The phone vibrated on the desk at four in the morning. The cold light from its screen cut through the darkness, illuminating the back of Lu Chenzhou’s hand resting on his knee. He didn’t move, his gaze still nailed to the open notebook—seven names annotated in code, the ink not yet soaked through the page. Seven names possibly related to the "L-shaped zone" and "87.11.3." The vibration stopped. Three seconds later, it rang again. This time, he picked up the phone. Only three characters were on the screen: Gu Zhixing. No prefix, no title. Lu Chenzhou pressed answer, brought the receiver close to his ear, and remained silent. "Mr. Lu." Gu Zhixing's voice came through the line, steady as a scalpel slicing through a dressing. "Ten o'clock tomorrow morning, the Shen residence. The memorial service for Mr. Zhao Mingcheng’s family. Mr. Shen requires your attendance." It wasn't an invitation; it was an order. It wasn't even Shen Moqing himself calling—this method of delivery was a statement in itself. Lu Chenzhou’s gaze fell on one particular name in the notebook. Shen Qinghuan. That name was circled by his pen tip, the ink pressed down slightly heavier. "Memorial service," he repeated, his voice filtering out any discernible emotion. "What is my role?" "Attend. Express condolences. Accept sympathies." Gu Zhixing paused for half a second, then added, "Of course, if Mr. Shen inquires about the progress of the case, you will need to provide a response that can... reassure everyone present." "A reassuring response." A nerve under Lu Chenzhou’s left eye twitched subtly, like a wire intermittently electrified under the skin. He controlled his breathing. "Understood." "The car will be downstairs at nine forty." Gu Zhixing finished speaking and hung up without waiting for a reply. The dial tone tapped against his eardrum. Lu Chenzhou set down the phone, his fingers beginning to unconsciously disassemble the cheap click pen on the table. Cap, spring, refill, plastic casing—the parts separated, arranged, and reassembled under his fingertips. *Click. Click. Click.* The tiny sounds amplified in the silence. He looked out the window. The city’s neon lights smeared a blurred halo along the skyline; dawn was still far off. But the execution ground had already been prepared in advance. *** The Shen family villa was perched on the western hillside, a Republican-era mansion style with grey bricks and tiles, its courtyard deep and imposing. Today, the estate was swallowed by a formulaic solemnity. As the black sedan drove through the iron gates, Lu Chenzhou saw through the window the luxury cars lining both sides of the driveway. Security personnel dressed in black stood like statues, their gazes sweeping over each incoming vehicle like scanners. The air held a tense, waiting-for-the-curtain-to-rise atmosphere. The car stopped on the circular driveway in front of the main building. Gu Zhixing was already waiting there, wearing a well-tailored black suit, his gaze behind gold-rimmed glasses calm and unrippled. He opened the car door for Lu Chenzhou, his movements as standard as a hotel doorman’s. "Mr. Lu, please follow me." Lu Chenzhou got out. He wore a black suit bought in haste, the fabric ordinary, the cut barely fitting. Standing among this meticulously groomed crowd of mourners, he was like a coarse reef rock crashing into a smooth bed of pebbles. He could feel those gazes—scrutinizing, curious, carrying undisguised assessment and faint disdain. Who was he? An ex-cop with a criminal record, a "tool" hired by the Shen family to investigate the death of their own ally. This identity itself was the most discordant note in this setting. Gu Zhixing led him through the high-ceilinged hall. It had been arranged as a mourning hall. A large portrait of Zhao Mingcheng hung prominently at the front, the frame draped with black silk. Piles of white chrysanthemums and lilies were stacked before the portrait. The dense floral scent mixed with the stifling smell of burning incense, pressing down heavily into the air; drawing a breath felt like pushing through a viscous resistance. Lu Chenzhou stopped at the edge of the guest area. He didn't push forward, didn't deliberately hide. He simply stood there, gaze lowered, appearing respectful, but in reality, his peripheral vision was like a precision radar, quickly scanning every face, every posture in the room. Shen Moqing stood to the left of the portrait, speaking softly with several distinguished-looking elders. He wore a black Zhongshan suit, the jade She wore a simple black dress, her long hair loosely tied up, revealing a slender and fragile neck. In her hand, she held a glass of almost untouched red wine, her gaze empty as she looked toward the portrait. Compared to those around her who were carefully performing their grief, the detached, almost numb expression on her face seemed more genuine. Or rather, more complex. Lu Chenzhou looked at her. As if sensing his gaze, her eyelashes fluttered slightly, her line of sight shifting, briefly meeting his in the air. Only for a moment. Shen Qinghuan quickly averted her eyes, lowered her head, and gently swirled the wine glass in her hand. The deep red liquid slid down the side of the glass, leaving a brief trail. Then, as if feeling stifled, she turned and walked silently toward the floor-to-ceiling glass door leading to the side garden. The door opened, then closed. Her figure disappeared into the brighter light outside. Lu Chenzhou withdrew his gaze, his heart beating steadily in his chest, yet a certain intuitive string had been gently plucked. That was not an accidental glance. It was a signal, an extremely subtle invitation. Just then, the murmurs in the grand hall suddenly quieted down. Shen Moqing finished his conversation with the elders and walked slowly to the front of the portrait. He turned to face the crowd. Those usually gentle and scholarly eyes now swept across the hall like a hawk surveying its territory—precise, cold, and carrying an undeniable authority. All eyes focused on him. "Thank you all for taking the time today to see Brother Zhao off on his final journey," Shen Moqing began, his voice not loud but clear enough to reach every corner of the hall, suppressing the last bits of noise. "Brother Zhao and I have been friends for decades, as close as brothers. His sudden departure is an immeasurable loss, both publicly and privately." He paused, his gaze seeming to pass over the rows of guests as if inadvertently, landing on Lu Chenzhou, who stood at the edge. That gaze was like a physical needle, piercing the skin. "The deceased is gone, but the living remain," Shen Moqing continued, his tone still steady, but each word was like a carefully polished pebble—smooth, hard, and carrying a heavy weight. "What we can do, besides remembrance, is to clarify the truth, console the departed soul, and also allow the living... to be at peace." The hall fell dead silent. Only the faint crackling of burning incense sticks and the rustle of someone's clothing could be heard. Shen Moqing's gaze remained firmly locked on Lu Chenzhou. "Mr. Lu," he called out directly. All eyes instantly turned on Lu Chenzhou like spotlights. Those gazes held curiosity, scrutiny, undisguised condescension, and a hint of amusement waiting for the show to begin. The public execution had started. Lu Chenzhou looked up, meeting Shen Moqing's gaze. He could feel his back tensing, the fabric of his suit rubbing against his skin, causing a slight itch. But his face showed no expression; he only gave a slight nod. "Mr. Shen." "A contract has a time limit," Shen Moqing said slowly, the jade thumb ring on his finger ceasing its fidgeting, resting quietly against his skin. "Human hearts are priceless, but patience is limited. We are all waiting for the truth behind Brother Zhao's death. The Shen family... is waiting." He emphasized the words "Shen family" with particular clarity. Pressure surged from all sides like a tangible tide, squeezing his chest. Lu Chenzhou could hear his own heartbeat pounding in his eardrums and could feel Gu Zhixing's calm yet ever-present gaze from behind and to his side. He stood here, on Shen family territory, at the center of attention among many whose interests were tied to the Shens, like a prisoner stripped bare for display, his only "value" being the unclear clues in his mind. A sense of humiliation crawled up his spine like cold vines, wrapping and tightening. His fists clenched slightly at his sides, nails digging into his palms, leaving crescent-shaped indentations. But when he spoke, his voice remained even, even carrying a deliberately maintained, professional restraint. "The investigation is progressing, Mr. Shen. Some clues need time to settle; some connections require repeated verification. Hasty conclusions are irresponsible to both the deceased and the living." He placed an extremely slight emphasis on the words "irresponsible." Shen Moqing looked at him, his eyes unfathomable. The silence lasted a few seconds, feeling as long as a century. The hall was so quiet one could hear breathing. "Mr. Lu is an expert. Naturally, I trust your judgment," Shen Moqing finally spoke again, the corner of his mouth even lifting into a faint, almost benevolent curve. But his words were colder than before. " Lu Chenzhou felt the twitch at the corner of his left eye intensify. He forced himself to relax his jaw and met those deep-pool-like eyes. "I understand." No extra explanation, no weak excuses. Just those three words. But in this setting, under this pressure, those three words themselves were a form of submission—a public, witnessed lowering of his head. Shen Moqing seemed satisfied. He gave a slight nod, shifted his gaze away, and turned back toward the portrait as if that little episode had never happened. "Brother Zhao, rest in peace." The memorial service continued. Someone began stepping forward to offer flowers, and whispers rose again. But Lu Chenzhou could sense that the gazes falling upon him had not completely dissipated. Curiosity had turned into pity; scrutiny had become an assessment of whether a tool was still useful. He remained standing in place, like a rigid statue. The indentations left by his fingernails in his palms slowly smoothed out, but that icy sense of humiliation had settled in his stomach, heavy and metallic. His gaze, involuntarily, drifted once more toward the glass door leading to the garden. Shen Qinghuan still hadn’t returned. The air in the garden was thick with the dampness of soil and the cloying fragrance of tuberoses, mixed with the scent of freshly cut grass from the distant lawn. The moonlight was faint, filtered through clouds, casting only blurry shadows on the ground. The villa’s lights shone through the floor-to-ceiling windows, spreading patches of warm yellow light onto the stone path, their edges quickly swallowed by darkness. Lu Chenzhou stopped in the shadows of the veranda, not immediately walking deeper. His gaze swept quickly. To the left were neatly trimmed holly bushes; to the right, a lush sweet osmanthus tree. Further ahead, the path curved toward a European-style fountain, its gurgling sound exceptionally clear in the silence. On the bench beside the fountain, a slender figure sat backlit, holding an empty wine glass. It was Shen Qinghuan. She didn’t answer immediately. The sound of the fountain water flowed between them. The piano music changed to a new piece, lighter and more cheerful, yet discordant with the atmosphere of the moment. Lu Chenzhou smelled the cloying sweetness of the tuberoses, mixed with the scent of unlit tobacco from her fingertips, and an extremely faint trace of incense ash carried over by the night breeze. "Risk?" Shen Qinghuan finally spoke, her voice as light as a sigh. "Mr. Lu, from the moment you stepped through the Shen family’s gate, you were already inside the risk. The only difference is whether you’re stepping in blindfolded, or… at least seeing clearly what lies beneath your feet." She brought the cigarette close to the tip of her nose, took a deep sniff, but did not light it. "They—those who left the 'exam paper,'" she picked up the thread again, each word clear and slow, "are not one person. Nor are they some… organization." She paused. The moonlight shifted, illuminating one side of her neck. Lu Chenzhou saw an extremely faint old scar, as if a thin wire had once cut across it. "They are 'creditors,'" Shen Qinghuan raised her eyes. "The debts the Shen family owes aren’t just money. They’re lives. They’re… many lives." Lu Chenzhou’s breath hitched for a moment. "November 3rd, 1987," she continued, her gaze fixed on him. "Do you know what happened that day?" "The fire," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice dry. This was public information: the Shen family’s old warehouse caught fire, resulting in casualties among several night-shift workers. The accident report had long been filed away, attributed to aged electrical wiring. Shen Qinghuan laughed. The laugh was short and cold. "Yes, the fire," she repeated, the cigarette between her fingers slightly bent from the pressure. "A fire that burned away all the records, all the evidence, all the… 'things that shouldn’t have existed.' Very clean, isn’t it?" Her gaze turned toward the villa. It was brightly lit, with figures moving about. "But some things can’t be burned away," she turned her head back, her eyes sharp. "Like memories. Like… hatred. The families of the deceased, they remember. They’ve waited over thirty years." A chill crawled up Lu Chenzhou’s spine. The anonymous party was the victims’ families? He had considered this possibility, but the warnings from Shen Moqing and Zhou Zhengping had steered him toward more complex "forces." If what Shen Qinghuan said was true… "Why did they come to me?" He took half a step forward, his shadow completely enveloping her. "I’m just an outsider, a hired consultant to "My brother Shen Yan, he saw," she said, each word chillingly sharp, as if tempered with ice. "So he died. Uncle Zhao... he probably also saw something he shouldn't have. Now, it's your turn, Mr. Lu. Will you hand in a blank paper, or... will you try to answer?" The piano piece stopped abruptly at that moment. A muffled commotion came from the villa—someone had knocked over a wine glass, a brief exclamation, restrained laughter. This sudden noise made the silence in the garden even more oppressive. Lu Chenzhou swiftly glanced at the lit windows. No figures were approaching. Time was running out. "You want me to trace the financial leads Shen Yan left behind," he returned to the core of the transaction, speaking faster but steadily, "In exchange, you give me specific information about the 'creditors'? Their identities? Contact details?" "I can't give you their identities." Shen Qinghuan shook her head, leaning back into the chair again, creating distance. "They are very cautious. But I can give you a... verification channel. A method they use to pass information and confirm whether the 'examinee' has passed or not." She pulled out a folded note from the other pocket of her cardigan, holding it between her fingertips, not offering it to him. "As for my brother's leads," she continued, "I need you to check three accounts. Over the past five years, all records of single transactions exceeding five hundred thousand yuan involving these three accounts, with the remarks field left blank or using specific codes. The source of the funds and their final destination." "What are the codes?" Shen Qinghuan recited three words: " 'Celadon,' 'Renovation Fee,' 'Seed Fund.' " Very ordinary, even deliberately mediocre. Precisely because of that, they were more suitable for hiding among countless daily transactions. Lu Chenzhou's mind raced. Accessing these records was within his authority, but the operation would leave traces. Would Shen Moqing or Gu Zhixing monitor his queries? The risk was extremely high. But the "verification channel" Shen Qinghuan offered... If it really allowed contact with the anonymous party, perhaps it could open a completely new breakthrough, a gap bypassing the Shen family's surveillance and leading directly to the heart of the matter. "How can I trust you?" He stared at the note in her hand. "You could be another test sent by Shen Moqing. Or even sent by 'them,' to lead me in the wrong direction." "You can't trust me completely." Shen Qinghuan admitted candidly, her face exceptionally calm under the moonlight. "That's the gamble, Mr. Lu. You can choose not to bet. Continue investigating your case step by step, circling within the boundaries drawn by the Shen family, until... they decide you're no longer useful, or you touch a line you shouldn't have." She paused, her voice softer. "Just like my brother." Footsteps approached from a distance—leather shoes on the stone path, coming from the villa's side door toward the garden. More than one person. Shen Qinghuan's eyes sharpened. She quickly slipped the note into the gap between the wine glass base and the stone bench, her movements almost too fast to see. "Not much time to consider." She stood up, smoothing her skirt, instantly putting back on that habitual, slightly coquettish faint smile, her voice also rising. "The night wind is strong, Mr. Lu should head back early too, be careful not to catch a chill." She picked up the empty wine glass, turning to leave. "Miss Shen." Lu Chenzhou called out to her. She stopped, half-turning her face. "What's on the note?" Shen Qinghuan didn't look back, just slightly tilted her head, letting her voice drift back with the wind. "A string of numbers. Looks like a date," she said. "But it's not '87." The footsteps grew closer; faint conversation could already be heard. She didn't linger any longer. Holding the wine glass, she walked lightly along the path toward the villa's side hall entrance, her figure quickly merging into the shadows of the building. Lu Chenzhou stood where he was, listening to the gradually approaching laughter and conversation of other guests. He didn't immediately go to the stone bench to check. Instead, he turned, facing the fountain, as if simply admiring the night view. A few seconds later, two middle-aged men in formal wear walked into the garden, chatting and laughing. Seeing Lu Chenzhou, they nodded slightly in greeting before heading toward the cigar pavilion on the other side. Only after their figures disappeared behind the pavilion did Lu Chenzhou inconspicuously take two steps back to the bench. He crouched down, pretending to tie his shoelace, his fingers quickly probing into the stone crevice. His fingertips touched the rough edge of And Shen Qinghuan’s mention of the “creditor” and the “test paper” felt like a cold probe, piercing through the gaps in all his previous deductions. If the anonymous party really were the families of the victims from that fire all those years ago, then the very nature of the whole matter, the motive, even the possible connection to Shen Yan’s death—all of it would be completely overturned. This wasn’t an investigation. This was a trial. And now, he had one more “admission ticket” of unknown authenticity, and an even more dangerous secret. Footsteps faded behind him. The villa’s lights were warm and yellow, the voices noisy. He pushed open the glass door, and warm air, carrying the scents of food, alcohol, and incense, rushed to meet him. Gu Zhixing stood not far away under a crystal chandelier, speaking with an elderly board member, but his gaze seemed to drift almost imperceptibly toward the entrance, meeting Lu Chenzhou’s for an instant before naturally shifting away. Lu Chenzhou gave a slight nod and stepped into this false warmth. The edge of the paper in his inner pocket pressed against him, a sharp ache. “Risk?” Shen Qinghuan repeated the word, a sudden sharp mockery flooding her tone. “Mr. Lu, do you think the situation you’re in now isn’t dangerous enough? My father humiliated you publicly, treating you like a dog he can order around at will. The anonymous party is watching you from the shadows, delivering that ‘test paper’ to you in that… that blood-stained way. Your sister, Lu Chenxing—her recovery after the surgery—do you really think the Shen family doesn’t know about it?” Lu Chenzhou’s breath caught for a moment. Shen Qinghuan saw his reaction. Her gaze softened a little, but her tone remained firm. “I’m not threatening you,” she said. “I’m just stating facts. In this game, you have no safe options. The only difference is who you choose to be used by, and… whether you can get what you want after being used.” She paused, her voice growing even softer. “You want to overturn the case, right? You want to know who forged that ‘false confession’ ten years ago and sent you to prison. You want to know the truth about the ‘Spark Case.’” Lu Chenzhou didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Shen Qinghuan knew the answer. “I can give you leads,” she said. “About the anonymous party, about ‘87.11.3,’ about that fire back then… I know some things. Things my father never wants anyone to know.” She leaned forward. The cigarette slipped from her fingers and fell onto the stone paving. “But in exchange,” she said, “I want you to help me find out what my brother was really investigating. Where that flow of funds went, who was involved, why… why he died when he was only halfway through the investigation.” She spoke the last few words almost soundlessly. Lu Chenzhou looked at her. In the moonlight, the rims of her eyes were slightly red, but the tears didn’t fall. She was holding them back with force. This girl was not an actress. Not at this moment, at least. Her pain was too real, so real it made Lu Chenzhou think of his own sister—Lu Chenxing holding his hand in the hospital bed, her eyes when she said, “Brother, don’t worry about me, just go.” That look, mixed with love, guilt, and despair. “The anonymous party,” Lu Chenzhou finally spoke, returning to the original question. “Who are they?” Shen Qinghuan took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. She leaned back against the chair again, as if the emotional outburst of that moment had drained her strength. “I don’t know their specific identities,” she said. “But I’ve heard some… rumors. Rumors about the 1987 archives fire.” She paused, as if organizing her words. “In the official records, three people died in that fire. One archivist, two security guards on duty. But some say… there were more.” Lu Chenzhou’s heart gave a heavy thump. “More?” he repeated. Shen Qinghuan nodded, her movement light. “Some say there was a fourth person in the archives that night. A child. The archivist’s son, who went to find his father to get the keys that night, and then… got caught in the fire.” Her voice grew lower and lower. “The child’s body was never found. The scene was too chaotic, burned too thoroughly… In the end, it could only be handled as ‘missing.’ But the child’s mother didn’t believe it. She insisted her son was dead, "It could be her," Shen Qinghuan continued his thought, "or someone she hired. Or... perhaps someone else who also lost a loved one in that fire but never got answers." She paused. "They left '87.11.3,' left that charred floor plan, not to scare you, Mr. Lu. They were testing you. They wanted to know whether you, hired by the Shen family, would become their accomplice, or... whether you would dig up the buried truth, just like them." She stood up, pulled a tightly folded small slip of paper from her cardigan pocket, and placed it on the bench. "This is a string of numbers. It looks like a date, but it isn't. If you want to continue, call this number. Just say one sentence: 'The osmanthus at Yucai Elementary has bloomed.'" After speaking, she didn't wait for Lu Chenzhou's response, turned, and left. Her steps were fast, almost breaking into a jog as she disappeared into the tree shadows on the other side of the garden. Lu Chenzhou stood where he was, looking at the small white slip of paper on the bench. The night breeze blew past, making the edges of the paper tremble slightly. He did not pick it up immediately. The sound of tires skidding on the wet road was faint at first. Lu Chenzhou gripped the steering wheel, his fingertips still able to feel the cold touch of the garden's stone railing. Shen Qinghuan's final words were like a thin needle, piercing his eardrum and never pulling out—"the blood-stained test paper they handed over." Outside the car window, the lights of the Shen family villa shrank into a few blurry spots of light in the rearview mirror, gradually swallowed by the night. He needed to sort things out. He needed to lay out and reorder all the fragments from tonight—the rhythm of Shen Moqing's prayer beads when he exerted public pressure, Gu Zhixing's formulaic smile that never left the corner of his mouth, Shen Qinghuan's face half-lit, half-shadowed by moonlight. But what he needed more urgently was to confirm one thing immediately: just how dangerous was the "suspicion of internal family funds" that Shen Qinghuan mentioned. The steering wheel grew slightly warm in his palm. Something was wrong. It wasn't psychological. The steering wheel itself was heating up, as if something inside was generating friction. Lu Chenzhou frowned, took his left hand off the wheel to touch the air vent—cold air was normal. As he withdrew his hand, he inadvertently glanced at the dashboard. The needle on the tachometer was trembling slightly. Not the regular vibration from the engine, but a spastic, arrhythmic flutter. The speedometer showed sixty-five kilometers per hour, but the needle occasionally jumped suddenly to eighty, then dropped back to fifty. Lu Chenzhou held his breath for half a second. He pressed the brake, testing the deceleration. The feel of the brake pedal under his foot... was soft. It wasn't completely failing, but the first third of its travel felt almost empty, like stepping into a wad of cotton. Only after the pedal was halfway down did braking force barely appear, but with a disturbing sense of delay. The car slowed down too gradually, too slowly. Ahead was a downhill curve with sparse streetlights. Lu Chenzhou's left hand quickly moved to the handbrake. In that instant— The steering wheel violently jerked to the right! It wasn't a skid. It was a mechanical, violent lock-up, a savage turn. The muscles in Lu Chenzhou's right arm instantly tensed, fighting against that brute force. The car emitted a piercing screech of tires, the entire body tilting toward the guardrail on the right. He heard the sound of the chassis scraping against the curb, sharp enough to set teeth on edge. The wire was about to snap. His brain screamed, but his hands moved. His right foot released the brake, switching to the accelerator—he couldn't stop, stopping in the middle of the curve would be fatal. His left hand simultaneously hit the hazard lights, his right hand putting all its strength into turning the steering wheel back to the left. The car, like an enraged beast, carved a twisted S-shape on the road. The right-side rearview mirror shattered against the guardrail, plastic fragments exploding into a spray of starlight under the headlights. The speed finally dropped to forty. Lu Chenzhou's forehead pressed against the steering wheel. Sweat slid from his temples into his eyes, stinging sharply. He gasped for air, his heart pounding against his ribs painfully inside his chest. The car sat crookedly in the emergency lane, the right front wheel already half-mounted on the shoulder. In the distance, headlights flashed past, but no one stopped. Five minutes. He sat in the driver's seat, motionless, listening Near the right front wheel, on the rubber brake line, there was an extremely fine, almost invisible cut. It wasn't the rough kind of tear caused by road debris; the edges of the incision were neat, as if a very thin blade had lightly sliced the outer layer, allowing the brake fluid to slowly seep out under pressure. The rate of leakage had been calculated—it wouldn't fail immediately, but after driving for a while, at a moment requiring full braking force, it would completely fail. The dust boot on the tie rod had also been slit. Sand and moisture had seeped in, causing the steering gear to lock up at a critical moment. Professional workmanship. Not fatal, but enough to create a "traffic accident" serious enough to hospitalize someone. If he hadn't regained control earlier and the car had hit the guardrail or rolled down the embankment, the worst outcome would have been fractures, a concussion. Hospitalization, investigation interrupted, but not death. A warning? Lu Chenzhou straightened up, sweeping the flashlight beam inside the car. Something was glinting on the passenger seat. He pulled open the car door. It was a fragment of a photograph, only about the size of half a palm, casually tossed on the seat. The paper was severely yellowed, its edges frayed, as if torn from a larger photo. The fragment showed a boy, about eight or nine years old, wearing the dark blue tracksuit common in the late 1980s, standing at the entrance of an elementary school. The boy smiled somewhat stiffly, one of his front teeth missing. On the school gate in the background hung a wooden plaque, the characters blurred but still recognizable as "Yucai" (Cultivating Talent). The photo was likely taken around 1987. The clothing, the style of the school building, the degree of fading in the photo, all matched. Lu Chenzhou picked up the fragment with his fingertips. He turned it over. On the back, a single character was written in fountain pen: "Investigate." It wasn't skidding. It was a mechanical, violent, lock-up kind of turn. Lu Chenzhou's right arm muscles tensed instantly, fighting against that brute force. The car emitted a piercing shriek of tires, the entire body tilting toward the guardrail on the right. He heard the sound of the chassis scraping against the curb, sharp enough to set teeth on edge. He stared at the character. Shen Qinghuan's voice echoed in his ear again: "...That wasn't a warning for you, Mr. Lu. That was an exam paper, bloodstained, handed to you by them." An exam paper. First question: The charred archive floor plan, pointing to the "L"-shaped zone. He solved it, found Shen Qinghuan. Second question: The hint in the garden, about "victims' families" and "clue transmission." He listened, but didn't fully believe it. Now, the third question: A meticulously calculated "accident," and a fragment of an old photo from 1987. The question was more dangerous, the cost more direct. But the question-setter still didn't want his life. They had even written "Investigate" on the back of the photo—not "Die," not "Stop," but "Investigate." Urging him to continue. Testing if he had been frightened off, if he had retreated because of Shen Moqing's warnings and Shen Qinghuan's complicated deal. Lu Chenzhou walked back to the driver's seat and placed the photo fragment on the dashboard. The car could still be driven; the brake fluid wasn't leaking too fast. Driving carefully, he should be able to make it to the city. He restarted the ignition; the engine let out a weary roar. The right side mirror was gone; he'd have to rely on turning his head to check. The car slowly pulled back onto the road. His gaze fell on the face of the boy with the missing front tooth in the photo. 1987. Yucai Elementary School. Who was this boy? What connection did he have to the archive fire? What connection to the Shen family? The anonymous party—if Shen Qinghuan's interpretation was correct, if they truly were the families of the victims from the fire case all those years ago—why shove this boy's photo to him? A clue, or another trap? The chessboard unfolded before his eyes. Shen Moqing on one side, holding the contract and the threats. Shen Qinghuan on another, offering an olive branch, but one laced with thorns. Now, the anonymous party had also stepped out from the shadows, no longer mere observers, but "testers" of unknown identity, dangerous methods, yet seemingly intent on guiding him. Three sides. No, possibly more. Gu Zhixing represented Shen Moqing's will, but was he truly completely loyal? Qin Wangshu was within the system; what was And all these verifications required him to go deeper—into the heart of the Shen family, into the dangerous tests laid out by the anonymous party, into everything charred by the fire all those years ago. The price had already been prepaid. Tonight’s “accident” was only the interest. The principal might be his life, his sister Lu Chenxing’s safety, or the chance to overturn the case he had waited ten bitter years for. The steering wheel vibrated faintly in his palm. Lu Chenzhou looked at the road ahead illuminated by the headlights, the corner of his mouth slowly pulling into a faint, icy arc. The game had entered a new round. The stakes were silently soaring. And he could see clearly now—there was more than one dealer at the table. He stepped on the accelerator, the car speeding up as it drove toward the deeper darkness of the city. On the dashboard, the fragment of the old photo was stirred by the wind and flipped over. On the back, that faded old character “Investigate” flickered in and out of sight under the occasional passing streetlights. Like an eye. Urging, and also watching.