The phone rang while Lu Chenzhou was staring at a crack in the ceiling. Four seventeen in the morning. Just three hours had passed since he returned from Zhou Zhengping's old apartment building. A sliver of faint light from the city's edge seeped through the gap in the curtains, like a cold white line cutting across the foot of the bed. He remained lying flat, his breathing so light it was almost inaudible, his eyes unblinking. The crack on the ceiling had been there since the day he moved in, meandering like a deliberately misdrawn route on a map. His phone vibrated a second time on the bedside table, its body knocking against the wooden surface with an urgent *buzz*. He reached for it, his movements slow, as if his joints were filled with lead. The screen lit up, showing an unregistered number. He stared at the string of digits for two seconds, then pressed answer. He didn't speak. "City Art Museum." Gu Zhixing's voice came through the receiver, steady as a weather forecast, yet each word carried a metallic hardness. "Another one dead. Mr. Shen requires your presence within twenty minutes. Car's downstairs." The call ended. The dial tone was brief, like a snuffed-out breath. Lu Chenzhou sat up. The light outside the window had brightened a little more; that white line had crawled onto his knees, and his skin could feel the faint warmth of the light through the fabric. He looked down at his open palm. The lines on his palm were indistinct in the gloom. The manila envelope Zhou Zhengping had shoved into his hand was still under the pillow, its hard edge pressing against the back of his neck. The old detective's final words, and that warning text message—"Let old matters lie"—were like two nails driven into his temples, one on each side, bringing a persistent, dull ache. He got out of bed and dressed. His movements were mechanical, yet every detail was calculated. He buttoned his shirt to the top, the fabric rubbing against his Adam's apple as the collar tightened. He cinched the belt of his trench coat, creating a distinct pressure around his waist. His shoelaces were tied with slipknots, but the length left was just enough to allow him to pull free with a single step. He pulled the envelope from under the pillow and slipped it into the inner pocket of his trench coat. His fingers paused for a moment as they touched the thin paper. The handwriting on the note was scrawled, the ink smudged, like a message desperate to be conveyed yet afraid to be seen clearly. *"Wears a suit and glasses, briefcase has a lightning-shaped scratch..."* He silently recited it once, then opened the door. The motion-activated light in the hallway didn't come on. He descended the stairs in the dark, his footsteps absorbed by the old carpet, leaving only the rustling sound of fabric against fabric. The stairwell was filled with the smell of stale grease from the night before and a faint, chemical odor similar to disinfectant, stinging his nostrils and making them itch. It wasn't there when he left in the morning. His steps paused for a moment on the second-floor landing, his gaze sweeping the corner. There was nothing there, only a crushed cigarette butt, its filter white. Fresh. He continued downward, his fingertips brushing against the cold metal railing. The black sedan was indeed parked at the mouth of the alley. The windows were tinted dark, making it impossible to see inside. The front passenger door automatically popped open a crack as he approached. He pulled it open and got in. The smell of leather mixed with the cloying sweetness of the car air freshener assaulted him, almost suffocating. The driver was an unfamiliar young man, wearing a fitted black suit and white gloves. The rearview mirror reflected half of his expressionless face. "Mr. Lu." The driver's voice was young, but his tone was flat, like he was reading from a script. "Please fasten your seatbelt." The car started, gliding silently into the empty streets of the early morning. The tires rolled over the seams in the pavement, emitting a soft *thump*. Lu Chenzhou leaned back into the seat and closed his eyes. But he didn't sleep. He summoned the floor plan of the City Art Museum in his mind. The old building, constructed in the early 1980s, Soviet-style architecture. The main building had three floors, with a wing connected by corridors to exhibition halls and storage rooms. It had been closed for renovation since last year, reportedly to be converted into a modern art center. During construction, security should be lax, surveillance likely incomplete. A suitable place for murder. As the car turned, centrifugal force pressed him gently against the door. Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes and looked out the The police line had already been set up. Yellow and black striped tape fluttered in the morning breeze, emitting a light, flapping sound. Several patrol cars were parked by the roadside, their blue and red lights rotating silently, casting an uneasy, periodic glow onto the walls of the surrounding buildings. The air carried scents—dry dust, the acrid chemical smell of fresh paint, and a faint, elusive metallic tang of rust. It was very faint, but it hooked into his nostrils like a barb. Gu Zhixing stood in the shadows just outside the police line. He wore a well-tailored dark gray overcoat, his posture straight as a meticulously sculpted statue. From behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his gaze locked onto Lu Chenzhou the moment he stepped out of the car. There was no urging, no gesture, just a calm observation. That gaze held assessment, scrutiny, and a kind of cold, professional patience. Lu Chenzhou gave him a slight nod, ducked under the police line. The plastic tape scraped against his shoulder with a rough, grating sound. Underfoot was old-fashioned wooden flooring, its paint peeling and mottled. Each step produced a soft *creak*, the sensation of the boards giving way slightly beneath his weight. The exhibition hall was dimly lit, only a few temporary spotlights were on, their beams focused on a central area, illuminating every speck of dancing dust. Fragments of plaster statues were scattered across the floor, their edges sharp like shattered bones. From somewhere in the distance came the muffled sound of an electric drill from ongoing renovations, a buzzing that came and went, adding an absurd, unfinished background noise to the death scene, vibrating unpleasantly against the eardrums. Forensic technicians in white protective suits moved back and forth within the beams of light, their cameras flashing with blinding white light intermittently. Each flash left a brief, searing afterimage on the retina. The scene maintained a kind of oppressive busyness. No one spoke; the only sounds were the *rip* of plastic evidence bags being opened and the *shush* of shoe soles scraping the floor, like some kind of arthropod crawling. Lu Chenzhou's gaze passed over them, landing on the center of the exhibition hall. There, a body lay half-covered by a white sheet. The sheet didn't fully cover it, revealing the trouser cuffs of a suit and a pair of polished black leather shoes. The tips of the shoes pointed toward the eastern side of the hall, pointing directly at a large painting covered with canvas. The frame was enormous, almost reaching the ceiling. His breathing rhythm didn't change, but his lungs felt as if gripped by something, each inhalation carrying a slight sense of obstruction. He put on the latex gloves he carried with him, his movements slow, ensuring each finger fit snugly. The familiar, cold sensation of rubber stretched tight against his skin. Then he walked toward the area bathed in light. The forensic technicians saw him; one glanced up, eyes holding a question, but no one stopped him. Gu Zhixing must have already given notice. Or perhaps, someone on the police side recognized him too—the genius criminal investigator from a decade ago, later a prisoner, now a "consultant" for the Shen family. What an ironic title. He knelt down before the white sheet. His knees pressed against the wooden floor, stirring up fine dust that danced frantically in the spotlight's beam. Some drifted into his nostrils, causing a slight itch. He reached out, gently pinching the edge of the sheet between two fingers, lifting a corner. The fabric was coarse, its fibers rubbing against his fingertips. The deceased lay on his back. Male, around forty years old, hair neatly combed. The suit was dark gray, ironed without a single wrinkle. But the collar had been roughly torn open, revealing the white shirt underneath and a small patch of skin. On that skin, right in the center of the chest, was a familiar, clean-edged sharp-force wound. Not large, but deep, with a small amount of dark brown bloodstain seeping into the shirt fibers around it, like a withered flower. Almost identical to the wound on Zhao Mingcheng. Location, angle, depth—his brain completed the comparison in an instant. The weapon was likely the same type: narrow, thin, similar to an ice pick or a specially made stabbing blade. The technique was clean, efficient, no unnecessary movements, a single lethal strike. Professional, or at least the result of repeated practice. His gaze moved down, settling on the deceased's left hand. That hand was clenched into a fist, the knuckles white from the force, skin stretched taut over the bones. But between the fingers, a glint of metal peeked out. Faint, reflecting a dull brass color under the spotlights. Lu Chenzhou took a small evidence bag and a pair of fine-tipped tweezers from his pocket. The Circular, approximately two centimeters in diameter, brass material, with worn edges and dark green patina. The front features a relief pattern—the outline of the old Municipal Art Museum building, with simple lines, typical of the souvenir style common in the 1980s and 90s. The back has a pin clasp, already somewhat loose. Lu Chenzhou’s pupils contracted slightly. He had seen this style of badge before. More than once. There had been one in his father’s desk drawer, a souvenir from some art lecture his father attended in his youth. It had been lost somewhere later. But the pattern, this slightly clumsy relief style with its era-specific stamp… He pinched the badge, holding it up under the spotlight. The patina was unevenly distributed, the edges severely worn, as if frequently rubbed, the surface having lost its original luster. Near the pin clasp, there were fine scratches on the metal, not from natural aging, but more like someone had repeatedly scraped at it with a fingernail or other hard object, leaving chaotic shallow grooves. He flipped the badge over, adjusting its angle against the light. Near the edge on the back, there was a line of extremely small, almost patina-covered engraved characters. He narrowed his eyes. “…Made…1987…” The rest was illegible. 1987. That number was like a red-hot needle, plunging unexpectedly into his consciousness. The archive fire Zhou Zhengping mentioned was also in ’87. Coincidence? Or… His breath hitched for an instant. The air in his lungs seemed to solidify, heavy, sinking to the bottom of his chest, bringing a dull ache. He forced his attention back to the scene. The badge had been deliberately placed in the victim’s hand, clenched. This wasn’t an accidental drop; it was a message left by the killer. Or rather, part of the "display." He set the badge down, his gaze shifting back to the overall posture of the corpse. Supine, legs together and straight, toes pointing toward the painting covered with canvas on the east side. A very deliberate direction. The killer was guiding the viewer’s gaze. From "concealment" (Zhao Mingcheng’s body hidden deep in the cold storage) to "display" (placed in the center of the museum gallery, leaving directional clues). The pattern had evolved. The killer was no longer satisfied with mere killing; he had begun arranging the scene, conveying information. Or rather, he was "performing." Lu Chenzhou stood up. His knees emitted a soft *crack*, and a sore, swollen feeling came from his joints. He walked toward the painting covered with canvas. His footsteps on the wooden floor stirred up fine dust with each step, tumbling in the beams of light. The spotlight followed him, casting a long, wavering shadow behind him, like another silent follower. He stopped before the painting. The canvas was a heavy-duty dust cloth, grayish, its edges roughly tied to the frame with coarse hemp rope. He untied the knot; the rough fibers of the rope rubbed against his fingertips, causing an itchy sensation. Then he pinched a corner of the canvas and lifted it upward. The fabric was heavy, raising more dust. The painting was revealed. It was a copy of *The Starry Night*. Van Gogh’s brushstrokes, the swirling sky, the cypress tree. But the color palette was wrong. The original blues and yellows here had become somber; the blues leaned toward purple, like a bruise, the yellows tinged with a sickly, rust-like orange-red. The entire painting was shrouded in a depressing, smoke-stained atmosphere, the paint thick, the brushstrokes frenzied. In the lower right corner of the canvas, there was a small, dark red paint addition. A number: 2. Lu Chenzhou stared at the number. Not a serial number, more like… a tally? The second incident? Or the second step? His back stiffened. A chill crept up his spine inch by inch, not from the lingering night cold in the gallery, but from somewhere deeper, like ice water soaking into his marrow. The killer was keeping a record. Making a declaration. This was no longer an isolated act of revenge or silencing; this was a planned, unfolding sequence. He let go of the canvas. The fabric fell, covering the distorted starry night again with a dull *thump*. The fine dust stirred up danced frantically in the light beams, like a miniature blizzard, lingering for a long time. He turned, his gaze moving back and forth between the corpse’s posture, the badge in its hand, and the covered painting. Three points, forming an invisible line. The other end of that line pointed toward a truth he couldn’t yet see clearly, but whose weight he could already feel. The pattern was confirmed. Serial killings. The same The fire at the archives. The charred floor plan. The fire in Zhou Zhengping's contradictory account that "professionally" destroyed evidence. And now, this old, tarnished copper badge from 1987. All the fragments began to shift, drawing closer to each other, emitting a dangerous, grating sound as if about to interlock. The corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye twitched again. This time more noticeably; he could feel the muscle beneath the skin involuntarily jumping, tugging at the nerves of half his face. He raised his hand and pressed down hard. His fingertips were icy, almost devoid of warmth. Just then, footsteps came from the entrance on the other side of the exhibition hall. Not the cautious, shuffling steps of a forensics technician. These were decisive, with a clear sense of purpose. The heels struck the wooden floor, producing a clear, rhythmic *thump, thump*, each step like a beat on a tightly drawn drumhead. Lu Chenzhou lowered his hand and turned around. Qin Wangshu emerged from the shadows, stopping at the edge of the spotlight's circle. She wore a police jacket, the zipper pulled up to her chin, the metal slider reflecting a cold gleam. Her hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, revealing a smooth forehead. Her face showed little expression, but her eyes were bright, like polished obsidian, reflecting a cold light in the dim illumination. Her gaze first swept over Lu Chenzhou's face, pausing for a moment at the corner of his eye, then fell upon the copper badge in his hand that he hadn't yet placed into an evidence bag. A pause of about two seconds. Her line of sight shifted to the corpse half-covered by the white cloth, then to the painting covered by the canvas. Finally, it returned to Lu Chenzhou's face. The dust in the air seemed to freeze. The muffled roar of the distant power drill also stopped. The exhibition hall suddenly plunged into a tense, particle-filled silence, where even the sound of breathing became distinctly audible. Qin Wangshu took a step forward, entering the circle of light. She carried a faint scent of disinfectant, mixed with the chill of the early morning outdoors. As she approached, Qin Wangshu's footsteps halted at the eastern side of the exhibition hall, about three paces away from him. The sound of her plastic shoe covers rubbing against the wooden floor was soft, but exceptionally clear in this dead silence. She didn't speak immediately. Her gaze first swept over the transparent evidence bag in his hand—the copper badge lay slightly tilted at the bottom, its tarnished edges glowing a dull red under the spotlight—before finally returning to the painting pointed at by the corpse's toes. The distant roar of the construction power drill had ceased. The hall sank into a deeper, almost tinnitus-inducing silence, broken only by the rustling sound of the forensics technician's plastic shoe covers as he moved, like insects gnawing at wood. Lu Chenzhou handed the evidence bag over. His fingertips touched the plastic surface—cold, with a slight sticky static cling. The copper badge shifted slightly during the transfer, hitting the bag's wall with a dull *tap*. "What's your take?" Qin Wangshu took the bag, her voice flat, betraying no emotion. But she asked "you," not "the scene." Her fingers pinched the edge of the bag; the plastic made a faint, continuous rustling sound under her fingertips, as if she were crushing something dry. Lu Chenzhou's gaze moved away from the canvas. The lifted corner of the tarpaulin revealed a distorted starry sky. The paint was applied thickly, the blue mixed with too much black, giving off a greasy sheen under the strong light. "Same killer," he said, his throat tightening as if clogged with dust. "He's evolving." "Evolving?" Qin Wangshu lifted her eyes. Her pupils contracted to pinpoints under the direct spotlight, the whites of her eyes laced with fine red veins. "From making the body disappear, to placing it here on display." Lu Chenzhou paused. The muscle at the corner of his left eye twitched uncontrollably again; he forcefully suppressed the urge to raise his hand and press it. "He's establishing a sense of ritual. The body's posture, the directional pointing, and this—" He pointed at the evidence bag. The copper badge cast a small shadow at the bottom. "They all emphasize 'look here.'" Qin Wangshu raised the bag into the spotlight. The strong light penetrated the plastic, instantly making the worn scratches on the badge's surface clear—the outline of the old art museum was already blurred, with several deep indentations along the edges, as if repeatedly struck by something hard. "The badge is an old item," she said, her voice lowered a notch. "The Municipal Art Museum issued a Qin Wangshu looked up at him. Her gaze sharpened for an instant—a sharpness he knew too well. It was exactly like ten years ago in the hallway outside the interrogation room, when she held case files and pressed him for details. Her eyes were like scalpels, determined to peel back layer after layer of flesh. "Back then..." she started, then stopped. Her lips pressed into a thin line, the inside of her lower lip caught between her teeth, leaving a faint, whitened mark that slowly regained its color after a few seconds. She was hesitating. Lu Chenzhou read that signal. She was hesitating whether to bring up the old case, whether to cross that cordon line separating "now" from "the past." In the distance, an officer pushed an equipment cart past, its wheels rumbling over a floor seam with a solid *thunk*. "What about back then?" he asked. His voice was steadier than he'd expected, but a trace of tension still leaked through the tail end. Qin Wangshu's gaze fell back onto the badge. Her fingers unconsciously rubbed the seal strip of the evidence bag. The plastic strip's edge was rough, scraping against the skin of her fingertip. "Back then, I handled a case where the victim was also holding something." Her speech slowed, each word weighed as if for its heft. "Not a badge, but a button. A very old military uniform button, brass, with a serial number on the back." She paused, her breathing growing slightly heavier. "The scene report stated that the production batch of that button corresponded to... a particular year." A particular year. Lu Chenzhou's heart thumped heavily in his chest, a dull impact against his ribs. His fingers curled unconsciously, nails pressing into his palms, leaving four crescent-shaped white marks. The air in the exhibition hall seemed to thicken. Dust slowly rotated within the beams of the spotlights, like a miniature snowstorm. "And then?" he asked, his voice slightly hoarse. "Then the button was archived as personal property." Qin Wangshu's voice grew even lower, almost a whisper, but each word was enunciated clearly. "But before the case was closed, the archives room had a fire. What burned were some... inconsequential old materials." Inconsequential. Lu Chenzhou remembered the kraft paper envelope Zhou Zhengping had shoved into his hand, the rough paper surface rubbing against his pocket lining; remembered the phrase "let old matters lie," the sharp buzz of the text message alert in his room late at night; remembered the charred edges of those pages in the archives fire case file. The fire had been burning all along, from the eighties to now, burning evidence, burning memories, burning all the fragments that might point to the truth. Sweat began to bead on the back of his neck, sliding down his spine, chillingly dampening the collar of his shirt. "Captain Qin." Gu Zhixing's voice came from the entrance of the exhibition hall, steady as if measured with a ruler, yet carrying a faint echo in the empty space. "Is the preliminary on-site investigation about done? Mr. Shen is waiting for the report." Qin Wangshu's fingers abruptly tightened. The evidence bag crinkled crisply in her grasp, the brass badge inside shaking violently at the bottom. She took a deep breath, the smell of plaster dust in the air rushing into her nostrils, making her frown slightly. When she looked up again, her face had regained that professional calm, but a trace of poorly concealed fatigue lingered at the corners of her eyes. "Just about." She handed the evidence bag back to Lu Chenzhou, her fingertips brushing the back of his hand—her fingers were cold, as if just taken from cold water. "We'll take the badge back for further analysis. Consultant Lu, if you have any new findings, please report them through proper channels." "Understood." Lu Chenzhou took the bag. The brass badge pressed against his palm through the plastic, cold, heavy, like a weight salvaged from the depths of time. The plastic seal strip was slightly warm where she had rubbed it moments ago. Gu Zhixing had already walked over to them. He wore a dark gray cashmere coat today, the collar impeccably fastened. His eyes behind gold-rimmed glasses held a perfectly measured curiosity, the lenses reflecting the white light from the ceiling lamps. "Having a rather in-depth discussion, you two?" He smiled, his gaze sweeping between Lu Chenzhou and Qin Wangshu, as if measuring some intangible distance. "Regarding this badge, Consultant Lu, any preliminary assessment?" "The killer is establishing a sense of ritual." Lu Chenzhou repeated his earlier conclusion but omitted the part about "pointing to an old time point." Each word seemed squeezed from between his teeth. "It could be a symbolic retaliation against the Shen Yan Group, or a copycat seeking attention." "Symbolic." Gu Qin Wangshu glanced at Lu Chenzhou. Her gaze was complex, containing scrutiny, warning, and a trace of exhaustion he couldn't decipher — the kind of exhaustion from staying up too long, with dry, strained eyes. "The badge was a commemorative souvenir issued from the seventies to the early eighties. Circulation was limited. We're currently screening the list of collectors," she said, speaking rapidly, as if reciting regulations. "However, there's also a possibility such old items ended up in secondhand markets or flea markets. Tracking it down will take time." "Time." Gu Zhixing smiled, a smile with little warmth, the upward curve of his lips precise as if carved from a template. "Time is precisely what Mr. Shen lacks the most. You two carry on. I'll go arrange the reporting venue." He turned and walked towards the exit of the exhibition hall. The hem of his overcoat cut a smooth arc in the air; the sound of cashmere fabric rubbing was faint, but it lingered in the air even after he had walked away. Only after the sound of his footsteps had completely faded did Qin Wangshu speak again, her voice low, even faster now, as if racing against time. "The back of the badge has a serial number. Although worn, forensics should be able to restore it. If the number can be matched to a specific distribution record..." She paused, pressing her lips together again. "Lu Chenzhou, back when you were investigating cases, did you ever have contact with anyone from the Municipal Art Museum?" The question came too directly. Lu Chenzhou felt the muscles at the back of his neck tighten, as if a steel wire were pulling from his spine all the way to his skull. He remembered the window in Shen Qinghuan's studio lighting up and then extinguishing in the early morning hours, the warm yellow light like a lone star in the deep blue night sky; he remembered the contact person Zhou Zhengping mentioned — "wearing a suit and glasses, with lightning-shaped scratches on his briefcase" — and the sensation of the kraft paper envelope edge cutting against his fingertip. All the fragments spun and collided in his mind, but they wouldn't assemble into a complete picture. His temples began to throb. "No," he said. It was the truth, at least within the reach of his memory. But the phrase "within the reach of his memory" was like a thorn, stuck at the base of his tongue. Qin Wangshu stared at him for a few seconds. Her gaze fell on the corner of his left eye — it was still twitching slightly, beyond his control — then shifted to his hand clutching the evidence bag, his knuckles white from the force. She nodded. The nod was light, as if confirming something, or perhaps giving up on something. "Alright," she said, her voice suddenly sounding very weary. "That's it for now. Leave the scene wrap-up to us. You go prepare for the report." She turned to leave, her plastic shoe covers making a short, sharp *squeak* against the floor. Lu Chenzhou called out to her. "Captain Qin." Qin Wangshu stopped, but did not turn around. Her back cast a long shadow under the spotlight, the edges of the shadow blurring, melting into the darkness deep within the exhibition hall. "If the badge's serial number is restored," Lu Chenzhou said, speaking each word slowly, "can you tell me the result?" The air was silent for a few seconds. In the distance came the muffled sound of a power drill again, closer this time, like some enormous insect gnawing at concrete within the walls. The vibration traveled up through the floor, a faint numbness felt underfoot. "Depending on the circumstances," Qin Wangshu finally said. Her voice had already regained that official, matter-of-fact flatness, but there was a barely perceptible tremor at the tail end. "If it complies with procedure, it will be shared with the investigation consultant from the Shen Yan side." She left. The sound of shoe covers scraping against the floor gradually faded, merging into the miscellaneous noises of other officers moving about and equipment being shifted. Lu Chenzhou stood where he was, still holding the copper badge sealed in the evidence bag. The spotlight shone down from above, casting a clear circle of light by his feet. The edge of the light revealed the deep grain of the old wooden floor, embedded with dust and plaster debris, and a few spots of dark red, already dried bloodstains. He crouched down, his knees emitting a faint *click*. A final check of the floor near the victim's feet. There were several shallow scratches on the wooden floor, arranged in a fan shape, as if someone had briefly turned in circles here — heels grinding against the floor, soles possibly carrying fine sand. The scratches were fresh; the wood shavings were still pale yellow, reflecting a damp sheen The evidence bag felt heavy in his hand. The bronze badge. 1987. The fire was still burning. He turned and walked toward the exit of the exhibition hall. Each step landed on the grain of the wooden floor, his soles producing a dull, rhythmic sound. Behind him, the spotlights were still on, illuminating the already cold corpse, the distorted *Starry Night*, and the fresh scratches on the floor. Ahead, the murky light of the corridor surged forward, enveloping him. Gu Zhixing was probably waiting in some temporary office. Shen Moqing's call might already be on its way. Reporting. Judging. Weighing. Concealing. And the anonymous note in his pocket. The edge of the paper scraped against the inner lining of his pocket with every movement, a subtle, persistent presence he could feel. The fire was still burning. Now, he had to walk into that fire and pretend he wouldn't get burned. Gu Zhixing's footsteps stopped one meter behind Lu Chenzhou, the heels of his leather shoes tapping the old wooden floor twice with a clear *tap, tap*, like a pair of scissors precisely cutting off a conversation. **Chapter Hook:** Who slipped the anonymous note? "Captain Qin." Gu Zhixing's voice sounded steadily, carrying just the right amount of respect, yet it tightened the air abruptly. "The preliminary on-site investigation should be nearly complete, right? Consultant Lu needs to give Mr. Shen a first-round briefing. Time is tight." Qin Wangshu's fingers released the evidence bag, the plastic emitting a faint, tearing *zila* sound. She lifted her gaze, looking past Lu Chenzhou's shoulder to land on Gu Zhixing's face. That gaze was like a shard of ice, cold and thin. "Fine," she said, her tone returning to complete professionalism, but the tail end was pulled taut, slightly stiff. "But the badge, as key physical evidence, needs to be taken back to the bureau for further examination. According to procedure, the results will be shared simultaneously with the investigation consultant on Mr. Shen's side." She handed the evidence bag to the officer beside her; the edge of the plastic brushed against the other's glove, making a soft, rustling sound. Her gaze swept over Lu Chenzhou one last time. That glance was brief, as brief as the instant a needle tip pierces skin—the corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye twitched almost imperceptibly. He saw Qin Wangshu's lips tighten, the inside of her lower lip pressed by her teeth into a shallow white mark that quickly regained its color. She was suspicious, and also weighing things. Suspicious that he was hiding something, weighing whether she should continue questioning him in front of Gu Zhixing. "Come with me." Gu Zhixing turned sideways, making a gesture of "please," the arc of his arm as standard as if measured with a ruler. There was a temporarily cleared-out office on the east side of the exhibition hall, originally a spare room for the art gallery's administrative staff. The door was made of ordinary composite board, its edges chipped in several places, revealing the gray core material beneath. Gu Zhixing pushed the door open, and a mixed odor of old paper, dust, and faint mildew rushed out, drilling into the nostrils with an aged astringency. The room was small. An old desk, its surface bearing dark coffee stains and dense scratches like repeatedly scratched skin. Two folding chairs, one of which had a collapsed seat cushion, exposing the grid-like canvas backing beneath. There were no windows. The only light source was an old fluorescent tube overhead, its ends blackened, the light flickering slightly amidst a low, buzzing hum—each alternation of light and dark made the retina jump along. Gu Zhixing gestured for Lu Chenzhou to sit in the collapsed chair, while he himself stood by the desk. He took out his phone from his suit's inner pocket, the movement as smooth as pulling out a business card. The screen lit up, its cold white light illuminating the lower half of his face. He dialed a number, then turned on the speakerphone. The phone was placed flat on the desk, facing Lu Chenzhou. The metal casing knocked against the wooden surface with a soft *click*. The dial tone came from the speaker—*beep, beep, beep*. The interval between each tone was precisely, suffocatingly exact. The buzzing of the fluorescent light seemed amplified, like a swarm of insects trapped inside the tube desperately battering against it. Lu Chenzhou's back straightened. He could feel the collapsed part of the chair slowly swallowing his center of gravity, the rough texture of the canvas backing rubbing against his skin through his trousers. He did not adjust his posture. His hands rested flat on his knees, fingertips slightly curled inward, the edges of his nails pressing into his palms, leaving four crescent-shaped, dull aches. On the seventh dial tone, the call was "The victim is male, forty-two years old, preliminarily identified as the deputy manager of the finance department at Shen Corporation. The fatal wound is located between the fourth and fifth ribs on the left chest. The weapon is suspected to be a single-edged sharp instrument, blade approximately twelve centimeters long. The angle of penetration is highly consistent with the Zhao Mingcheng case." He paused for half a second, letting the information settle. The fluorescent lights hummed, shadows trembling on the back of his hand. "The victim's posture at death was deliberately arranged." Lu Chenzhou continued, his voice steady as if reading an autopsy report. "Legs together and straight, toes pointing toward a reproduction of *The Starry Night* on the east side of the exhibition hall. This echoes the behavioral pattern in the Zhao Mingcheng case where the body was placed in a specific location in the warehouse, facing the depths of the cold storage. However, the new case shows a clear escalation—" He paused here again, not out of hesitation, but to create rhythm, like testing footholds in a minefield. Gu Zhixing's gaze fell on his face, the eyes behind the glasses unblinking, like probes. "The perpetrator has shifted from 'concealing the body' to 'public display,'" Lu Chenzhou said, his voice devoid of emotion, only statement, each word weighed. "The scene in the Zhao Mingcheng case was relatively closed-off; the body had to be actively sought to be discovered. The art museum case occurred in an area about to reopen. The perpetrator chose to place the body in the center of the exhibition hall, knowing full well that sporadic personnel still came and went during the closure for renovations. This is a declaration." Only faint breathing came from the other end of the line, amplified by the current into a rhythmic, oppressive background noise. "One more thing." Lu Chenzhou's fingertip unconsciously traced a line on his knee, the fabric rubbing with a faint rustle. "The victim's left hand was tightly clutching a bronze art museum commemorative badge. The badge design is outdated; according to preliminary police judgment, it belongs to a batch of commemorative items discontinued ten years ago. The badge was deliberately stuffed into the victim's hand. There are minor abrasions on the knuckles, indicating it was placed postmortem." He finished speaking. He did not mention 'eighty-seven,' did not mention the archive fire, did not mention any associations with the time points of the old case. He only stated facts: fatal wound consistent, posture ritualized, pattern shifted from concealment to display, an additional old item from ten years ago. Like building blocks, each piece real, but deliberately omitting the most crucial piece. Silence. The static noise from the phone's speaker became clearly audible, hissing, like some insect gnawing at the signal. Gu Zhixing raised his hand, using his index finger to push the bridge of his gold-rimmed glasses—once, twice. The metal frame rubbed against his skin with an extremely light rasping sound. He was adjusting focus, also applying pressure. "Connection." Shen Moqing's voice finally sounded again, still two words, but this time a question, like a hammer striking an anvil. "Highly connected," Lu Chenzhou replied, his pace steady. "Can preliminarily determine it's the work of the same perpetrator or the same group. The pattern evolution shows the perpetrator is establishing their own 'signature'—conveying some kind of message through the body's posture, scene selection, and left-behind items." "What message?" The question came. Lu Chenzhou felt the sunken chair seat sinking further, the canvas lining pressing against his tailbone, sending a faint, sharp ache. As if the floor were tilting beneath his feet. He had to give an answer, one that would both reflect professional value, not trigger nerves about the old case, and yet be acceptable to Shen Moqing. His brain instantly arranged and combined all possibilities, like solving a puzzle with no standard answer. "Two possibilities," Lu Chenzhou said, his pace steady as if reading terms and conditions. "First, the perpetrator is carrying out some kind of ritualistic revenge against Shen Corporation. Both victims are mid-to-high-level employees of Shen Corporation. The perpetrator, through specific murder methods and scene arrangements, is attempting to construct a metaphor of 'judgment' or 'sacrifice.' Second, it could be copycat crime. Although the details of the Zhao Mingcheng case have not been fully disclosed, basic information such as scene findings and victim identities has circulated within certain circles. Someone is using this information to copycat, attempting to steer public opinion toward a 'serial killer' direction, create chaos, or divert attention from the real target." He skillfully wrapped the possibility of "pointing to the old time point" into the broad category of "ritualistic revenge." He neither lied nor exposed the key association. Like covering a His gaze fell on the scratches on the desk surface — crisscrossing, some deep as if carved by a knife, some shallow leaving only white marks, like a map of a maze with no exit. Gu Zhixing's fingers lightly tapped the edge of the desk, his knuckles rapping against the wood with a soft "tap, tap, tap," slow in rhythm, as if calculating something, or counting down. Finally, Shen Moqing's voice came through again, this time tinged with a barely perceptible weariness, like suppressed breathing after a long trek: "Motive? Vengeance? Interest?" "Insufficient evidence at present." Lu Chenzhou said cautiously, each word like stepping on thin ice. "But judging from the escalation in pattern, the perpetrator is enjoying this process. Display, declaration, perhaps even expecting to be discovered. Such psychological characteristics lean more toward long-held grudges or some obsessive belief driving it, rather than simple commercial conflict of interest." He once again avoided the minefield of the "old case." Like skirting around a deep well. "Your suggestion." Shen Moqing said, not a question, but an order, each word carrying weight. Lu C