Chenzhou stopped before the cabinet. The The cabinet was deep, divided into upper and lower sections. The upper section held several toppled cardboard boxes with damaged lids, revealing yellowed document folders inside. The lower section was empty, save for a pile of shredded paper and miscellaneous items in one corner. The beam of light carefully swept across the inner walls. The sheet metal cabinet walls were covered in mottled rust, deep red and brownish-yellow, layer upon layer. In the lower right corner of the inner wall, near the seam with the bottom panel, there were several scratches. They weren't cracks from natural corrosion, but rather something carved deliberately, deep enough that even covered by surface rust, the clear outlines were still visible. He crouched down, leaned closer, and used his sleeve to brush away the dust and rust powder on the surface. He wiped it away bit by bit. The first number: 8. Then 7. A dot. 1. 1. Another dot. 3. His heart skipped a beat in that instant, then began pounding against his ribcage even more violently. Blood rushed to his eardrums, creating a buzzing roar. *This was it.* Physical. Existing in the world. Carved into iron. Not a memory, not hearsay, not something that could be altered or erased. It was right here, cold, silent, carrying the metallic smell of rust. He immediately pulled out his phone, opened the camera, and turned off the flash. Aiming at the markings, he adjusted the angle and took several close-up shots in succession. Then he took a step back and photographed the entire cabinet door and the pry marks. Zooming in, the details of the pry marks became clearly visible on the screen — the fine scratch patterns left by a tool, the burrs from the broken metal. After taking the photos, he crouched down again, carefully inspecting the area around the carved marks. No other markings. He then checked the floor inside the cabinet, searching meticulously under the flashlight beam. The dust was thick, but on the floor near the inner side of the cabinet door, there were a few faint impressions. Not his own. His shoeprints were behind him, clear and complete. These prints were shallower, their edges somewhat blurred, but the general outline was discernible — the common wavy pattern of a sneaker sole, slightly larger than his own foot size. The prints were fresh, overlaid on the originally even layer of dust; the surrounding loose dust hadn't fully settled back to fill the depressions. Then, he reached into the lower section of the cabinet, gently sifting through the shredded paper and debris. His fingertip touched something hard. He picked it up. It was a small piece of dark blue plastic, its edges irregular, as if broken off from something. It was clean, with little dust. He held it up to the light. On the inner side of the plastic fragment, there were extremely fine traces of a mold number. He carefully placed the plastic fragment into a small evidence bag he carried with him, sealed it, and tucked it back into his inner pocket. Phone and flashlight back into his pockets. He took one last look at the carved marks, took a deep breath — the smell of charred material in the air seemed stronger now, mixed with rust and dust, weighing heavily in his lungs. He stood up, his movements swift and light. He retreated along the original path, past the toppled cabinet and piled debris, through the obstacles in the second-floor corridor, and down the stairs. Each step grew more urgent. Time was running out. The pry marks were new, the shoeprints were new. Someone had been here recently. They might come back. Or, someone else was watching. Back in the first-floor lobby, a faint sliver of light seeped in through the gap in the back door, coming from the distant broken streetlamp. He sidled out the door, re-hooked the chain loosely on the handle, leaving the door exactly as he had found it. Then he retreated into the shadows of the alley, walking quickly outward. His footsteps fell on the damp cement, almost soundless. The mouth of the alley was just ahead. Outside was a relatively open street, still dim, but at least free from the suffocating pressure of the building. He quickened his pace, almost breaking into a jog by the end. His lungs ached faintly from inhaling too much dust, his throat dry and scratchy. Just as he was about to step out of the alley's shadow, onto the edge of the sickly yellow halo from the streetlamp — On the street directly facing the alley mouth, a black sedan sat parked, utterly silent. The car's lights were off. It resembled a crouching beast, completely black, its windows tinted with dark film that reflected no light. The engine was off, the quietness terrifying. Almost simultaneously, the sedan's headlights flashed on. Two blindingly bright beams Lu Chenzhou's hand dropped to his side, slowly clenching. His fingernails pressed into his palm, sinking slightly. He stood at the center of the light beams, with nowhere to hide, pinned in place like a specimen. Behind him were the deep, dark alley and the slumbering ruins of the archives building; before him were the blinding white lights and the man who represented Shen Yan's will. The air solidified. In the distance, that broken streetlamp chose that exact moment to emit a final *zzzzap* and die completely. Only the car headlights remained, stark white and silent, firmly locking him within the central circle of light. Lu Chenzhou had just stepped out from the dense shadow cast by the archives ruins when the car lights suddenly blazed on. The two beams were like red-hot steel rods, thrust straight into his eyes. He stopped, his left hand instinctively rising to his forehead to block the piercing white glare. Dust motes danced chaotically in the halos of light, like a swarm of startled gray moths. Gu Zhixing pushed open the car door and stood at the boundary between light and darkness. He wore a dark gray suit and gold-rimmed glasses, immaculate. Behind him was the night, thick and impenetrable; before him was the only exit from these ruins. "Mr. Lu." Gu Zhixing's voice was steady, betraying no emotion. "Please get in the car." The car turned onto a tree-lined avenue. Tall plane trees flanked the sides, their leaves and branches casting swaying shadows under the headlights, like countless waving hands. At the end of the road, the outline of the Shen family mansion emerged from the night. It was brilliantly lit, like an isolated island floating on a dark sea. Lu Chenzhou leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. The afterimage of the car lights' blinding white glare remained on the inside of his eyelids, along with the smile on Lin Wei's face from that photograph. The two images overlapped, tearing at him. The car came to a stop before the wrought-iron gate. Gu Zhixing got out first and opened the door for him. The night wind rushed in, carrying the damp, cold scent of grass and trees. Lu Chenzhou stepped out. His leather shoes landed on the polished bluestone ground with a crisp, clear *tap*. The main entrance to the mansion stood open, warm yellow light spilling out, laying a carpet of light across the steps. Shen Moqing was waiting for him in the study. The study was large, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves on three walls made of dark walnut. The air held a mix of scents: old books, cigar smoke, and expensive wood polish. Shen Moqing stood before the floor-to-ceiling window, his back to the door, gazing out at the pitch-black courtyard. He wore a dark gray high-collared Chinese-style jacket. His back was ramrod straight, like an ancient sword sheathed in its scabbard. "Sit," Shen Moqing said without turning around. Lu Chenzhou sat down in the armchair opposite the desk. The chair was hard, its cushion taut. Gu Zhixing retreated silently to stand by the door, hands clasped behind his back, like a statue. Shen Moqing turned around. The light fell from above and to his side, casting deep shadows in the hollows of his eyes. He walked behind the desk and sat down slowly, placing his hands, fingers interlaced, on the polished surface of the redwood desk. His gaze fell on Lu Chenzhou's face—calm, appraising, as if evaluating a newly delivered porcelain piece for hidden cracks. "The archives," Shen Moqing began, his voice not loud, each word enunciated clearly. "Enjoyable?" Lu Chenzhou met his gaze. "I needed to verify the leads." "What leads?" Shen Moqing leaned forward slightly. "An old badge from over thirty years ago? A date carved on a rusted steel cabinet?" He paused. "Mr. Lu, I am paying you to find the person who killed my son. Not for you to... conduct archaeology." "The two might be connected," Lu Chenzhou said. His voice sounded thin in the spacious study. "The killer's sense of ritual, the origin of the memento—" "They are not connected," Shen Moqing cut him off, his tone decisive. He took a document from a drawer and pushed it to the edge of the desk. It was a copy of the contract. The embossed golden characters "Shen Family" on the cover reflected a cold light under the lamp. "Article Seven, Liability for Breach of Contract." His fingertip tapped the clause. "Shall I read it to you?" Lu Chenzhou's eyes fell on the line of small print. He remembered the content. Unilateral termination of cooperation, recovery of all fees paid, and the right to pursue all losses incurred Lu Chenzhou slowly released his fingers. The stinging pain in his palm remained. He looked at Shen Moqing, at the calm in the other's eyes that seemed to see through and control everything. It wasn't a threat; it was a statement. It was the chips and weights laid out on the table. "I understand," Lu Chenzhou said. His voice was dry but steady. "I will focus on the current case." Shen Moqing looked at him for a few seconds, as if judging the sincerity in those words. Then, he gave a slight nod. "Good." He leaned back in his chair, his posture relaxing slightly. "Attorney Gu will take you back. Get some rest. I want to see new progress on the perpetrator profile tomorrow." "Yes." Lu Chenzhou stood up. The chair legs scraped against the floor with a short, sharp sound. Gu Zhixing opened the study door. Lu Chenzhou walked out without looking back. The hallway was long, lined with oil portraits of the Shen family's past masters. Those eyes watched him in the dim light, silent, imposing, like invisible bars. The car drove into the night once more. The road back seemed darker, quieter. Gu Zhixing remained silent the entire way. Lu Chenzhou looked at the blurry street scenes flying past the window, but his mind was unusually clear—the rusted filing cabinet, the fresh pry marks, the "87.11.3" carved into the metal. Every detail was as if carved into his retina with a knife. The car stopped outside the old residential complex where he rented. It didn't drive into the alley. "Right here," Gu Zhixing said. Lu Chenzhou pushed the door open and got out. The night wind hit his face, carrying the chill of late autumn. He walked toward the gray, six-story building at the entrance of the alley, his footsteps echoing in the empty lane. The motion-sensor light in the stairwell was broken; darkness, thick like ink, spilled out from the staircase. He reached the third floor and took out his keys. His hand stopped before inserting the key into the lock. Something was hanging on the doorknob. A worn-out tin pencil case, its surface paint peeling, corners rusted. It was roughly attached to the doorknob with a thin wire. The pencil case was open. Inside, there were no pencils, only a piece of paper folded into a square. Lu Chenzhou held his breath and slowly removed the wire. The pencil case felt light in his hand, the tin cold. He unfolded the paper. It was a floor plan. A photocopy, the lines blurry but recognizable as the floor structure of a building. The floor plan of the old Municipal Archives building. In the lower right corner of the drawing, someone had drawn a red circle around the location of the underground records room. Then, it had been burned with a lighter. The charred edges curled, the red circle at the center of the burn mark like a bloodshot eye. On the back of the drawing, written in the same red pen, was a line of small text: **"They are also looking."** The handwriting was slanted, pressed deeply, almost tearing through the paper. Lu Chenzhou stood motionless in the dark hallway. The tin box in his hand was piercingly cold. In the distance came the dull sound of a night bus passing by, soon swallowed again by dead silence. He slowly clenched the drawing. The smell of scorching seeped into his nostrils. The threat had escalated. And it came from another party. He remembered the sensation earlier in the archives when his fingers touched the carved marks on the inner wall of the rusted filing cabinet. Rough, cold, real. '87.11.3'. That date was like a rusted nail, hammered into the plank of time. And now, another nail was slowly falling, aimed at the only remaining soft spot he had left. The car stopped. The driver got out and opened the rear door. Night wind rushed in, carrying the scent of grass and the distant fountain's water spray. Gu Zhixing was already standing outside the car, waiting for him. Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes. He picked up the manila envelope, holding it in his hand. The edge of the paper pressed against his palm. He got out of the car, his feet landing on the smooth granite surface of the Shen residence's front courtyard. A chill seeped up through the soles of his shoes. The mansion's main door was wide open, light spilling out, spreading a warm yellow glow on the steps. But that light held no warmth. Gu Zhixing walked half a step ahead and to his side, his pace steady, as if guiding, also as if escorting. Lu Chenzhou followed him, step by step, into that light. The envelope in his hand was gripped tighter, its edge almost digging into his flesh. He knew that what he brought out from the Lu Chenzhou did not respond. His fingers tapped unconsciously on his knees, the rhythm slow, as if counting something. The musty smell of the archives still clung deep in his nostrils, mixed with the metallic scent of rust. That scratch mark—"87.11.3"—crude strokes, burning a hole in his memory. The car turned onto a tree-lined avenue. The plane trees on both sides were dense with lush branches and leaves, slicing the streetlight into fragments. The outline of the Shen Mansion emerged behind the shadows of the trees. It wasn’t ablaze with lights; only a few windows were lit, like the half-open eyes of a beast lying in wait. The car stopped at a side gate. Gu Zhixing got out first, walked around, and opened the door on Lu Chenzhou’s side. The night wind rushed in, carrying the damp, cold scent of grass and trees. Lu Chenzhou stepped out. His feet landed on the gravel-paved path, making a faint, crinkling sound. The mansion was quiet, so quiet he could hear the croaking of frogs from the distant pond and the slight rasp in his chest as he breathed. Gu Zhixing led him through a covered corridor. Several antique-style lanterns hung under the eaves, their paper surfaces painted with ink bamboo. The light shone through, casting swaying bamboo shadows on the ground. Lu Chenzhou’s footsteps echoed hollowly on the wooden floorboards. He noticed Gu Zhixing’s pace—always half a step ahead, perfectly positioned to block any angle he might turn toward. Gu Zhixing stopped before a door, raised his hand, and knocked lightly three times. A low "Enter" came from inside. Gu Zhixing pushed the door open and stepped aside. The study was large, but the light was concentrated only in the center. An old-fashioned green-shaded desk lamp sat on a broad mahogany desk, beneath which several documents were spread out. Shen Moqing sat behind the desk, his figure cut into halves of light and shadow by the lamp—the upper half in the light, his face clear; the lower half submerged in darkness, as if melting into the black. His left hand rested on the edge of the desk, the jade thumb ring on his thumb glowing with a warm green light under the lamp. His index finger was rubbing the inside of the ring, once, then again. "Sit," Shen Moqing said, his tone calm, even carrying a touch of paternal gentleness. Lu Chenzhou did not sit. He stood two steps away from the desk, his gaze sweeping over its surface. Besides the documents, there was a dark brown kraft paper file bag at the corner of the desk, its opening tied with cotton thread, unopened. "Shen Xiansheng," Lu Chenzhou began, his voice steadier than he had expected, "Attorney Gu said you were looking for me." Shen Moqing raised his eyes. They seemed very bright under the lamp, with a sharp, scrutinizing quality deep in his pupils, but it was wrapped in a layer of gentle glaze. "Jingyuan," he used Lu Chenzhou's courtesy name, as if calling a junior, "It's late to have you come all this way. You've had a long day." Lu Chenzhou did not reply. His gaze fell on the document beside Shen Moqing's hand—it was a photocopy of the "Cooperation Agreement," its edges slightly curled, clearly having been flipped through repeatedly. One page was dog-eared, revealing several lines circled in red ink. Shen Moqing followed his gaze and smiled. He picked up the agreement and pushed it to the edge of the desk with two fingers. Lu Chenzhou took a step forward and leaned over. The red ink circled Article 3 of Clause 4: "During the cooperation period, Party B (Lu Chenzhou) shall limit all investigative actions to the cases designated by Party A (the Shen Family) and shall not independently investigate historical events, figures, or related clues unrelated to the current case. In case of violation, Party A has the right to unilaterally terminate the cooperation and pursue Party B's liability for breach of contract." Below the clause was a line of small print: "Liability for breach includes, but is not limited to, financial compensation, and all necessary measures taken by Party A to safeguard the direction of the investigation." Lu Chenzhou’s breath hitched for a moment. His eyes were fixed on the line "all necessary measures," his throat tightening. "Jingyuan," Shen Moqing's voice remained gentle, "I understand your... professional enthusiasm. Wanting to investigate old cases, wanting to clarify certain matters—that's normal. But a contract is a contract." He paused, the speed of his thumb rubbing the ring increasing slightly. "You went to the old archives site tonight," Shen Moqing said. It wasn't a question; it was a statement. Lu Chenzhou raised his Lu Chenzhou’s heart clenched violently. Blood rushed to his eardrums, buzzing loudly. He stared at Shen Moqing, trying to read more from that face—was it a test? Or did he truly know? “That fire,” Shen Moqing continued, his tone smoothing out again, as if telling a story that had nothing to do with him, “killed three people. Two archivists and one night-shift security guard. The investigation afterward concluded it was accidental—an electrical fire due to aging wiring. The case file was sealed long ago.” He leaned back into his chair, and shadows swallowed the lower half of his body once more. “Jingyuan, that was an accident,” he said. “A tragedy, but just an accident. It has nothing to do with the case you’re investigating now, or with my son’s death.” Lu Chenzhou’s nails dug into his palms. The sting sharpened his focus a little. He relaxed his hands, leaving several crescent-shaped red marks in his palms. “Shen Yansheng,” he began, his voice slightly hoarse, “if it was just an accident, why would someone carve that date on the file cabinet? Why did someone break into that cabinet before I did?” Shen Moqing’s gaze darkened. He stopped rubbing the thumb ring, instead gently pressing the surface of the jade with the pad of his thumb—once, then again. “I don’t know,” he said, a deliberate indifference in his tone. “Maybe it’s the obsession of some survivor. Maybe it’s a later prank. But Jingyuan—” He leaned forward again, placing his hands on the desk, fingers interlaced and fingertips touching. “—that is not your job,” Shen Moqing said, his voice lowered, each word seeming to squeeze out from between his teeth. “Your job is to find the person who killed my son. That’s all.” The study fell into a dead silence. The lamplight cast a perfect circular halo on the mahogany desktop; beyond its edges, the darkness was thick and impenetrable. Lu Chenzhou could hear his own heartbeat—heavy and slow, like someone striking a muffled bell inside his chest. “I understand,” he finally said, his voice parched. “No, you don’t understand,” Shen Moqing shook his head. He reached over, picked up the kraft paper file folder on the corner of the desk, untied the cotton string, pulled out a photograph from inside, and pressed it face down on the desk, sliding it toward Lu Chenzhou. “Look at this,” he said. “Then tell me again whether you understand.” Lu Chenzhou stared at the photograph. The back was glossy, reflecting a faint white light under the lamp. He reached out, his fingertips touching the paper surface—it was cold. The photo was in color, high resolution. The scene showed the garden of a residential complex, at dusk, with the setting sun stretching the shadows of the buildings long. A woman in a light gray knit jacket was walking a small brown dog. She was turned partially away from the camera, her hair tied loosely at the back of her head, revealing a pale neck. She was looking down at her phone screen, a faint smile at the corner of her mouth. Lu Chenzhou’s ex-wife. The woman he hadn’t seen in ten years, but to whom he anonymously transferred money every month. In the lower right corner of the photo was a date and timestamp: yesterday, 5:47 p.m. The shooting location read “Binjiang Yayuan”—the complex where Lin Wei lived now, two hundred kilometers away. Lu Chenzhou’s hand began to tremble. Very slightly, but he couldn’t control it. The photo quivered between his fingertips, the paper making a faint rustling sound. He looked up, meeting Shen Moqing’s eyes. Shen Moqing was watching him too. Those eyes under the lamplight were like two deep pools—calm, but bottomless. “She’s doing well,” Shen Moqing said, his tone as casual as if discussing the weather. “Didn’t remarry after the divorce, got a dog, teaches art at a middle school. A very peaceful life.” “Jingyuan, I’m sure you wouldn’t want to disturb that peace, right?” Lu Chenzhou’s throat felt blocked by something. He wanted to speak, but no sound came out. In the photo, Lin Wei was still smiling—that relaxed, unguarded smile, like a blunt knife slowly cutting open something inside his chest. “Shen Yansheng,” he finally forced out a sentence, his voice raspy, “this… isn’t necessary.” “It is very necessary,” Shen Moqing said, his tone resolute. “The contract states, ‘all necessary measures.’ Jingyuan, I respect your Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. In the darkness, that photograph was still burning on his retina—Lin Wei’s smile, the light of the setting sun, and that little brown dog. He remembered the day ten years ago when he signed the divorce papers. Lin Wei, her eyes red, had said, “Lu Chenzhou, I hate you,” and then left without looking back. He remembered every sleepless night over the past decade, how he’d endured them by imagining whether she was doing well. “I understand,” Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes. His voice was so calm it felt unfamiliar even to himself. “I will focus on Shen Yan’s case. The old case… I won’t touch it again.”