The night wind poured into his lungs, like swallowing a mouthful of ice shards. The wound under his ribs had already numbed into background noise, but that chill was crawling up his spine. Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes. Zhou Zhengping had already left, taking with him that lingering smell of alcohol and a deeper, heavier fear. Only he was left at the street corner now, along with the two things in his pocket—the rough paper bag and the coolness of the copper fragment. Evidence of guilt and false evidence. The past and a trap. He had to hold onto them both. He turned and did not return to the temporarily rented apartment. The door gaps there were too easy to slip things through, the windows too easy to become targets in a scope. He walked along the intricate alleys of the old city for twenty minutes, finally stopping before an old building with its exterior walls covered in withered ivy. Third floor, the innermost room. The key made a grating, grinding sound as it slid into the lock. Pushing the door open, the smell of mold and dust rushed to meet him. This wasn’t home, just a container. A folding bed, an old wooden table, a chair. A few boxes of bottled water were stacked in a corner. The curtains were heavy, dark velvet, drawn tightly shut. Lu Chenzhou turned on the desk lamp. The lightbulb emitted a faint, persistent hum, like some insect buzzing deep within the eardrum. He took off his coat and hung it up, first retrieving the paper bag from the inner pocket. Zhou Zhengping’s “atonement”—a photocopy of the altered evidence inventory from seventeen years ago, and half of a private diary. The pages were already yellowed and brittle, edges curled. He carefully spread them out, using a paperweight to hold down the four corners. The smell of mold grew stronger, mixed with the particular scent of old paper, similar to rotting hay. Then, he fished the evidence bag from another pocket. The fragment of the wax seal rested within the transparent film, its coppery color gleaming with a cold, hard light under the desk lamp. He lifted the bag, bringing it closer to the light. The oxidation layer was uneven, the cutting marks on the edges… too new. Even through the bag, one could see those fractures lacked the smoothness that natural weathering should have produced. Fang Mu’s preliminary judgment was correct; this thing had been processed, possibly even fabricated recently. False evidence. Lu Chenzhou placed it at the corner of the table, side by side with the old inventory. The two items lay quietly within the halo of light, like two chess pieces facing off on a board. He sat down, taking another stack of photos from his backpack. Crime scene photos from Zhao Mingcheng’s case. The garage, the bloodstains, the tool rack, and those details recorded by the police as “irrelevant.” He spread them out one by one, annotating the edges with a red pen: time, angle, possible blind spots. The movements were mechanical and precise, as if doing so could suppress the fire burning hotter and hotter in his chest. The clues from the anonymous source. Shen Qinghuan’s transaction. Shen Moqing’s five-day deadline. And this copper fragment in his pocket that might be a trap. Too many loose threads. He needed a needle that could string together all the fragments. The hum of the desk lamp seemed to grow louder. Lu Chenzhou rubbed the space between his eyebrows; the corner of his left eye began to twitch slightly. He forced his attention back to the photos, back to the most basic pieces of physical evidence. The spray pattern of the bloodstains. The distribution of the depth of the footprints. The position of the tool rack… His gaze stopped on a corner of one particular photo. It was a spot on the garage floor near the base of the wall, about three meters from Zhao Mingcheng’s body. The police report had only mentioned “a small accumulation of dust and debris, nothing abnormal.” But when enlarged, the distribution of that “dust” wasn’t quite natural—not evenly scattered, but gathered into a few small clusters, with faint drag marks at the edges. As if someone had dipped their fingertip in something and drawn on the ground. Lu Chenzhou grabbed the magnifying glass. The image under the lens sharpened: gray powder, extremely fine particles. Not ordinary dust, more like… incense ash. The kind used in rituals. The powder was traced into a broken arc, followed by two parallel short strokes, then the marks were interrupted, half-covered by later footprints. A symbol. An incomplete symbol. His breath hitched for a moment. His fingers unconsciously tapped the desk: *tap, tap, tap*. The habit of disassembling objects when thinking surfaced The minutes were chaotic and disorganized, like a hand-copied manuscript pieced together from various sources. There were records of family members' births and deaths, brief descriptions of significant events, and some blurry hand-drawn illustrations. Lu Chenzhou's gaze swept quickly over the scribbled handwriting and pictures, searching for any fragments related to rituals, incense, or symbols. His fingers stopped when he flipped to a page in the middle. It was a hand-drawn depiction of a ritual scene. The lines were rough, and the paper was smudged from moisture, but the basic outline was still discernible: an altar, several figures bowing, and a complex symbol drawn on the ground. The only annotation on the drawing was two words: "Wu-Chen Year Ritual." Lu Chenzhou's heart skipped a beat. He grabbed the red pen and carefully, in his mind, completed the incense ash trace from that crime scene photo. The broken arcs extended, connecting into a complete semicircle. Two parallel short strokes extended outward, forming a framework resembling a "door." Inside the framework were even finer, more fragmented strokes that were difficult to decipher. Then, he mentally overlapped the completed pattern with the partial hand-drawn symbol in the minutes. A perfect fit. Not similar, but matching. The outline traced by the incense ash was precisely a section of the ground symbol from this "Wu-Chen Year Ritual" drawing—specifically, the lower-right corner representing the "Soul-Guiding Gate." The hum of the desk lamp suddenly became sharp. Lu Chenzhou put down the pen; his palms were slightly damp. He stared at these two traces spanning decades, a cold shiver crawling up the back of his neck. It was too specific. So specific it didn't feel like a coincidence. The incense ash symbol at Zhao Mingcheng's crime scene pointed to an undisclosed ancient ritual of the Shen family. The record of this ritual happened to appear in the old minutes Zhou Zhengping had given him. And Zhou Zhengping had just confessed to a crime from seventeen years ago, handing over this material as "atonement." One link connected to another. Perfect, like a meticulously arranged set of dominoes. Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes and took a deep breath. The smell of mildew and dust filled his nostrils. He needed restraint. Restraint against the rash certainty that came with finding a breakthrough, restraint against that long-lost sense of conviction belonging to a criminal investigation expert—that feeling flickered like a spark in his chest for a moment, only to be swallowed by deeper suspicion. This could be part of the trap. He opened his eyes again, his gaze falling on the edge of the "Wu-Chen Year Ritual" page in the minutes. The paper was severely damaged, with stains over key information, but there was a line of small, supplemental notes at the end. The ink was lighter than the main text, as if added later. He leaned in, almost pressing his face to the paper. The handwriting was scribbled but legible: "...Attendant was Wei Bo, an old servant of the Shen residence. His son, Ming, age twelve, observed." Wei Bo. His son, Ming. Lu Chenzhou's heart thumped heavily. He quickly flipped through the pages before and after in the minutes, searching for more records about "Wei Bo." A few scattered entries: old servant of the Shen residence, responsible for cleaning the ancestral hall and incense offerings, died of illness three years ago. Nothing special. But "his son, Ming"—Wei Ming. This name was like a rusted nail suddenly driven into the midst of all the scattered clues. He turned and opened the laptop on the desk. The screen's blue light glared starkly in the dim room, reflecting on his face. The sound of keyboard typing was especially clear in the silence—*tap, tap, tap*—with a rhythm bordering on violence. He pulled up the previously compiled abnormal purchase records from the week before Zhao Mingcheng's murder. Large quantities of specific incense materials. Benzoin, white sandalwood, borneol. All materials commonly used in traditional rituals. A distribution map of the purchase locations showed these records concentrated within an area of less than two square kilometers in the southwestern part of the old city. He zoomed in on the map of that area. Shops, residences, alleys. His gaze swept over each marked point like a probe until it stopped at an inconspicuous corner. "Yong'an Funeral Supplies Store." The registered business operator information was vague, showing only a surname: Wei. The store's address happened to be right in the center of the block with the densest concentration of those abnormal incense purchase records. Furthermore, going out the back door of the store and through two alleys led to the outer perimeter of the villa area where Zhao Mingcheng was killed. A slight numbness crept up the back of Lu Chenzhou's neck. He pulled up the low It was enough to sketch an outline: Wei Ming, son of a deceased old servant of the Shen family, witnessed an unpublicized family ritual in his youth and was familiar with its symbols and ceremonies. As an adult, he ran a funeral supplies shop, with channels to obtain specific incenses. The shop's location was close to the crime scene, and there had been unusual activity before the crime. Motive? Lu Chenzhou's fingers slid across the touchpad, pulling up older, fragmented records about the Shen family—scattered remnants Fang Mu had previously intercepted from the Shen family's internal servers. Most were personnel changes, account ledgers, and some trivial family affairs records. Among them was an entry about an unpublicized "family discipline enforcement" over twenty years ago. The punished was a servant who "stole family ritual artifacts with intent to sell." The record did not name names, but the punishment was "expelled from the main family, never to be reinstated." The timing coincided with shortly after the "Wuchen Year Sacrifice." The name of the expelled servant was deliberately smudged in the record. Lu Chenzhou stared at that blurred record, then looked at the time of "Uncle Wei's" death from illness. Three years ago. If Uncle Wei was the servant expelled back then, or was related to him... then Wei Ming's feelings towards the Shen family were far more complex than just "son of an old servant." Hatred. Or some twisted psychology—seeking revenge or validation by imitating and defiling family rituals. That could constitute a motive for murder. Especially when the victim was Zhao Mingcheng—an external collaborator with countless ties to the Shen family, yet not a core member. A perfect sacrifice for a "rehearsal" or a "declaration." The logical chain clicked into place in his mind. Each link had support, yet each link felt precarious. Too smooth. Smooth as if someone had laid out a track of reasoning in advance, waiting for him to sit down and slide along the predetermined direction. Lu Chenzhou leaned back in his chair, the desk lamp casting deep shadows on his face. He picked up the ballpoint pen and disassembled it again. Barrel, spring, ink cartridge, tip. The metal parts were taken apart and reassembled between his fingers, emitting faint clicks. The twitch at the corner of his left eye did not stop. Wei Ming. He wrote this name on a blank page of his notebook. The handwriting was neat, the strokes forceful, almost tearing through the paper. Then, he drew a question mark after the name. The question mark was drawn long, the ink bleeding. After a pause of several seconds, he drew a circle around "Wei Ming" and the "question mark." Not a closed circle, but a spiral trajectory, constantly tightening inward. Finally, at the very end of the spiral, he made a light dot. The ink dot was small, but deep. Like a nail. Also like a bomb waiting to be detonated. He had made a breakthrough. A clear, flesh-and-blood suspect. Modus operandi, material evidence connections, a rudimentary motive, even a behavioral profile—ritualistic, obsession with Shen family history, possible childhood trauma and a desire for revenge. All of this fit the description of a specific type of perpetrator in police textbooks. But there was no excitement in his chest, only a cold, clear awareness. Because the moment he wrote the name "Wei Ming," other fragments automatically surfaced. Shen Qinghuan's earlier hints about "family fringe associates." The logic of the anonymous party's "clue transmission"—always providing just the right fragments to guide him to the next step, as if testing his deductive abilities. And this old memo in front of him, the timing of its appearance in Zhou Zhengping's hands, and how its content aligned with this case... Too many overlaps. Wei Ming's characteristics overlapped with the "fringe figures" Shen Qinghuan was concerned about. Wei Ming's modus operandi (ritualistic symbols) overlapped with the "metaphorical guidance" the anonymous party favored. Even the logic of Wei Ming's emergence (through the old memo) overlapped with the anonymous party's consistent pattern of "providing historical fragments." Lu Chenzhou put down the pen, looking at the name encircled by the spiral on the paper. Whose pawn was Wei Ming? A murderer acting independently, who just happened to stumble into his line of sight? Or a meticulously crafted "scapegoat" thrown out by the anonymous party to "test" or "guide" him? Or perhaps bait deliberately planted by Shen Qinghuan—or even other forces within the Shen family—to divert attention? He didn't know. He only knew that the suspect he had just identified using his professional skills now looked more like a mirror. Reflected in that mirror was not only the outline of the killer, but He stood at the center of intersecting lines of fire. And all gun barrels were aimed at his coordinates. The cold glow of the phone screen in the dimly lit safe house was like a coin sinking to the bottom of water. Lu Chenzhou stared at that text message. He recognized every character, but strung together, they felt like a curse. "Incense ash guides the way, leads to the other shore. The flow of funds is the true vessel. If there is no reply by tomorrow, the fog thickens on the other shore." Time sent: twenty-three seconds ago. He had just written the two characters "Wei Ming" in his notebook. The sound of keyboard strokes still hung in the air. The musty smell of old paper mixed with dust was being warmed by the faint heat emanating from the desk lamp's bulb. A red pen rested on the open summary of the Shen family's past affairs, the ink not yet dry. His left thumb subconsciously pressed down on the folded corner of that page. The paper was rough, like a dried-up riverbed. Uncle Wei, his son, Ming. Yong'an Funeral Supplies Store. Incense ash symbol. These fragments in his mind were like iron filings drawn by a magnet, gradually gathering into shape. A long-lost sense of certainty, belonging to a criminal investigation expert, had just sparked in his chest for a moment. Like finally touching a clearly outlined reef with his fingertips in endless fog. Then Shen Qinghuan's text message arrived. "Incense ash guides the way." How did she know? He had just pinpointed the source of the incense ash symbol, no more than three minutes apart. This temporarily rented safe house had its windows sealed with blackout curtains, a chair wedged against the door. The only electronic device was this old computer without internet access, used to compare surveillance screenshots with purchase records. The old injury below his ribs suddenly twinged. Not pain, but an alarm. Almost simultaneously, another phone placed at the corner of the desk vibrated. The screen lit up, caller ID: "Qin Wangshu." Two names. Two phones. Two kinds of pressure. Like two pairs of pliers closing in from different directions at the same time. Lu Chenzhou's breath caught in his throat for a beat. He stared at Qin Wangshu's name, his fingertip hovering one centimeter above the answer key. The phone continued to vibrate, the buzzing sound abnormally loud in the silent room, like an insect trapped under a glass dome. He hung up. The movement was light. The screen went dark. Then he picked up that cheap feature phone used for encrypted communication, his thumb moving over the rough plastic keys. The keys had a unique resistance; each press made a faint "click" sound, piercingly clear in the overly quiet environment. He only replied with one symbol: 「？」 Sent. The screen displayed "Delivered." After finishing this action, he finally took a deep breath. The air was full of the smell of old paper and accumulated dust, which felt somewhat acrid when drawn into his lungs. He picked up his daily phone again and called back Qin Wangshu's number. The busy tone rang three times. "Hello." Qin Wangshu's voice came through, with faint traffic sounds in the background, and the howl of wind blowing past the receiver. "I thought you wouldn't call back." "What's up?" Lu Chenzhou said. His voice was flat, like reading an instruction manual. "Where are you?" "Outside." There was a two-second silence on the other end of the line. Amidst the wind, he could hear her seemingly letting out a soft sigh. "Master, someone has noticed you're looking into things... beyond the dust in the archives." Lu Chenzhou's left hand unconsciously reached toward the desk, touching that red pen. The pen body was cold. He began to unscrew the cap. The metal clasp made a faint "click." "For example?" he asked. "For example," Qin Wangshu paused, as if weighing her words, "you've been combing through old files of personnel with special clearances. Not through open system queries, but... older methods." The pen cap was unscrewed. Inside was a small, thin spring. "Who noticed?" Lu Chenzhou asked. His gaze fell on the open summary of past affairs, that page recording the "Wuchen Year Ritual." The ink had already dried, with a dark red hue. "That's not important." There was a hint of tension in Qin Wangshu's voice, covered by her professional flatness. "What's important is the notice itself. Captain Zhao asked me to pass on a message—if your investigation requires accessing non-public historical materials, you should apply through the proper channels. Privately... contacting certain marginal sources of information can easily cause misunderstandings." "Misunderstand what?" "Misunderstand that you're digging up old accounts." She spoke slowly. "Yes." Lu Chenzhou screwed the pen cap back on. "If it's Zhao Tieshan, what he's worried about is stability. If it's you—" He didn't finish. The wind howled into the receiver. A faint, distant horn sounded somewhere. "I'm on the back street of the old textile mill," Qin Wangshu said suddenly, the professional flatness gone from her tone, replaced by a more personal, weary timbre. "If you're free now, come over. Some things... are hard to explain over the phone." "What things?" "About that name you were just checking." Her voice held a new weight. "Wei Ming." “Misunderstand what?” His throat went dry. "How did you—" "Ten minutes," Qin Wangshu cut him off. "I'll wait. If you're not here in ten minutes, I'll assume you're not interested." The call ended. Dial tone. The safe house was left with only the near-inaudible hum of the desk lamp bulb. And the pounding of his own heartbeat against his eardrums. He sat in the chair, motionless. Two women. Two pieces of information. Two entirely different directions. “I’m at the back street of the old textile mill,” Qin Wangshu suddenly said, the professional flatness in her tone gone, replaced by a more personal, and more weary, timbre. “If you’re free now, come over. There are some things… that can’t be explained over the phone.” Qin Wangshu knew he was investigating Wei Ming. She represented the police system, delivering a compliant warning, yet used a private tone to arrange a meeting, promising him "something." Wei Ming. That name was like a buoy that had just surfaced, now being pulled by at least two different currents at once. One from the seemingly marginal second daughter within the Shen family. One from the system, from his former protégée. And he sat in this safe house, holding the fragments he'd just pieced together, suddenly realizing with stark clarity: he wasn't the one assembling the puzzle. He was the puzzle piece itself. The crucial central fragment being placed on the table by multiple forces simultaneously. Lu Chenzhou stood up. The movement was stiff; his knees gave a faint crack. He grabbed the dark gray trench coat from the back of the chair and put it on. The fabric felt rough against his skin. Then he bent down, gathered the copies of the key old incident summaries and the close-up photo of the incense ash symbol from the desk, folded them, and stuffed them into the trench coat's inner pocket. The edge of the paper pressed against his ribs. He walked to the door and moved the chair propped against it. The wooden legs scraped unpleasantly on the floor. Before opening the door, he glanced back into the room. The desk lamp was still on. The red pen lay on the open notebook, beside the name "Wei Ming" he had written, along with the question marks and overlapping circles he'd drawn. The computer screen had already gone dark, leaving only the faint pulse of a standby light. Like a just-abandoned, unfinished fortress. He closed the door. The click of the latch was sharp and clear. The hallway was dark. The safe house was on the top floor of an old residential building; the motion-sensor lights in the stairwell had been broken for ages. He descended the stairs in the dark, his footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell. Each step landed firmly, as if measuring some vanishing distance. Outside, it was early winter evening. The air was crisp and cold, like mint in the lungs. The sky was darkening; a thin remnant of orange-red clung to the western horizon, but deep blue was already spreading from the east. The streetlights hadn't come on yet; the street scene was immersed in a murky, transitional hue. The back street of the old textile mill wasn't far, about a seven or eight-minute walk. It was an old industrial zone waiting for demolition, sparsely populated even during the day, utterly quiet by evening. Lu Chenzhou walked along the sidewalk, hands in his trench coat pockets. His pace was neither hurried nor slow, but the distance of each step was as precise as if measured with a ruler. His mind was processing multiple streams of information simultaneously. Wei Ming. Thirty-seven. Proprietor of Yong'an Funeral Supply Store. His father, Wei Bo, was once an old servant of the Shen family, involved in that unpublicized sacrifice in the Year of the Dragon. The store's address was in the area where abnormal spice purchases occurred a week before Zhao Mingcheng's murder. Surveillance footage was blurry, but the figure's outline matched. Shen Qinghuan. Twenty-six. Second daughter of Shen Moqing. Marginal figure in the family He turned the corner and entered the backstreet. It was even darker here. The wall of the old textile factory was peeling and mottled, with withered grass growing along the top. The street surface was pitted, and puddles reflected the last bit of light from the sky, like shattered mirrors. The only light source came from a single streetlamp in the distance that hadn't broken yet, casting a circle of dim, yellowish glow. Qin Wangshu's car was parked at the edge of that glow. A black Volkswagen sedan, very ordinary, with civilian license plates. She was leaning against the driver's side door, holding a cup of coffee. The paper cup emitted a faint wisp of steam, condensing into white vapor in the cold air. She wasn't wearing her police jacket, only a dark blue uniform shirt and trousers. The shirt was tucked into the waistband, outlining a crisp, efficient silhouette. The epaulets reflected a cold metallic sheen under the streetlamp. Lu Chenzhou stopped about five steps away from her. Qin Wangshu looked up. Her face appeared somewhat weary under the dim yellow light, with faint shadows under her eyes. She didn't smile, just looked at him, her expression complex—concern, scrutiny, and something suppressed, something indescribable. "You still came," she said. Her voice was clearer than over the phone, yet carrying a hint of hoarseness. "Where is it?" Lu Chenzhou asked. He didn't move, his hands still in his pockets. Qin Wangshu didn't answer immediately. She lowered her head to take a sip of coffee, then retrieved a brown paper file folder from the car window. It was thin, probably only a few pages thick. "Wei Ming," she said, handing the folder over. "Legal representative of Yong'an Funeral Supplies Store. Registered three years ago. On the surface, he deals in funeral supplies, but according to tax and logistics records, his main source of income over the past year has been... some private custom services." Lu Chenzhou didn't take it. "What kind of private custom?" "Restoring the utensils and incense required for some old-fashioned sacrificial rituals." Qin Wangshu looked at him. "Especially some funeral rituals that have been lost, with local clan characteristics. Among his client list, there are a few names you probably won't find unfamiliar." "Such as?" Qin Wangshu paused. "For example, some distant collateral branches of the Shen family. And..." She took a breath. "Zhao Mingcheng's father, Old Master Zhao, three months before he passed away, had an intermediary contact Wei Ming to custom-make a complete set of 'evil-dispelling' utensils. The transaction amount was substantial." Lu Chenzhou's pupils contracted slightly. Old Master Zhao. Zhao Mingcheng's father. Passed away three years ago. "Does Zhao Mingcheng know about this?" he asked. "Unclear." Qin Wangshu shook her head. "But after Old Master Zhao's death, that set of utensils didn't appear in the public funeral proceedings. Their whereabouts are unknown." She paused. "There's one more thing. Wei Ming himself, in the past five years, has been investigated by the police three times for illegal trespassing and property damage, but each time it was dropped without resolution. The complainants were all... property management companies under the Shen Group." The wind picked up again, rustling the file folder in her hand. The paper corners flapped softly. Lu Chenzhou finally reached out and took the folder. It was light. He squeezed it, feeling the thickness of the paper inside. "Why are you giving me this?" he asked, without opening it. Qin Wangshu turned her gaze away, looking towards the dark outline of the factory building in the distance. "Because I think you need to know." Her voice lowered. "And also because... someone doesn't want you to know too clearly." "Who?" "I don't know." She turned back, her eyes sharpening. "But Master, the way you're investigating now has already crossed a line. Captain Zhao is under pressure, and maybe... from above as well. Someone wants you to investigate, but doesn't want you to dig too deep. Someone wants to guide you, but is afraid you'll go in the wrong direction." She bit the inside of her lower lip—a habit when she was thinking. "Do you understand what I mean? You're not just an investigator now. You're a... coordinate." A coordinate. Lu Chenzhou's fingers tightened. The edge of the folder pressed against his knuckles. "In what capacity are you telling me this?" he asked, his voice calm. "Deputy Captain Qin, or Qin Wangshu?" Qin Wangshu's shoulders stiffened slightly. She looked down at the coffee cup in her hand; the paper cup was slightly crushed from Lu Chenzhou tucked the file folder into the inner pocket of his trench coat, alongside the photocopies. The papers rubbed against each other, making a rustling sound. "Thank you," he said. Then he turned and prepared to leave. "Master." Qin Wangshu called him back. He stopped but did not turn around. "Shen Qinghuan." Qin Wangshu's voice came from behind him, soft, yet every word clear. "You'd better stay away from her. Internally... we have some unofficial records about her. Her relationship with the main branch of the Shen family might be more complicated than it appears on the surface. And..." She paused, seeming to hesitate. "And her recent activity patterns overlap with the drop-off points of some anonymous tips we've been monitoring." Lu Chenzhou's back stiffened. "What kind of overlap?" he asked, still not turning around. "A temporal overlap." Qin Wangshu said. "Every time an anonymous tip appeared, before or after, Shen Qinghuan would show up near the relevant area. Not direct contact, but... too regular. Regular enough that it doesn't seem like a coincidence." Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. *Incense ash shows the way.* *The flow of funds reveals the true vessel.* *If there is no reply by tomorrow, the mist thickens on the other shore.* Those phrases rearranged and combined in his mind, like a deck of cards shuffling itself. Then he remembered Shen Qinghuan's appearance—those seemingly innocent, lively eyes, the fingers toying with her long hair, the sudden sharp turn beneath her light, cheerful tone. And the studio light that turned on and off in the early hours of the morning. "I understand," he said. Then he stepped forward, walking into the darkness beyond the reach of the streetlights. The sound of his footsteps gradually faded away. Qin Wangshu stood where she was, watching his back disappear around the street corner. She lowered her head, crushed the coffee cup in her hand, and threw it into the garbage bag in the car. The paper cup hit the plastic bag with a dull thud. She leaned against the car door, not leaving immediately. She just looked up at the sky. Night had completely fallen. The stars hadn't come out yet, only a heavy, ink-like blue-black expanse. She took the cigarette pack from her pocket, pulled one out, and lit it. The ember glowed and dimmed in the darkness. She took a drag, the smoke quickly dispersing in the cold air. Then she took out her phone and dialed a number. "He took it," she said, her voice returning to its professional tone. "Gave him the file. Said what needed to be said." Someone spoke on the other end of the line. Qin Wangshu was silent for a few seconds. "I know the risks," she said, a suppressed frustration in her tone. "But this is the limit of what I can do. Any further... and I'd really be crossing the line." Another stretch of silence. "Okay," she finally said. "I'll be careful." She hung up, threw the cigarette butt on the ground, and crushed it under her shoe. As the ember went out, the last bit of light vanished. She pulled open the car door and got in. The sound of the engine starting seemed particularly abrupt in the quiet backstreet. The headlights came on, two beams of white light cutting through the darkness. Then the car turned around and drove away. The tires rolled over a pothole filled with muddy water, splashing up murky droplets. *** Lu Chenzhou hadn't gone far. He stopped in the shadow of a derelict factory building just around the corner, leaning back against the cold, mottled brick wall. When Qin Wangshu's headlights swept past, he shrank deeper into the shadow. The beams of light swept by without pausing. The sound of the engine faded into the distance, eventually disappearing at the end of the street. Darkness closed in again. He remained leaning against the wall, unmoving. The two sets of documents in his trench coat pocket—the photocopies he had compiled himself and the file folder Qin Wangshu had given him—pressed against his body, like two lumps of charcoal slowly radiating heat. No, not heat. A chill. Wei Ming was the son of an old servant of the Shen family, well-versed in sacrificial rituals, had custom-made "spirit-sending" tools for Old Master Zhao, and had repeatedly trespassed on Shen family properties. He had motive, knowledge, and exhibited anomalous behavior. Shen Qinghuan knew about the incense ash, knew about the progress of his deductions, used anonymous tips as bargaining chips, and her activity patterns overlapped with the drop-off points of those tips. Qin Wangshu, representing the police system, warned him, yet privately gave Fabricated evidence. Or genuine proof? A trap. Or a clue? He could no longer distinguish. Or perhaps, the line between the two was melting into a blurry gray in his hands. Just like the shadows he stood in now—belonging neither to the light nor to pure darkness. Just a transitional zone. A narrow crack. He put the bronze piece away. Then, from another pocket, he took out the crude paper bag Zhou Zhengping had given him. He didn't open it, just held it in his hand. The paper felt prickly against his skin. Inside this bag lay the career of an old detective, the alternative possibility of a fire, a silent complicity that had persisted for seventeen years. It was also a bargaining chip. One of the few real weights he could grasp right now. His phone vibrated again. Still that encrypted phone. The screen lit up with a new text message. «Have you considered? The true boat must cross, the fog will rise.» Shen Qinghuan. Lu Chenzhou stared at the line of text. The cold light of the screen reflected on his face, casting deep shadows beneath his eye sockets and cheekbones. His expression didn't change at all, but the left corner of his eye began to twitch again, faintly, like a current passing through. He raised his thumb and moved it over the keys. This time, he didn't reply with a question mark. He typed two characters: «Time.» Send. Then he turned off the phone and stuffed it back into his pocket. The movements were slow, steady, as if performing some kind of ritual. He stepped out of the shadows and stood once more on the dim backstreet. The streetlamp still glowed lonely, casting its circle of yellowish light. A puddle on the ground reflected fragmented lights and his own distorted reflection. The wind grew stronger. It swept across the empty street, whipping up dust and fallen leaves, making a sound like a low sob. In the distance came the muffled rumble of a passing train, vague, like thunder beneath the horizon. Lu Chenzhou stood in the middle of the street, not leaving immediately. He just stood there, hands in his trench coat pockets, shoulders slightly hunched as if bracing against some invisible pressure. The wind lifted the hem of his coat, the fabric flapping sharply in the air. His gaze fixed on the far end of the street, where deeper darkness led to the unlit parts of the city. Then he slowly turned his head, looking in the direction Qin Wangshu's car had disappeared, then lifted his eyes to the night sky—utterly black, no stars, no moon, only heavy clouds that seemed ready to press down. Finally, his gaze fell to his own feet. The reflection in the puddle was shattered and blurred, facial features indistinguishable, just a dark human silhouette cut into irregular fragments by the distorted light. He looked at it for a long time. Then he stepped forward, shattering that reflection. Water splashed up, murky ripples spread out, erasing all traces. Footsteps sounded again, echoing in the empty street. One, then another, steady and clear, walking toward the depths of the darkness. The wind still blew. The fog had not yet risen. But something had irrevocably changed.