That beam of moonlight lay across the floor like a cold paper knife, perfectly still. Lu Chenzhou stared at it until the edges of his retinas began to ache. In the living room, Gu Zhixing’s breathing remained steady as ever, like a pre-programmed machine, its rhythm unnervingly precise. But Lu Chenzhou knew that machine was awake. From the moment he had opened his own eyes, the breathing from the sofa had imperceptibly slowed by half a beat—Gu Zhixing was listening too. He sat up. The mattress springs let out a faint groan. “Mr. Lu?” A voice came from the living room, carrying just the right amount of morning hoarseness, flawless. “It’s not dawn yet.” “Can’t sleep,” Lu Chenzhou said. He got out of bed, his bare feet landing on the cold floorboards. The chill crawled up from his soles. He walked to the window and pulled back the curtain. 4:27 AM. The city was still asleep. Streetlights blurred into hazy yellow halos within the thin mist. The streets were empty, save for a stray cat darting across the road before vanishing into an alley mouth. Gu Zhixing was up too, standing in the shadows of the hallway between the living room and bedroom, like a silent statue. He was already dressed in his shirt, collar impeccable, even the cufflinks fastened neatly. As if ready to depart or execute an order at any moment. “The schedule says nine o’clock,” Gu Zhixing said, his tone gentle, like reminding a forgetful colleague. “West side, 127 Guangming Road, the former site of the Xinhua Printing Factory. We still have time to rest.” Lu Chenzhou didn’t turn around. His gaze fell on the distant view outside the window, where a silhouette darker than the night lay—a stretch of old factory buildings, like a crouching giant beast. “The printing factory,” he repeated, his pace measured. “How many years has it been shut down?” “It closed completely in ’08,” Gu Zhixing answered quickly, the data precise. “August 2008. The asset liquidation dragged on for two years. It was listed for transfer in 2010, but no deal ever went through. The land ownership is complicated, with historical baggage.” “Have you been there?” “No,” Gu Zhixing said. “But the materials Shen Yansheng provided are very detailed. Factory floor plans, historical records, even a list of the main equipment from back then, all attached in the file folder.” He paused, then added, “Shen Yansheng hopes you can work efficiently and not waste time verifying basic information.” How considerate. The corner of Lu Chenzhou’s left eye twitched almost imperceptibly. He turned and looked at Gu Zhixing. In the shadows, the other man’s facial features were indistinct; only his glasses reflected the faint light from outside the window, like two cold stars. “Did the materials mention,” Lu Chenzhou asked, his voice not loud but each word clear, “what the last batch printed by the factory was, before it shut down?” Gu Zhixing fell silent. The silence was brief, perhaps just the space of a single breath. But Lu Chenzhou caught it—a subtle hesitation, like a gear suddenly catching in an unexpected groove. “It should have been… some scattered commercial invoices and promotional brochures,” Gu Zhixing said, his tone steady again. “It was a long time ago. The specific content is difficult to verify.” “Is that so,” Lu Chenzhou said. He didn’t press further, walking instead to the bathroom. He turned on the tap, splashed cold water on his face. The biting chill woke him up completely. The man in the mirror had faint shadows under his eyes, but his gaze was like a blade tempered in fire. He dried his face, returned to the bedroom, and took the old Nokia phone from the nightstand drawer. The screen lit up—no new messages. He opened the photo album, flipping to the picture he had secretly taken last night—Gu Zhixing’s back as he turned off the floor lamp in the dark. The photo was very dark, almost just an outline. But it wasn’t the photo itself he wanted. It was the act of “taking” it, and whether Gu Zhixing had noticed. He put away the phone and started changing. Durable work pants, a dark windbreaker, boots. From the depths of the drawer, he retrieved a pair of half-finger tactical gloves and stuffed them into his jacket pocket. Finally, from a hidden compartment in the wardrobe, he took out a flat aluminum cigarette case. He opened it; it didn’t contain cigarettes, but a few different-sized safety pins, a small roll of transparent tape, a miniature high-intensity flashlight, and Gu Zhixing drove a black Passat, with an ordinary license plate and an interior that was excessively clean—not even a speck of dust in the ashtray. Lu Chenzhou got into the passenger seat. As he buckled his seatbelt, his fingertips inadvertently brushed against the side of the seat—the leather grain was fine and even, but near the seam by the door, there was a slightly darker patch, as if repeatedly wiped with some solvent. He withdrew his hand and looked out the window. The car pulled out of the residential complex and merged into the sparse morning traffic. Gu Zhixing drove very steadily, hardly ever overtaking, always using his turn signals when changing lanes, like a model driver. The car radio was tuned to the traffic frequency, where a female host with a saccharine voice reported on road conditions. "Turn right ahead and get on the overpass," Gu Zhixing said. "Take the lower road," Lu Chenzhou replied. "The overpass is faster." "I want to see the scenery along the way," Lu Chenzhou's tone left no room for negotiation, "especially the section near the printing factory." Gu Zhixing glanced at him in the rearview mirror and didn't insist. With a turn of the steering wheel, the car veered onto the side road. The further west they drove, the more dilapidated the streets became. Old residential buildings from the 1990s had peeling exteriors, rusty security bars, and balconies piled high with clutter. The stoves of breakfast stalls emitted white smoke in the chilly air, the aroma of fried dough sticks mixing with the smell of coal smoke drifting inside. Lu Chenzhou rolled down the window, letting the scents flood in. He was smelling. Dust, coal smoke, food, and a faint, sour, chemical-like odor wafting from the distance. It was the scent of the old industrial district. At 7:10, the car turned onto Guangming Road. The road was narrow, flanked by tall parasol trees with dense foliage that blotted out the sky, casting the entire street in a gloomy shade. Number 127 had no plaque, only a severely rusted wrought-iron gate, crookedly set into a red-brick wall overgrown with vines. The padlocked chain that had hung on the gate was gone. At the break, the fresh metallic sheen glinted faintly in the morning light, like a freshly healed wound. The chain lay on the ground, the surrounding weeds trampled and flattened—footprints of more than one person, chaotic, yet all heading in the same direction: inside the gate. It had happened recently, no more than twenty-four hours ago. Gu Zhixing parked the car and got out first. He walked up to the gate and pushed it. The iron door emitted a heavy, grating "screech—" and slowly opened a crack inward. The hinges lacked oil, the friction dry and grating enough to set teeth on edge. "It seems someone beat us here," Gu Zhixing turned back and said, a hint of appropriate surprise on his face. "Could it be scavengers? Or nearby homeless people?" Lu Chenzhou didn't respond. He walked to the side of the gate, crouched down, and scanned the ground. The footprints were chaotic, with varying tread patterns. But he noticed that at the edges of those messy traces, there were a few particularly clear ones—deep at the forefoot, shallow at the heel, with a long stride. These were left by someone moving quickly, and the walker's center of gravity was steady, not aimless like a homeless person. He took out his phone, opened the camera, switched to macro mode, and took several consecutive shots of the broken chain and the clear footprints. The flash lit up abruptly in the dim morning light. "Mr. Lu?" Gu Zhixing took two steps closer, a barely detectable urgency in his tone. "These traces might be clearer if we go inside. Standing outside taking photos isn't very meaningful." Lu Chenzhou stood up, brushing the dust off his gloves. "The chain," he lifted his gaze, looking directly at Gu Zhixing. "The break is fresh. The tool that cut it had a sharp blade, probably hydraulic cutters. Would ordinary scavengers have that kind of equipment?" Gu Zhixing adjusted his glasses. "Maybe... someone who came to investigate earlier? The police? Or others sent by Shen Yansheng?" "The 'others' sent by Shen Yansheng," Lu Chenzhou repeated the phrase, slowing his speech. "Wouldn't they notify you? You're my 'assistant,' responsible for 'coordinating' the entire process." The air fell silent for a moment. Parasol leaves rustled overhead, a few early-rising sparrows fluttering past. Gu Zhixing smiled, a faint smile that lingered at the corner of his mouth but didn't reach his eyes. "Mr. Lu is right. I was careless The world inside the gate was like time had been paused. Waist-high weeds submerged what was once a concrete path. Massive abandoned factory buildings squatted silently in the morning light like dead steel behemoths. Nearly all the windowpanes were shattered, the dark openings like countless blind eyes. The air was thick with a complex smell — the earthy odor of old dust, the sour rot of mildewed paper, and an extremely faint yet undeniably present, slightly metallic astringency, like that of evaporated machine oil. This smell was wrong. In a printing factory that had been completely abandoned for over a decade, any residual machine oil would have evaporated long ago. This fresh, slightly pungent scent could only have been brought by recent human activity. Lu Chenzhou’s breathing deepened. He squared his shoulders, adopting a posture ready for confrontation. He cautiously advanced along a trail of trampled grass. Gu Zhixing followed half a step behind, his footsteps light but always maintaining that exact distance, like an inescapable shadow. After walking about fifty meters, the main factory building's entrance came into view. Two heavy iron-sheet doors, one slightly ajar. From the crack, impenetrable darkness peered out. "This should be the place," Gu Zhixing said, quickening his pace to overtake Lu Chenzhou, reaching out to push the ajar door. "The core area marked on the itinerary, the main printing workshop from back then…" His hand froze mid-air. Lu Chenzhou’s voice came from behind, cold, calm, as if stating a law of physics. "Don’t touch it." Gu Zhixing’s hand stiffened. "The door handle," Lu Chenzhou said, using his flashlight beam to point at a spot on the lower part of the iron door. "Half a meter down, right side near the hinge. See the reflection?" Gu Zhixing narrowed his eyes. In the concentrated beam of the flashlight, on the ground near the hinge, there was an extremely fine, almost transparent nylon line. One end was tied to an inconspicuous bolt at the base of the hinge, the other end vanished into the weeds by the doorway. The line’s position was very low, something a normal person pushing the door would never notice. But with a bit too much force, moving the hinge… "A tripwire," Gu Zhixing withdrew his hand, his voice devoid of emotion. "Primitive, but effective." "More than that," Lu Chenzhou moved the flashlight beam upward, illuminating the inner edge above the doorframe. There, the distribution of dust showed an unnatural break; a small area was unusually clean, as if something had rubbed against it repeatedly. "Something might be connected above. A warning device, or simpler — a bucket of filth placed on top of the door. Push the door, the line snaps, things fall." He paused. "Not meant to be fatal. To make a noise, dirty clothes, or… leave a mark." He turned his head to look at Gu Zhixing. The slanting morning light fell on Gu Zhixing’s face. His glasses reflected the light, obscuring his eyes. But Lu Chenzhou noticed his Adam's apple bob, ever so slightly. "It seems," Gu Zhixing spoke slowly, his tone reverting to that professional steadiness, "someone really doesn’t want us investigating quietly. Mr. Lu, your judgment is spot on. This is a trap." "Is it," Lu Chenzhou said. He no longer looked at the door, nor at Gu Zhixing. Instead, he turned his gaze toward a broken window on the side of the factory building. "Since the main entrance has a 'welcome ceremony,' we'll find another way in." He walked toward that window, his movements decisive, without a hint of hesitation. Gu Zhixing stood where he was, watching his back. A few seconds later, he finally lifted his foot to follow. His pace remained steady, but his right hand subconsciously moved toward the inside pocket of his suit jacket. There was a very slight, rectangular bulge. Shaped like another phone. Inside the factory building, the light was fragmented. A few slanting rays of sunlight pierced through the broken windows high above, forming murky columns of light in the dancing dust. Lu Chenzhou’s footsteps echoed in the vast, empty space, each step accompanied by a faint "shushing" sound — the sound of stepping on thick dust and shredded paper scraps. The mildew smell in the air was heavier now, mixed with the peculiar, slightly fishy astringency of corroded metal. "Mr. Lu, over here," the assistant’s voice came from slightly ahead, still enthusiastic but speaking a bit faster. "Look at that corner. There’s a pile of old machinery. We might find something useful." Lu Chenzhou looked in the direction he pointed. In the northwest corner of the factory building, there was indeed a pile of discarded printing equipment. Rust-covered rollers "The distribution of dust here isn't quite right." Lu Chenzhou's voice was calm, as if stating an objective fact. "Natural dust accumulation would have variations in thickness; it would pile up thicker near walls and the bases of machinery. But look at that area—" He swept his flashlight beam across the floor. Where the light fell, the dust thickness was almost uniform, like a carefully laid gray carpet. More crucially, near the corner of the wall, there were several extremely faint drag marks, almost covered by fresh dust—not the deep grooves left by dragging heavy objects, but more like someone had gently smoothed something over with a broom. The assistant's breathing became slightly more audible in the silence. "Could be... workers from the factory cleaned it before?" The assistant's tone held a hint of uncertainty. "After all, it's been abandoned for so many years. Some places being cleaner is normal." "Cleaned?" Lu Chenzhou repeated the word, his left eyelid twitching slightly. "Who would specifically clean a corner of an abandoned factory building, yet let everywhere else accumulate thick dust?" He didn't wait for the assistant's answer. Instead, he crouched down, pretending to tie his shoelace. The action was natural, like an adjustment anyone would make after a long walk. But the moment he crouched, his phone slid silently from his pocket, the front-facing camera aimed quietly at that corner. The image on the screen was somewhat blurry in the dim light, but clear enough for him to make out the details— In the shadow of the pile of discarded machinery in the corner, there was an extremely thin glint of reflected light. Not the natural reflection from rusty metal, but something more regular, more deliberate. It could be a tripwire, or the lens of a micro-camera. The glint's position was very low, almost flush with the ground, impossible to notice from any other angle. Lu Chenzhou stood up, brushing dust off his pant legs. "Let's check the distribution box first," he said, his tone betraying nothing unusual. "The electrical layout of these old factory buildings often reflects the production processes of that time. We might find clues." "But that corner..." The assistant's words trailed off. "No rush." Lu Chenzhou had already turned and was walking toward the other side of the factory building, his steps steady. "Follow procedure. Macro first, then micro." He heard an extremely soft sigh behind him, almost absorbed by the dust. The distribution box was on the east wall of the factory building—a severely rusted sheet metal cabinet, its door half-open. Exposed wires inside were tangled together like withered vines. Lu Chenzhou, wearing gloves, carefully shone his flashlight into the cabinet's interior—dust, cobwebs, a few desiccated insect carcasses. But at the bottom of the cabinet, a loose brick caught his attention. The dust around the brick's edges showed signs of having been pried—fresh signs. In the mortar seam, a few fine particles of cement debris remained. He pressed the flashlight beam against the brick's surface and could see a shallow scratch left by a tool. "Did Mr. Lu find something?" The assistant's voice suddenly sounded close to his ear. He was too close. Close enough for Lu Chenzhou to smell the overly clean scent of laundry detergent on him, clashing with the stale air of the factory. Close enough to feel the warm, rapid airflow of his breathing. "A loose brick." Lu Chenzhou didn't turn his head, his voice still steady. "Could be from rats digging, or something else." With a gloved fingertip, he gently pressed against the brick's edge, not applying force, just testing. The brick wobbled slightly, and a hollow echo came from beneath it. The assistant's breathing grew heavier again. "Should... should we take it out to look?" His voice held a deliberate excitement. "There might be something hidden underneath!" Lu Chenzhou didn't move. His gaze fell on the dust around the brick—there were several blurred shoe prints. The shoe size wasn't large, the tread pattern was ordinary, but the placement of the steps was deliberate. Not random stomping, but conscious steps that avoided the area directly above the brick, leaving only half a forefoot print on the side. Someone had moved this brick not long ago. And that person knew there was something beneath the brick, so they had stepped with extra care. "Step back a bit," Lu Chenzhou said, his tone carrying a note of command for the first time. "The space here is too small. Two people crowding makes it hard to see clearly." The assistant paused for a moment, but obediently took half a step back. Just that half-step distance was enough for Lu Chenzhou to complete his assessment. Without further hesitation, he used his gloved hand to grip the brick's edge and slowly pulled it out. Beneath the brick was a shallow pit. Inside the pit He angled the flashlight beam from the side, letting the light penetrate the plastic film to illuminate the contents within. The paper was ordinary A4 printer paper, printed with tables and data. The header read "Zhao Group 2007 Q3 Project Fund Flow Statement." And that photo— His breath hitched for a moment. The photo was in color, but the resolution was low, as if it had been captured from a surveillance video and then enlarged and printed. The image showed a man's back, wearing a dark jacket, hurriedly walking down an alley. The man's build, gait, even the slight hunch of his shoulders… It was identical to the informant "Old K" from ten years ago. "What's this?" The assistant leaned in, his voice tinged with exaggerated surprise. "The person in this photo… could it be related to Zhao Mingcheng's case? And these fund flow statements, Mr. Lu, this might be a major discovery!" As he spoke, his hand reached toward the sealed bag. "Don't touch." Lu Chenzhou's voice turned cold. The assistant's hand froze mid-air. "It's fabricated," Lu Chenzhou said, slowly moving the flashlight beam over the sealed bag. "The lettering on the sealing tape is the most common office supply on the market, available at any stationery store. But for actual evidence sealing, the police use a specialized version with anti-counterfeit codes and unit abbreviations." He paused, the beam fixing on the papers inside the bag. "Look at these 'fund flow statements.' In 2007, Zhao Group was still using old dot-matrix printers for financial reports. The font would be pixelated, with jagged edges. But these sheets—" Under the beam, the reflection of the printing ink was too smooth and uniform. "They were printed with a laser printer, and a high-resolution model that only became common in the last five years." The assistant's lips moved, but no sound came out. "As for this photo." Lu Chenzhou's flashlight pressed against the edge of the photo. "The pixelation isn't from surveillance footage. It was intentionally processed with a Gaussian blur, then overlaid with a noise filter. The purpose is to hide compositing traces—look at the light angles between this figure and the background. The direction of the shadows is off by at least fifteen degrees." The factory was so quiet you could hear dust settling. After a few seconds, the assistant let out a dry laugh. "Mr. Lu is truly… observant. But, what if these are just coincidences? Maybe someone really did hide this stuff here, waiting for us to find it…" "Coincidences?" Lu Chenzhou finally turned his head to look at him. The flashlight beam shone from below, casting deep shadows across his face. His eyes were startlingly bright in the darkness, like those of a nocturnal animal. "The shoe prints around the brick: size 42, stride length 65 centimeters, landing weight biased forward—characteristics of someone long engaged in indoor work, accustomed to moving quickly. The prints are fresh; dust hasn't had time to settle back over them." Lu Chenzhou's voice was measured, each syllable like a nail being driven in. "And your shoes happen to be size 42." The smile on the assistant's face froze. "And there's more," Lu Chenzhou continued, sweeping the flashlight beam over the pile of machinery in the corner. "The dust in that corner is too uniform because someone carefully swept it with a soft-bristled broom, aiming to hide traces left when setting up tripwires or monitoring devices. But the person who swept forgot: the particle distribution of naturally settled dust and manually swept dust is different. Naturally settled dust stratifies by gravity—coarse particles below, fine particles above. Swept dust mixes coarse and fine particles." He took a step forward. The assistant instinctively retreated, his heel hitting an exposed steel pipe with a dull thud. "Setting this up," Lu Chenzhou stared into his eyes, his voice low but sharp as a blade, "must have taken considerable effort from whoever's behind you, right? Fabricating evidence, setting a trap, and trying to guide me into touching this 'evidence' myself, to pin the charge of conducting an unauthorized investigation, or even fabricating clues, on me." He paused, the corner of his left eye twitching again. "Pity. The homework wasn't thorough enough." The assistant's face turned pale in the dim light. He opened his mouth as if to argue, but ultimately just swallowed, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Mr. Lu, you've misunderstood…" His voice trembled slightly. "I was just following Shen Yansheng's instructions, assisting you with the investigation…" "Assisting?" Lu Chenzhou cut him off, pulling out his phone from his pocket. He aimed the camera at the sealed bag and the surrounding traces, pressing the shutter repeatedly. "Assisting "You cannot take photos!" He suddenly raised his voice, reaching out to snatch the phone. "This is an investigation scene. Unauthorized photography is a violation—" "A violation?" Lu Chenzhou sidestepped his hand, the phone already back in his pocket. "Then what about fabricating evidence, setting traps, and attempting to frame investigators?" He turned around, the flashlight beam sweeping over the assistant's face like a searchlight. "According to Article 307 of the Criminal Law, fabricating evidence, if the circumstances are serious, is punishable by up to three years of imprisonment. If it causes serious consequences—such as leading to a wrongful conviction—the sentence can extend to seven years." Lu Chenzhou's voice was as cold as if he were reading a verdict. "And you, as the direct executor, are an accomplice." The assistant's breathing stopped. A few seconds of dead silence. From deep within the factory building came a faint sound, like rusted metal flaking off—a soft *click*. But in this tense silence, it sounded like some kind of signal. Then, the assistant laughed. It wasn't the feigned eagerness or flustered laugh from before, but a cold one, stripped of all masks. His spine straightened, the flicker in his eyes vanished, replaced by an almost mechanical calm. "Mr. Lu truly lives up to his reputation," he said, his tone devoid of any fluctuation. "But have you considered that since I could lure you here, I naturally also have a way to ensure you don't leave with this 'evidence'?" Lu Chenzhou did not answer. His hand had already reached to the back of his waist—where a high-intensity flashlight was clipped, its metal casing cold. His other hand slipped into his pocket, pressing the phone's emergency recording button. "You can try," he said. The two men stood facing each other in the dim factory building. Dust slowly swirled in the beams of light, like a silent blizzard. From the shadows of the pile of discarded machinery in the distance, that extremely thin glint of light still existed, like a cold eye watching everything. Then, from deeper within the factory building, a second strange sound came. This time, it wasn't rusted metal, but something heavier—like a wooden plank being snapped underfoot, or a heavy object falling. The sound was muffled, echoing from the deepest darkness of the factory building. The assistant's face changed slightly. Despite his efforts to control it, Lu Chenzhou still caught that momentary stiffness—it was not a sound within the plan. "It seems," Lu Chenzhou said slowly, his gaze turning toward the direction of the sound, "your accomplice, or the person behind you, has prepared another surprise." He took a step forward. "Mr. Lu!" The assistant's voice carried genuine urgency for the first time. "You can't go over there! The structure deep in the factory is unstable; it could be dangerous—" "Dangerous?" Lu Chenzhou glanced back at him, the corner of his mouth lifting into a faint, utterly cold arc. "Compared to the trap you carefully laid out, I'd rather see what else could be more 'dangerous.'" He paid no further attention to the assistant. The flashlight beam cut through the darkness ahead, and he walked deeper into the factory building. Footsteps sounded again. This time, it was not the *rustle* of one person, but of two—Lu Chenzhou's steps steady and resolute, while the assistant's footsteps followed behind somewhat frantically, trying to catch up yet not daring to get too close. The structure of the factory building illuminated by the beam ahead began to change. The originally open production area gradually narrowed, turning into a passage piled with discarded wooden crates and oil drums. The musty smell in the air was replaced by another odor—more pungent, more artificial. It was the smell of cheap paint. Mixed with something else... similar to disinfectant. Lu Chenzhou's stomach tightened slightly. Not from fear, but from a deeper, almost instinctual vigilance. This combination of smells was too familiar, familiar enough to instantly awaken certain memory fragments he had deliberately sealed away. He stopped, the beam fixed on the end of the passage. There was a door there. An ordinary iron door painted dark green, the handle rusted, but the edges of the door frame were clean—no dust, no cobwebs, as if wiped repeatedly. From beneath the door crack, a faint sliver of light leaked out. Not natural light. Some kind of artificial light source, white and cold. The assistant's footsteps stopped behind him. This time, he said nothing more, just stood quietly, his breathing echoing in the passage with an eerie sense of waiting. Lu Chenzhou raised his hand, his gloved fingertips gently pushing open the door. The door hinge let out a grating *creak*. Light flooded out. The car continued moving. Lu Chenzhou's hand gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles white from the force. The phone screen had already darkened, but those words were branded onto his retinas, burning painfully. "A gift from the printing press. Do you like it?" — No punctuation, no signature, just a light, floating greeting wrapped around a poison-tipped needle. A gift? That button was currently nestled in the inside pocket against his chest. Through the fabric of his shirt, it conveyed a negligible weight and a chill. LX. Lu Xing. They even knew about this. This wasn't an investigation; it was a dissection. They were peeling back the scars of his last ten years, layer by layer, scattering salt into the deepest wounds, and then smiling as they asked him how it tasted. In the passenger seat, the "assistant" adjusted his posture, the fabric of his suit rustling faintly. He was looking straight ahead, his profile appearing calm and focused in the flowing play of light and shadow, as if that fleeting, icy smile from a moment ago had never existed. "Mr. Lu," he suddenly spoke, his voice steady as if reading a report, "What are your plans after returning to the city? Would you like me to make dinner reservations for you, or... compile today's investigation records?" "Records." Lu Chenzhou repeated the word, a slight twitch at the corner of his left eye. "How do you plan to compile them?" "Truthfully." The "assistant" turned his head, a perfectly measured professional smile on his face. "Including your keen judgment in discovering the fabricated evidence, and also including... your insistence on entering an unregistered area and your possible contact with items outside the plan." "Possible contact?" "I noticed the bulge in the inside pocket of your coat." The "assistant's" gaze swept over Lu Chenzhou's chest before quickly shifting away. "Of course, that's just my observation. How exactly to record it depends on whether Mr. Lu is willing to... cooperate transparently." Red light. The car slowly came to a stop. At the intersection, pedestrians hurried across the zebra crossing, and the flow of vehicles converged into a river of light around them. Lu Chenzhou's fingers tapped lightly on the steering wheel, once, twice, the rhythm steady. He was thinking, using all his willpower to suppress the surging anger, compressing it into a cold, calculable weight. "Transparent," he said slowly. "Just like that desk lamp in the printing press? The angle of the crack is exactly the same. Truly transparent." The "assistant's" smile stiffened for an instant. The light turned green. Lu Chenzhou stepped on the accelerator, and the car merged into the traffic flow. He no longer looked at the "assistant," his gaze fixed on the road stretching endlessly ahead. His voice was very low, yet each word was clear: "Go back and tell the person who sent you—the homework was done well, but there are too many flaws. First, that desk lamp is a model purchased in bulk by the Municipal Bureau's logistics department in 2008, but my case was closed in 2007. The timeline doesn't match." The "assistant's" breathing hitched almost imperceptibly. "Second," Lu Chenzhou continued, his tone like he was analyzing a scene report, "the graffiti on the wall, the mist-like spray pattern from the can indicates a relatively low spraying angle. The writer's height should be between 165 and 170 centimeters, right-handed. But ten years ago, the primary investigators responsible for my interrogation room were all over 178 centimeters tall." "That... might just be a coincidence." "Third, and most laughable." Lu Chenzhou finally turned his head and glanced at the "assistant." There was no anger, no fear in that look, only a kind of near-cruel calmness. "That button. The buttons on the cuffs of my sister's shirt were all replaced five years ago. Because the original plastic buttons were too brittle, one popped off while washing. The new buttons she sewed on herself are mother-of-pearl." Dead silence filled the car. Only the faint hiss of air from the AC vents persisted. Under the dashboard's faint blue light, the "assistant's" face gradually lost its color. His hands resting on his knees, his fingers curled slightly, then he forced them to relax. His Adam's apple bobbed. "So," Lu Chenzhou turned back, his voice as light as a sigh, "you investigated me, investigated my sister, even looked into that old shirt—but you didn't find out about the button that popped off five years ago. Because that incident isn't in any record; it was just a... trivial piece of daily life in our family." He paused. "You wanted to use the things I cherish most to sting me, to make me lose control. That's clever "That is to say," the "assistant" slowly turned his head. The professional smile on his face had completely vanished, replaced by an unfathomable exhaustion, and beneath that exhaustion, something sharp and faintly flickering. "If everything was flawless, you would instead suspect it was all too deliberate. Leaving a few flaws you could discover, letting you think, 'Look, I saw through it,' that way you would keep moving forward, walking right into the real... dead end." The air in the car suddenly turned cold. Lu Chenzhou's stomach sank. It wasn't fear, but a cold, belated realization. He remembered the vanished reflection in the printing factory, the "assistant's" almost pitying expression at the entrance to the passage, that glaringly red door, the desk lamp with the crack, the button engraved with "LX"— All of it, interlocked. The forged evidence was too crude, so he concluded it was a trap. The psychologically suggestive room was too deliberate, so he was angry but remained vigilant. The flaw of the button was too obvious, so he thought he had seen through Fang Mu's oversight, even feeling a trace of... pathetic sense of control. But what if these "flaws" were all bait? What if his current "seeing through" and "calmness" were precisely a step in the other party's calculation? "Where is the real dead end?" Lu Chenzhou asked, his voice dry. The "assistant" did not answer. He looked out the window, the shadows of plane trees sweeping across his face one after another. "Mr. Lu, I am merely an executor. My task is to accompany, record, and when necessary... guide. As for deeper waters, I do not advise you to wade into them. Some whirlpools, once you are caught, you can never surface again." "Like ten years ago?" "Worse than that." The "assistant's" voice was so soft it was almost inaudible. "Ten years ago, they just wanted you to shut up. Now... they want you to disappear. Completely, without a trace." The car entered the underground parking garage of Lu Chenzhou's residential complex. Pale, harsh light spilled from overhead, illuminating rows of silent vehicles. The engine died, and the world abruptly fell quiet. Lu Chenzhou unbuckled his seatbelt but did not get out immediately. He sat in the driver's seat, looking at the mottled stains on the concrete pillar ahead, and slowly spoke: "The person who sent you isn't Shen Yanqing." The "assistant's" fingers paused on the door handle for a second. "Shen Yanqing wants to control me, but he wouldn't use this kind of... personal, malicious psychological warfare. He's better at deals and checks and balances." Lu Chenzhou turned his head, looking directly into the "assistant's" eyes. "You're from the other side. The side that forged the confession ten years ago. You know I've been investigating cases for the Shen family since my release from prison. You're afraid I'll use this case to dig up the old matter, so you preemptively placed your own man in the position of the 'assistant' sent by Shen Yanqing—you can monitor me, mislead me, and when necessary, personally push me into the pit." The "assistant" met his gaze. A few seconds later, he suddenly smiled. Not that professional smile, but a genuine one, tinged with bitterness and a sense of relief. "Lu Chenzhou, you really are clever. Clever enough... to be frightening." He pushed the car door open and stepped out. Standing outside the car, he straightened the hem of his suit jacket, his expression once again becoming placid and unreadable. "Tomorrow at ten in the morning, Shen Yansheng's study. Please be punctual. As for tonight..." He paused, pulled a folded note from his pocket, and slipped it through the window gap. It landed on the passenger seat. "This is an address. If you still want to keep investigating, you can go take a look. But don't say I didn't warn you—there are no answers there, only deeper traps. Or... more direct endings." With that, he turned and walked toward the parking garage exit. His leather shoes tapped clearly and rhythmically on the cement floor, the sound gradually fading until it disappeared around the corner. Lu Chenzhou sat in the car, unmoving. He stared at the note lying on the seat. Ordinary memo paper, folded once, edges neat. In the dim light of the parking garage, he couldn't make out what was written on it. He reached out, his fingertips touching the paper. Cold. He didn't open it immediately. Instead, he first took out his phone and sent a reply to the text from the numberless sender. Only three words: "Wait for me." Send Fragments flashed through Lu Chenzhou’s memory—the old city district, narrow alleys, row houses left over from the Republican era, mostly rented out to migrant workers or small business owners. Chaos, congestion, sparse surveillance. A place well-suited for disappearing. He folded the note and tucked it into a compartment of his wallet. Then, from the storage compartment, he took out another piece of dark chocolate, tore open the wrapper, and slowly chewed. The bittersweet flavor spread through his mouth, accompanied by the rich aroma of cocoa, yet it couldn’t suppress the chill welling up incessantly from the depths of his heart. They knew his past, knew his vulnerabilities, even knew that he disassembled pens when thinking and that the corner of his eye twitched when tense. They had crafted a trap tailored for him, layer upon layer, even factoring in his reaction of “seeing through the trap.” And now, they had handed him another note. Another address. Another “choice.” To go might be a deeper snare. Not to go meant retreat, meant letting the other side continue to control the pace. Lu Chenzhou pushed open the car door and walked into the elevator. The metal walls of the cab were polished to a mirror-like finish, reflecting his pale, tense face. The slight weightlessness as the elevator ascended churned his stomach. Returning home, the living room still retained traces of Gu Zhixing’s presence from the night before—not a specific scent, but an intangible, oppressive feeling of having been intruded upon. Lu Chenzhou didn’t turn on the main lights, only switched on a floor lamp beside the sofa. A hazy, yellow halo carved out a small patch of warmth, but it couldn’t illuminate the shadows in the depths of the room. He walked to the window and lifted a corner of the curtain. The street below wa