The beam of light stopped at the edge of the filing cabinet and advanced no further. Lu Chenzhou held his breath. The blade of the military knife pressed against his palm, its metallic chill seeping into his skin. He heard his own heartbeat, thump, thump, colliding with his ribs. The person outside did not move. The beam of light solidified there, like a prying eye. Then, the beam of light went out. Footsteps retreated, stepping over broken glass, going downstairs. The sound was faint, but each step landed on Lu Chenzhou’s taut nerves. He remained crouched until the footsteps completely vanished on the first floor. After another long dozen seconds, he slowly let out a breath. They hadn’t come to kill him. At least, not now. He stood up, his legs somewhat numb. Walking to the window, he peered down through the broken glass edge. The courtyard was empty, only withered grass swaying in the wind. The gray Buick was still parked on the roadside in the distance, but no one was inside. The tracker had entered the building and left—like a warning, a reconnaissance. Lu Chenzhou looked down at the military knife in his hand. The blade gleamed coldly in the dim light. He put it away and turned towards the desk. While searching earlier, the photo of Gu Zhixing standing before the project board had fallen to the floor. He picked it up. On the back of the photo, a line of small, hastily scrawled characters was written in ballpoint pen: ‘The Beishan shutdown was not an accident, it was a clearing. Zhiyuan warned them, they didn’t listen. Be wary of the people from ‘96.’ ‘96. ‘96 again. Lu Chenzhou tucked the photo into his inner pocket. He needed to leave here, immediately. But just as he reached the stairwell landing, the phone in his pocket vibrated. Not his usual one, but the backup phone Qin Wangshu had given him. The screen displayed an unknown number. He answered it. “Lu Chenzhou.” Qin Wangshu’s voice, very low, with the sound of traffic in the background. “Shen Moqing wants to see you. Now.” He stopped walking. “Reason.” “He said he wants to discuss the ‘rules of the game’.” Qin Wangshu paused. “The address has been sent to your phone. Yun Dian Club, top-floor private room. He’ll only wait half an hour.” The call ended. Lu Chenzhou stood in the dim stairwell, the light from the phone screen reflecting off his expressionless face. A few seconds later, another vibration came. A text message with only an address. He stared at the line of characters, then turned off the screen and walked down the stairs. The wind in the courtyard was colder now, whipping dust against his face. He pulled open the car door, got in, and started the engine. In the rearview mirror, the small building of the Beishan project command center gradually shrank and finally disappeared around a corner. He drove onto the main road, merging into the afternoon traffic. The courthouse spire was long out of sight, but that intangible sense of being surrounded pressed in from the rearview mirror, from the side windows. Yun Dian Club was hidden behind an old western-style villa district in the city center. Its facade was low-key, marked only by a small bronze plaque that shone with a cold, hard metallic luster under the afternoon sun. Two men in black suits stood at the entrance to the underground garage, their postures ramrod straight, their gazes scanning his license plate and face like scanners. After verification, the barrier arm rose. The air carried a faint, expensive scent of woody spice, mingled with the damp chill of the basement, seeping out in wisps from the vents. The elevator was private, its interior walls entirely mirrored. He stepped in and pressed the button for the top floor. The doors closed. His reflection in the mirror was expressionless, his suit slightly wrinkled, his tie loosened by half an inch. He raised a hand and slowly tightened the tie, his knuckles brushing against his shirt collar. As the elevator ascended, there was only a faint hum, the sensation of weightlessness slight, as if being slowly lifted by something invisible. He quickly reviewed the situation in his mind. Shen Moqing had initiated this meeting less than four hours after the not-guilty verdict. The location chosen was the top floor of this club—absolutely private, absolutely under his control. This wasn’t a negotiation; it was a display of power. The other party intended to redefine the rules, using their advantage in resources and information to press him back into the position of a ‘cooperator’—or, press him into becoming a silent bargaining chip. The elevator doors opened. Outside was a He did not rise, nor did he even turn his head, merely gazing out the window. His left hand rested on the armrest, the jade thumb ring on his thumb glowing with a warm yet aloof green under the cool light. Hearing the door open, he slowly turned around, his gaze settling on Lu Chenzhou as if appraising a newly delivered item. “Sit.” Shen Moqing raised a hand, pointing to the sofa opposite him, his voice gentle, as if greeting a long-lost guest. “The tea is fresh. Try it.” Lu Chenzhou closed the door. The thick carpet absorbed all sound of footsteps. He walked to the sofa, did not touch the cup of tea, and sat down directly. Leaning forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees, his gaze calm and steady as he looked directly at Shen Moqing. “Which part of the game rules did Mr. Shen want to discuss?” he began, his speech measured, his phrasing precise. Shen Moqing smiled. The smile was faint, lingering at the corner of his mouth, not reaching his eyes. He leaned back, sinking into the soft leather of the chair back, his fingers lightly tapping the armrest of the sofa. The jade thumb ring brushed against the leather surface, emitting a faint, continuous, friction sound. “The rules are simple,” Shen Moqing said, his tone still gentle, yet like he was reading out terms and conditions. “The court cleared your name—that’s a matter of law. But between you and me, seven years of time, the ‘care’ provided by the Shen Group, and…” He paused, his tapping fingers stilled, his gaze fixed on Lu Chenzhou’s face. “The arrangements you disrupted. These accounts require a new calculation.” He pushed forward a thin folder. Black hard cover, no markings whatsoever. The folder slid across the smooth marble desktop with a soft hiss, stopping in the center of the coffee table, directly facing Lu Chenzhou. “Take a look,” Shen Moqing said, his tone carrying an unyielding generosity. “A consulting contract. A substantial annual salary, with a city apartment and a car included. The prerequisite is that you no longer publicly mention any details related to 1996, Gu Zhixing, or your own case from back then. Living quietly is good for everyone.” Lu Chenzhou did not move. His gaze fell on the folder, the black cover like a small tombstone. Then he lifted his eyes, looking back at Shen Moqing. The scent of woody incense in the air grew somewhat pungent, mixing with the gradually cooling fragrance of tea, creating a strange, throat-tightening atmosphere. “Using money and a house,” Lu Chenzhou tilted his head slightly, his tone betraying no emotion, merely stating, “to buy silence?” Shen Moqing did not answer, merely looked at him, his fingers beginning to lightly tap the armrest again, the rhythm steady, carrying a sense of diminishing patience. “Mr. Shen,” Lu Chenzhou continued, his voice still even, but each word seemed polished. “At the medical system security conference in May 1996, in the group photo, you stood right next to Gu Zhixing on his right. So close your shoulders were almost touching.” He paused, a barely perceptible twitch flickering at the corner of his left eye—an old injury reacting under pressure. “I remember, at that level of conference, seating and standing positions are not arbitrary. Especially,” he emphasized the last three words, “standing next to Gu Zhixing.” The room fell silent for a moment. The white noise of the city outside was completely sealed off, leaving only the sound of the constant-temperature breeze from the central air conditioning vent. The formulaic smile on Shen Moqing’s face faded, like the tide receding to reveal the rocks beneath. He stared at Lu Chenzhou. A few seconds later, he slowly spoke, his voice several degrees lower than before. “It seems Qin Wangshu gave you quite a few good things,” he said, rubbing the thumb ring, a bit faster than before, the warm luster of the jade flowing between his fingers. “What can an old photo prove? Gu Zhixing was an ambitious man. What he wanted to do back then required many people in certain ‘positions.’ I,” he smiled again, this time with a hint of perfectly measured helplessness and detachment, “was just one of those ‘positions.’ The times required some people to stand together, that’s all.” “A ‘position,’” Lu Chenzhou repeated the word, then slowly took out a folded piece of paper from his suit’s inner pocket, his movements deliberate, as if presenting evidence. “Would such a ‘position’ provide vague cover through funding channels when Gu Zhixing planned to eliminate insiders like Dr. Wang?” He unfolded the paper and gently placed it on the cold marble tabletop, pushing it toward Shen Mo Shen Moqing’s gaze fell on the red circle. His pupils contracted for an instant—so brief it was almost imperceptible, like a pinprick. Then he raised his eyes to look at Lu Chenzhou. For the first time, something cold appeared in his gaze—not anger, but the sharp scrutiny of a precision instrument suddenly encountering interference. “Mr. Shen,” Lu Chenzhou leaned forward slightly, his voice lowered, yet unnervingly clear in the silent room, “I am not a judge. I don’t need a complete chain of evidence to convict.” He paused, letting each word sink into that expensive silence. “I only need to know whether the hand that sent me to prison—” He raised his right hand, palm open and facing upward, fingers slightly curved as if holding something invisible. “—carried your warmth.” The formulaic smile on Shen Moqing’s face faded. He stared at Lu Chenzhou. Several seconds passed before he spoke slowly, “It seems Qin Wangshu gave you quite a few interesting things. An old photograph—what can it prove? Gu Zhiyuan was an ambitious man. What he wanted to do back then required many ‘positions.’ I was merely one of those ‘positions.’” “‘A position,’” Lu Chenzhou repeated the phrase, then slowly drew a folded piece of paper from his suit’s inner pocket, his movements deliberate, as if presenting evidence. “Would such a ‘position’ provide a vague financial cover, a channel of funds, when Gu Zhiyuan planned to eliminate insiders like Dr. Wang?” He unfolded the paper and placed it on the coffee table between them. It was a partial enlargement of a black-and-white photograph, its edges worn but the image clear—a group photo from the 1996 Provincial Medical System Annual Symposium. Slightly left of center stood a young Shen Moqing, shoulder-to-shoulder with Gu Zhiyuan. Their bodies were subtly inclined toward each other, their shoulders almost touching. Gu Zhiyuan was turned slightly, speaking to Shen Moqing, who wore an expression of focused listening and tacit understanding. Not far behind them, a blurry figure was circled in red ink. A handwritten note beside it read: Zhou Zhengping (Deputy Section Chief, Municipal First Hospital Equipment Department, at the time). Shen Moqing’s gaze fell on the photograph. His pupils contracted almost imperceptibly. The fingertip tapping the armrest paused for a barely noticeable half-second. “It’s a good photo,” Shen Moqing’s voice remained steady, but his pace slowed by a beat. “Back then, Gu Zhiyuan was the rising star in the provincial department. The line of people wanting to chat with him could stretch from the conference room to the stairwell. I happened to be standing next to him. That’s all.” “Happened to?” Lu Chenzhou leaned forward, his finger tapping the red ink circle. “And what about Zhou Zhengping? Did he also just ‘happen’ to be standing behind you? According to the meeting minutes, the afternoon breakout discussion group included you, Gu Zhiyuan, and Zhou Zhengping. The topic was ‘Optimization of Grassroots Medical Equipment Procurement Procedures.’ After the discussion, the three of you left the venue together and did not attend the collective banquet that evening.” He lifted his eyes. His gaze was like an ice pick. “Between May and July of 1996, Gu Zhiyuan, through three overseas shell companies, ‘donated’ four batches of imported medical equipment with a total value exceeding two million yuan to the Municipal First Hospital. The approval process was unusually smooth. All potential competitors withdrew at the final moment. In August of the same year, Dr. Wang—the head of the audit department at the time and the only one who had raised written objections regarding the equipment procurement prices—died in a ‘car accident’ while on a business trip. The accident report mentioned that the transport company owning the truck involved was registered with capital from an offshore fund in the British Virgin Islands.” Lu Chenzhou paused. Each word fell like a nail. “One of the major investors in that fund had the surname Shen.” The air in the room seemed to have been sucked out. Shen Moqing did not move. The lines of muscle in his face tightened, yet his expression remained controlled in a mask of slightly puzzled seriousness. His silence this time was longer than any before—long enough to hear the faint hiss from the central air conditioning vent and his own unnervingly steady heartbeat. “A fascinating story,” he finally spoke, a thread of weariness seeping into his voice, as if tired of this endless entanglement. “Rich in detail, clear in logic. If written as a novel, it might sell quite well.” He leaned back in his chair, re-establishing distance, but his eyes never left Lu Chenzhou’s. “But the evidence? Aside from this old photograph and a pile of scary-sounding ‘connections,’ "Lu Chenzhou, I understand your anger. Seven years, not seven days. Anyone in your place would want to dig up every person involved and demand answers. But the reality is, that era has passed. Many people are dead, many records are gone, many 'things'... just happened within those vague rules. Now you put this photo in front of me and question what role I played in Dr. Wang's incident?" He shook his head, the jade thumb ring gleaming with a cold, hard light under the lamp. "My role was a 'position' exploited by Gu Zhiyuan. He needed internal access within the medical system to complete his setup, and I, a businessman who had just gained a foothold in the pharmaceutical industry, needed the resources behind him. We each took what we needed. As for what he later did with those channels, I didn't know, and had no obligation to know. Business in those days operated on the principle of 'not asking.'" "What a fine 'not asking.'" Lu Chenzhou's voice was soft, yet it scraped like a blade on glass. "When Gu Zhiyuan plotted to frame me, that key 'confession letter' forged in my handwriting required retrieving the original sample from the internal archives. That late-night call to the archive director, requesting exceptional access under the guise of an 'urgent superior inspection' — did Gu Zhiyuan make that call himself? Or was it, once again, some 'position' providing a little 'favor' under the principle of 'not asking'?" The last trace of warmth vanished from Shen Moqing's face. His eyes turned completely cold, like two bottomless ancient wells; all light thrown into them stirred not a single ripple. He stopped turning the thumb ring, placed his hands folded on his knees, sitting upright as a statue. "You've dug deeper than I imagined," he said, his voice devoid of any emotion. "It seems Qin Wangshu gave you more than just a photo." "She gave me a direction," Lu Chenzhou corrected. "I walked the path myself." "Then, now that you've come before me and revealed this card," Shen Moqing asked slowly, "what do you want? Money? I've already offered it. Justice? The law has already cleared your name. Or is it..." He tilted his head slightly, "...you just want to hear me say it with my own mouth: 'Yes, I made that call back then, to repay Gu Zhiyuan a favor, and to ensure the approval of the Shenyan Group's next project would go smoothly'?" He actually admitted it. With an almost brutally candid frankness, he packaged the core guilt into a casual exchange of favors and interests. Lu Chenzhou felt the cold fire in his chest burn even fiercer. Not anger, but something sharper, clearer — confirmation. He had finally heard the owner of that hand admit its warmth. "What I want has never been an apology," Lu Chenzhou said, each word enunciated clearly. "I want the ledger. Every entry. Whose hand. What price. What was gained. Starting from Dr. Wang, ending with me. All the people and things you erased as 'necessary costs' — I want them all back on the table." Shen Moqing looked at him for a long time, so long that the sky outside the window darkened another shade. "You can't do it," he finally said, his voice carrying a peculiar pity. "Not because you're not smart enough, not persistent enough. But because what you want to lift isn't a slab of stone, but an entire foundation. What's buried underneath isn't just me, Shen Moqing, or the dead Gu Zhiyuan. It's the way an era operated. It's a web where everyone was caught, everyone stained with mud." He paused, his tone intensifying. "Including some... people whose very names would make even the forces behind Qin Wangshu think twice." He leaned forward, lowered his voice, but his words were like needles dipped in poison. "The contract I offered you is your last chance. Sign it, take the money, take the dignity, take good care of your sister, live out the rest of your life. Keep digging..." He shook his head, his gaze falling on the old scar on Lu Chenzhou's face. "...next time, it won't be a folder that comes. And you won't get seven years. You might not even get seven days." The threat was laid bare. Lu Chenzhou met his gaze without flinching. He even gave a slight tug at the corner of his mouth, an expression that wasn't quite a smile. "Seven years ago, did you give me seven days?" he asked, his voice frighteningly calm. "What about Dr. Wang? He didn't even get seven hours." He stood up, picked up the photocopy of the photo from the coffee table, carefully folded it, and returned it to his inner pocket. With that, he turned and walked toward the door. His footsteps fell on the thick carpet, nearly soundless. The moment his hand touched the doorknob, Shen Moqing's voice came from behind, no longer concealing anything, cold and certain: "Lu Chenzhou, you will regret this. Not all truths are worth trading your life for." Lu Chenzhou did not look back. "Worth it or not," he pulled open the door, the corridor light slicing into the dim interior, "I decide." The door closed softly behind him, sealing off that room filled with aged incense and cold threats. The corridor was empty, silent. Lu Chenzhou stood still, took a deep breath. His lungs still held the lingering scent of that woody incense, but now, something else had mixed into it—a rust-like, resolute breath. He touched the folded paper inside his inner pocket. A lead, found. The next step, to ask that hand just how many times it had pushed someone to fall. He slowly stood up. The leather sofa gave a soft, deflating sigh. He straightened, looking down at Shen Moqing, who remained seated. From this angle, he could clearly see the sparse white hair on the other man's head, and a faint, almost invisible old scar at his temple. Lu Chenzhou picked up the partial enlarged photocopy of the 1996 group photo. The photo paper made a crisp *crunch* in his hand. He folded it in half, then in half again, folding it into a neat square. He placed it inside his suit's inner pocket, against his chest. There was another piece of paper there already—a photocopy of the verdict of not guilty. The two papers lay stacked, thin, yet like two branding irons. "A tool? A knife?" He shook his head, his voice light, yet like a hammer striking ice. "Mr. Shen, you're mistaken." Shen Moqing looked up at him, his gaze unchanged. But the fingers rubbing the jade thumb ring stopped. "From today," Lu Chenzhou said, "I am no one's tool, and no one's knife." He turned and walked toward the door. The thick carpet absorbed all footsteps, leaving only the sound of breathing. His own, and behind him, Shen Moqing's slow, drawn-out exhalation. He reached the door, grasped the brass doorknob. Cold, heavy, carved with intricate patterns. He paused, did not look back. "I am a debt collector." His voice echoed in the silent room. "Between us, it's settled." He turned the knob, the door hinge letting out a faint *creak*. "The debt of seven years, I will collect it back, bit by bit, in my own way." The door opened. Corridor light flooded in, cutting through the dim contours of the room. Lu Chenzhou stepped out. "Lu Chenzhou." Shen Moqing's voice came from behind. Not a threat, not mockery, but a statement almost calm. Lu Chenzhou stopped in the doorway, half-turning. Shen Moqing still sat in the sofa, his whole body sunk in shadow. Only the jade on his left thumb gleamed with a faint green in the daylight filtering through the window. "You are more dangerous than Gu Zhiyuan," he said. Then, he smiled. That cold, mirthless smile returned. "Unfortunately," he said softly, "dangerous things usually don't live long." Lu Chenzhou looked at him one last time. Said nothing, closed the door. The heavy solid wood door made a dull *thud* as it shut, like a coffin lid settling. The corridor returned to that expensive, deathly quiet. Thick carpet, sound-absorbing walls, even the air seemed filtered. Lu Chenzhou walked back the way he came, his steps neither hurried nor slow. The elevator was still on this floor. He walked in, pressed the button for the garage. The mirrored interior wall reflected his face—pale, faint dark circles under his eyes, but his gaze was clear. An almost exhausted calm seeped from his very bones. As the elevator descended, only a faint hum could be heard. He watched the floor numbers change one by one: 28, 27, 26... His phone vibrated once in his pocket. He took it out to look. It was a text from Qin Wangshu, just two words: 「How?」 Lu Chenzhou stared at the screen for a few seconds, his thumb hovering over the keyboard. In the end, he did not reply, shoved the phone back into his pocket. The elevator *dinged*, arriving at the garage. The doors slid open. A chilly gust of wind, smelling of oil and rubber, hit his face, utterly different from the incense-filled cage upstairs. His car was still parked in the same spot. That "clean car" Qin Wangsh He raised his hand, looking at his palm. Clean, with no marks from handcuffs, and not trembling from anger or fear either. There were some faint old scars on his knuckles, left behind from prison. He clenched his fist, then slowly relaxed it. A strange, solid sense of calm rose from deep within his heart. Not joy, not relief, but a confirmation that he had “finally reached this point.” All the pretense, all the compromises, all those twisted cooperative relationships—they had ended behind that door just now. From this moment on, every step he took would be his own choice. He leaned over and picked up the not-guilty verdict from the passenger seat. A stiff cover with a gilded court emblem. He opened it, skimmed through the densely packed legal text, and finally stopped at the page with the judgment result: “Defendant Lu Chenzhou, not guilty.” He looked at it for a few seconds, then closed the file. Opening the glove compartment, it was empty inside, save for a few old maps and a flashlight. He placed the verdict inside and gently closed the lid. A soft *click*. That page of the law had been turned. He turned the key, and the engine emitted a steady, low hum. The headlights came on, illuminating the mottled stains on the concrete pillar ahead. He shifted into gear, released the handbrake, and the car slowly pulled out of the parking space. The tires rolled over a speed bump, sending a slight jolt through the chassis. The ramp at the garage exit sloped upward, ending in the blinding afternoon sunlight. The car climbed out of the garage and merged back into the street traffic. The noise instantly flooded in—car horns, engine sounds, the distant roar of construction, and the cries of street vendors. Lu Chenzhou rolled down the window. Hot air rushed in, carrying the city’s distinctive, mixed scents: gasoline, dust, the oil fumes from roadside stalls, and the faint fragrance of gardenias drifting from some shop. Red light. He stepped on the brake, his gaze falling on the rearview mirror. In the mirror, the glass-curtained “Cloud Peak Club” was gradually shrinking, eventually blocked and disappearing behind other buildings. Green light. He signaled left and merged into the left-turn lane. At the next intersection, he needed to turn right, toward the old city district. The address Zhou Zhengping had given him last time was an old teahouse, hidden deep in an alley. It was time to dig up the story of every person in that 1996 group photo. The steering wheel turned steadily in his hands. The traffic moved slowly. Sunlight filtered through the windshield, casting shifting patches of light and shadow on his face. The corner of his left eye suddenly twitched slightly. Very faint, almost imperceptible. Only he knew it was his body releasing the last traces of lingering tension. He reached out and turned up the air conditioning. Cold air whooshed out, carrying away the last bit of stuffiness in the car. Up ahead at the intersection, the green arrow for the right turn began to flash. He lightly pressed the accelerator, and the car smoothly turned onto another street. This street was older, lined with tall plane trees whose branches and leaves intertwined overhead, forming an arching canopy. Shade spilled down, with dappled light dancing on the ground. Lu Chenzhou slowed down, his eyes scanning the house numbers along the roadside. His phone vibrated again. This time, it wasn’t a text message, but an incoming call. The name flashing on the screen was: Fang Mu. Lu Chenzhou glanced at it but didn’t answer immediately. He pulled the car over to the side, parked, and turned off the engine. Once the engine noise faded, only the persistent vibration of the phone remained in the car, buzzing like a bee trapped in a glass jar. He stared at the screen until the vibration stopped. Missed call: 1. Immediately after, a text message popped up, again from Fang Mu: «Old Lu, there’s progress on that 1996 conference attendee list you asked me to check. Twenty-seven attendees, but the official records only have complete files for twenty-six. The missing one wasn’t ‘erased’—it was never entered into the system at all. But I found a name crossed out in a handwritten draft of the meeting minutes from that year. The strokes were heavy, almost tearing the paper. I’m sending you a photo.» A few seconds later, a photo came through. It was blurry, clearly taken with a phone pointed at an old piece of paper. Yellowed paper, handwriting in blue ink. One line was violently crossed out with red pen, the ink bleeding through. But upon closer inspection, the three crossed-out characters could still be made out. Lu Chenzhou stared at those three characters. His breath hitched for a moment. The other end of the line fell silent for two seconds. The opera sounds were turned down. When Zhou Zhengping spoke again, the laziness was gone, replaced by a tense, sharp alertness. "What name?" Lu Chenzhou stared at the blurry photo on his phone screen and pronounced, word by deliberate word, the three characters that had been savagely crossed out in red ink. After he finished, a long silence stretched from the other end of the line. So long that Lu Chenzhou thought the signal had dropped. Then, he heard Zhou Zhengping take a deep breath, a sound carrying something like... fear? No, something more complex than fear. It was the chill that seeped out when a memory sealed away for too long was suddenly pried open a crack. "Where did you see that name?" Zhou Zhengping's voice was very low, almost a whisper. "A draft of a meeting minutes," Lu Chenzhou said. "It was crossed out." Zhou Zhengping fell silent again. This time, Lu Chenzhou could hear the sound of his fingers tapping lightly but rapidly on a desk surface, betraying agitation. "Old Lu," Zhou Zhengping finally spoke, each word seeming squeezed from between his teeth, "listen to me. That name... you'd better stop looking into it." "Why?" "Because," Zhou Zhengping paused. The opera sounds had completely vanished now, the background dead silent, "back then, the one responsible for 'erasing' all records of this person wasn't Shen Moqing, nor was it Gu Zhixing." His voice dropped even lower, low like an underground river flowing in the dark. "It was a direct order from the provincial level. The person who executed it... was Gu Zhixing." Lu Chenzhou's fingers, holding the phone, tightened. "Gu Zhixing?" he repeated. "Yes," Zhou Zhengping said. "And it wasn't in 1996. It was in the spring of 1997, the last 'special task' Gu Zhixing took on before being transferred to the provincial department. Mission codename: 'Dust Sweep'. Security clearance: Top Secret. I was on rotation in the archives at the time. I saw a copy of the transfer order myself. It was just one page, no specific content, only the codename and a signature line. The person who signed it was..." He stopped. "Who?" Lu Chenzhou asked. Zhou Zhengping uttered a name. A name Lu Chenzhou had seen in the news but never imagined could be connected to this matter. A name high enough, high enough to have made all those in the know back then fall silent, to have made all records disappear. The air inside the car suddenly turned cold. Lu Chenzhou looked at the swaying tree shadows outside the window. The sunlight was still bright, but he felt a chill slowly creeping up from the soles of his feet, following his spine, all the way to the back of his head. "Uncle Zhou," he said slowly, "was the person who was erased... the same person as that blurry figure standing to Shen Moqing's left, next to Gu Zhixing, in the 1996 group photo?" From the other end of the phone came the sound of Zhou Zhengping swallowing. "...Yes," he said. "And, I checked later. That person, less than three months after being 'erased' in 1997, 'died of illness'. The death certificate was issued by the provincial hospital. The cause of death was listed as acute myocardial infarction. But the cremation was completed on the same day. No family members were present. The ashes... were not retained." Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. The fragments were finally starting to come together. The 1996 group photo, the 1997 erasure, the top-secret task handled by Gu Zhixing, the signature of a certain provincial-level figure, followed immediately by "death from illness" and rapid cremation... "This person," he asked, "what was his identity?" Zhou Zhengping was silent for a long time. "He was the technical chief advisor for the medical system security conference back then," he finally said. "And also... Gu Zhixing's university classmate, and