Before the screech of tires on the epoxy floor had fully faded, Lu Chenzhou had already rolled out of the driver's seat. The handle of the titanium alloy briefcase was clutched tightly in his palm, its metal surface slick with a clammy layer of cold sweat, almost slipping from his grasp. He pressed the case against his side, his back against a concrete pillar, and drew the short dagger from behind his waist with his other hand. The grip's anti-slip tape dug into his fingertips, the rough texture anchoring his surging killing intent. The engine noise died. Two pairs of rubber-soled shoes crunched through pooled water, flanking him from the left corridor, their spacing steady, disciplined. Lu Chenzhou didn't wait. He kicked hard off the pillar, launching himself diagonally, the dagger carving a cold arc in the gloom. The black-clad figure on the left spun around, a telescoping baton sweeping toward his knee. Lu Chenzhou retracted his leg, dodging the blow, but as he landed, his knee slammed heavily onto the ground. The sharp corner of the briefcase pressed against his ribs dug viciously into an old injury, a dull pain exploding instantly. "Don't go for the kill!" the man on the right barked, his tone clipped and harsh. "Leave the '97-Super-4' file for him!" They wanted him dead with the file? Lu Chenzhou's pupils constricted sharply. They weren't here to silence him; they were here to force-feed him poison! "You want this hot potato?" Lu Chenzhou sneered, breathing heavily. "Come and get it yourself!" "Shut up! Let go!" The black-clad man on the right lunged, aiming straight for the briefcase. Lu Chenzhou pulled his arm back to block, his elbow smashing into the other man's wrist bone, then used the momentum to swing the case across his chest. The baton tip from the left came again. Lu Chenzhou twisted his head, avoiding a vital spot, but his shoulder took a heavy blow, a searing pain tearing through flesh. Gritting his teeth, he didn't retreat, instead driving the dagger backward into the left attacker's armpit—an unprotected blind spot beneath the bulletproof vest. The muffled sound of the blade piercing flesh was like a knife tip plunging into soaked cotton. Warm blood sprayed onto the back of his hand, cooling rapidly. The man screamed and collapsed. "Bastard!" the man on the right cursed, abandoning the grab and drawing a short knife, stabbing straight for Lu Chenzhou's throat. The retreat was cut off. Lu Chenzhou used his backward momentum, kicking and shattering the glass cover of a wall-mounted fire hose, tearing off the sprinkler valve. A high-pressure jet of water surged forth like a white blade, instantly enveloping both men in a blinding curtain of mist. The smoke detector alarm shrieked to life, its buzzing ricocheting madly in the enclosed space. Lu Chenzhou clamped the briefcase tightly and charged through the water curtain. The short knife whistled through the air behind him, grazing past his back. He kicked open the fire door and crashed into the stairwell. He climbed four floors in one breath. When he pushed open the door to the safe house provided by Qin Wangshu, Lu Chenzhou practically fell into the room. He threw the deadbolt, slid down against the door, his chest heaving violently. The fabric of his left shoulder was torn open, flesh lacerated, blood trickling down his arm and dripping onto the briefcase's silver surface, blooming into a dark crimson stain. Outside the window, the black sedan idling at the street corner was like a patch of gloom. He was certain he'd been followed here, but the briefcase was still in his hand. Lu Chenzhou wiped the blood from the back of his hand and pressed his fingers against the briefcase's latch. Inside, the '97-Super-4' file lay quietly, the seal revealing a damaged half-page of the original. Since his opponents wanted to force this forged poison down his throat, to cut off his path of investigating Zhao Mingcheng's death for the Zhao family, then he would use this half-page original to counter-attack, to uncover the truth of that political murder from years ago. He stopped moving. Not now. The safe house door clicked shut behind him, the bolt sliding into place with a crisp sound that tore through the silence. Lu Chenzhou didn't turn on the light. By the faint streetlight seeping through the window crack, he placed the titanium alloy briefcase on the folding table. Blood was still seeping from the wound on his left shoulder, dripping down his wrist. He ignored it. The case lid sprang open. The musty, damp smell of waterlogged paper hit March 17th. He remembered that day. The lingering chill of early spring, his younger sister Lu Chenxing's first visit after her surgery, thin as a paper doll, smiling at him through the glass. The file said March 4th. He set down the fragment, fingertips trembling slightly. He picked up the record from the file and turned it over—blank. He flipped it back, re-examining every word. The handwriting was similar, the format compliant, the seals clear. If not for the fragment as a reference, this record was flawless. Too flawless. He pulled out his encrypted phone and dialed. "Check the master copy of the '97 detention block four file," Lu Chenzhou's voice was hoarse, but his tone was terrifyingly calm. "March 4th. Who signed it?" The sound of keyboard tapping came through the receiver. Qin Wangshu's voice was cold and hard. "You're in the safe house? You haven't treated the wound?" "Check the master copy, Wangshu. Now." He repeated. "March 4th." "...The system shows a full-block power outage that day in the detention area. Visits prohibited." Qin Wangshu's breathing hitched slightly. "There's no master copy record." "But the file here, in black and white, says March 4th." Lu Chenzhou stared at the line of text. "Complete with seals." "That's a forgery." Qin Wangshu's tone suddenly sharpened. "Chenzhou, that's poison." "No. It's a forced delivery." Lu Chenzhou leaned back in his chair. The white light of the desk lamp nailed his shadow to the wall, twisted and stiff. He stared at the file folder as if staring at a coiled viper. "It's too convenient... A professional killer, how could he miss the most crucial file folder?" Unless he intended for me to see it. "He's forcing me to expose myself." Lu Chenzhou said softly, each word like a blade. "March 4th, March 4th... He's waiting for me to take this fake evidence and reopen the old case." Dead silence fell on the other end of the phone. Lu Chenzhou ended the call, his gaze icy as it swept over the perfectly forged document on the desk. This wasn't a lucky survivor; it was meticulously packaged bait. The assailant's oversight was, in fact, a forced delivery, designed to induce his self-exposure. Under the harsh light of the desk lamp, the paper glowed a sickly white. Lu Chenzhou suddenly sat bolt upright, his five fingers clenching the file as if gripping a viper by the neck. Signature, seals, timestamp—every element fit together seamlessly, pointing to a meticulously designed logical closed loop. The original had been destroyed, the fragment was the only reference, and it was only half a page. This wasn't survival. This was being fed. He flung the file back onto the desk. The pages slid across the circle of light like a pale, falling leaf. His knuckles white with tension, he reached out and switched off the lamp. Darkness closed in from all sides, like tidewater rising over his ankles. The safe house windows were sealed with black tape; a thread of dismal gray light seeped under the door, faintly outlining the stack of documents on the corner of the desk. He sank into the chair, his fingers unconsciously disassembling an old ballpoint pen he'd fished from his pocket. Cap, barrel, spring, refill—four parts, separated one by one in his palm, then reassembled in turn. The subtle tactile sensation of the spring clicking into the cap was clearer than any sound. The trajectory of the assailant's search through the file cabinet replayed in his mind. Tactical gloves, left to right, layer by layer. The surface files had been left in disarray, drawers pulled out most of the way—yet the "97-Detention-4" folder was precisely, squarely placed in the middle of the third divider, its corners without a single crease. Too clean. Like a piece of cheese carefully placed, waiting for the mouse to walk in. The pen refill slipped from between his fingers, bounced twice on the floor, and rolled into the darkness. A professional killer wouldn't make such a low-level mistake. Unless it wasn't a mistake at all. He pulled out the backup communicator and pressed the encrypted frequency. "Qin Wangshu." "This frequency shouldn't be activated now." Her voice was crisp, but a tight string was pulled taut within it. "Ninety-seven, detention category, number four." Lu Chenzhou's speech was measured, repeating the key identifier. "Has the archival timestamp in the file bureau's electronic database been altered recently?" Static crackled over the line. Three seconds later, Qin Wangshu's voice cut in. "Last week the bureau's servers Eight words fell like a guillotine blade. The path of legal remedy was completely welded shut. Outside the window, an ambulance siren suddenly blared, sharply tearing through the night sky before rapidly fading into the distance. Lu Chenzhou’s eyes snapped open, his pupils contracting to pinpoints in the darkness. Beads of sweat from his forehead slid down his cheekbones and came to a stop beneath his chin, hanging there, cold. The corner of his left eye twitched slightly, as if an invisible thread were tugging at his skin. He’s waiting for me to take this file to court and make a fool of myself. My deductions have become his best weapon. The investigative logic he prided himself on—extracting truth from contradictions, restoring intent from oversights—had all now become strings his opponent used to manipulate him. He thought he was observing the chessboard, but he was actually the piece. The parts of the ballpoint pen lay scattered on his lap. He did not reassemble it. His breathing slowly calmed, but his heartbeat still pounded like a drum against his eardrums. Despair poured over him like a basin of ice water from head to toe, chilling him to the bone—and then, against that cold backdrop, something began to coalesce anew. Not surrender. A different kind of clarity. Since his opponent dared to use "compulsory delivery," it meant this forged chain was not flawless. Forgery required time, required an original template, required knowing which details to preserve and which to alter. The person capable of this must have had access to the genuine original—or perhaps, the original still existed somewhere he didn't know. He could no longer use this file to overturn the case. But he could use it to fish out the flaws in that chain. Lu Chenzhou bent over, picked up the pen refill, and slowly slotted it back into the barrel. The spring returned to place, the cap screwed on tight. A soft *click* sounded, unusually clear in the silence. A single phone call wasn't enough to verify the depth of the forgery. He needed more concrete external information. He had to contact Qin Wangshu, to probe the enemy's situation face-to-face without revealing his hand. The encrypted phone sat on the corner of the desk. The faint electrical static in the earpiece was like the chirping of a dying insect, scraping against his eardrums with each pulse. Lu Chenzhou stared at the file labeled "97-Jian-4" within the harsh white circle of light. The pen in his hand had already been disassembled into three parts. The brass clip pressed against his fingertip. Cold sweat was trickling down his temple, falling to his jaw, icy and piercing. The lock on the door clicked softly. He didn't move. His fingertip pressed down on the pen tip, his muscles instantly tensing. Qin Wangshu pushed the door open, a gust of night wind and the faintest scent of tobacco following her in. Her gaze swept across the desk, lingering on the spread-out file for half a second before she tossed her car keys onto the entryway console. "Perimeter's clear," she said, walking around the desk and pulling out a chair, but not sitting down. "And you?" "Superficial wounds." Qin Wangshu didn't press further. Her eyes passed over the file a second time, lingering longer this time. Lu Chenzhou saw her bite the inside of her lower lip briefly before releasing it. "Is this what you managed to salvage from the ruins?" "All that was salvageable." Silence welled up. Lu Chenzhou cleared his throat, forcing his vocal cords to suppress that hint of uncontrolled hoarseness. "The visitation records for the detention cell back then—which date version is stored in the Archives Bureau's system?" Qin Wangshu frowned slightly. "The 4th. Why?" "The 4th," he repeated subconsciously, his knuckles suddenly turning white. In the lower right corner of the file, the visitation date field was clearly printed—the 7th. Three days. The forger had pushed the date back by three days. A seemingly insignificant number, but like a gear meshing out of alignment, it was enough to make the entire machine explode while operating at high speed. If he took this file to apply for a retrial, his opponent need only produce the official archived record from the 4th, point out this "low-level error" in court, and that would be enough to cement his death sentence for forging evidence and making false confessions. "It's nothing," Lu Chenzhou lowered his eyes, pressing the pen tip against the desktop. "Just confirming something." "Confirming what?" Qin Wangshu's voice suddenly dropped, carrying the professional sharpness unique to an interrogation room. "Confirming that what you have in your hands doesn't match the official record?" It wasn't a She did not press any further. Rain began to fall outside the window, fine droplets pelting densely against the tin awning. The two of them just sat like that. Lu Chenzhou felt the residual night chill from Qin Wangshu's jacket seep through from her arm beside him, gradually warmed by their body heat. Her breathing was rapid at first, then gradually slowed, as if deliberately matching his rhythm. The forged file lay spread out under the harsh light, each word like a poison-tipped needle. He had thought it was a lifeline, but only now realized the hand holding it was already pierced through. The path to overturning the case was completely sealed off. But— Lu Chenzhou's fingers stopped their disassembling. Since the opponent dared to "force-deliver" it, it meant the forgery chain itself must have a weak point. A false piece of evidence that must be discovered, a false lead that must be deduced—this meant the opponent's every step was exposed on a logical track he could reach. They had anticipated his reasoning habits. That was dangerous. But anticipation itself was also a behavior that could be anticipated. He reassembled the pen and placed it on the table. "Wangshu." He called her name for the first time, his voice very soft. "Between number 7 and number 4, what lies in between?" Qin Wangshu turned her head. The sound of rain filled every gap. Her eyes gleamed once in the dimness. "Three days," she said. "Enough time to do many things." Enough to destroy the original, enough to forge a replacement, enough to set a trap for the prey to walk into on its own. And enough for the one setting the trap to leave an indelible mark at some point in the process. Lu Chenzhou slowly closed the file, his knuckles turning white. He looked at Chen Yanzhi across from him. The other man did not avert his gaze. An understanding had already formed. "The weak point," he said, his voice even, but the words bitten out with great force. "The chain's weak point. Since they insist I grasp this knife—" He pushed the file across the table. "Then we'll use it to cut open the source of that forgery."