Lu Chenzhou leaned against the cold power distribution cabinet, his heart pounding a dull echo between his ribs. Outside the crack in the door, the footsteps had completely vanished, along with the piercing electronic whine. The silence was worse than the search—it meant they had completed their first sweep and were now redeploying, or, had already pinpointed a certain area. The side door was locked. The only retreat was the main passageway he had come through, covered in dust and broken glass. Someone was definitely guarding it now. He needed another way out, or, a bargaining chip to distract them. His hand slipped into his pocket, touching the small, cold metal box. Its surface was rough, carrying a faint residual warmth from the "Grey Pigeon's" body temperature, quickly swallowed by the pervasive chill of the workshop. The box wasn't large, slightly narrower than a cigarette pack, but heavy. He felt for the keyhole with his fingertips—an old pin-tumbler lock, simple in structure, but rusted shut. Pressure came from above. It was the groan of the old wooden floorboards in the second-floor corridor under weight. More than one person, footsteps placed lightly, moving slowly. They hadn't left. Lu Chenzhou held his breath, pressing his body even lower, shrinking into the narrow triangular shadow formed by the power cabinet and the wall. As his eyes adjusted to the dark, he could barely make out his surroundings: scattered coils of cable, the skeletal frames of several rusted textile machines, a pile of discarded parts in the far corner like silent black hills. Light came. Not the quick, jerky movements of a search, but a steady, slow panning, like a searchlight delineating an area. The light beam swept across the dust accumulated on the floor, illuminating the suspended dust motes in the air, forming a distinct, moving wall of light. The light wall stopped outside the power room door. Lu Chenzhou's left hand instinctively moved toward his waist—where a set of slender lock-picking tools made from an old radio antenna was tucked. As his fingertips touched the cold metal, the corner of his left eye twitched slightly. "Checked this one?" a lowered voice asked, rough with a local accent. "Gave it a glance. Full of junk machines and cables inside. Can't hide anyone," another voice answered, younger, speaking faster. "The boss said, we need to see the person alive, or see the corpse. Check it again." "Then... split up? You check that machine pile over there, I'll check behind these cabinets here?" A brief silence. Lu Chenzhou could imagine the two exchanging looks outside the door. Then, the rough voice said, "Together. Don't go alone. The target's no pushover." The door was pushed open. Not a violent shove, but a slow, testing push. The rusty door hinge let out a long, piercing creak—"Eeeee—" amplified into a declaration in the workshop's absolute silence. The flashlight beams cut into the darkness like two crossed knives. Lu Chenzhou didn't shrink back; instead, he moved forward—sliding along the ground like a snake toward the underside of the nearest old textile machine. The machine was tall, its bottom about thirty centimeters off the ground, clogged with flocculent dust and rust flakes. As he squeezed in sideways, the rough edge of the iron plate scraped against the back of his jacket, making a faint sound like tearing fabric. The flashlight beams happened to sweep across the front of the textile machine. The light lingered on the rusted spindles and broken threads for a few seconds before moving on. Dust danced frantically in the beams. The two men walked in. From the gap beneath the textile machine, Lu Chenzhou could see their boots: black work boots, muddy, with a noticeable oil stain on the side of one pair. They walked slowly, the beams carefully sweeping every corner—the cable pile, the corners, the cobwebs on the ceiling. "This damn place," the younger voice complained. "Smells awful." It was the smell of mildew, rust, and the sour stench of decaying old grease. Mixed together, it hung heavy in the air. "Less chatter," said the owner of the rough voice, walking up to the power distribution cabinet. He tapped the cabinet door with his flashlight, producing a hollow thud. "Open it up and look." The boots approached the textile machine. One step. Two steps. Lu Chenzhou could see the small pebbles embedded in the tread pattern of the soles. His right hand slowly tightened, gripping the small metal box. His left hand retrieved the thinnest lockpick, its tip pressing against the keyhole of the box's lock. His breathing had to be at its lightest. His heartbeat was too loud; he almost suspected the other person could hear it. His throat was dry, as if scraped by coarse sandpaper. The boots stopped in front of the textile machine. The flashlight beam was lowered, its edge already touching the dust on the outer rim at the bottom of the machine. "Inside here..." the young voice said hesitantly. Lu Chenzhou twisted his body to the limit. He covered his head with the hem of his coat, blocking out the last possible reflections of light. The rough fibers of the fabric rubbed against his cheek; the salty, astringent smell of sweat flooded his nostrils. The world shrank into darkness, leaving only touch and hearing. The index finger and thumb of his left hand pinched the tail end of the lockpick, its tip probing into the rusted keyhole. The resistance was immense. He applied pressure extremely slowly while rotating his wrist with an almost imperceptible amplitude from side to side. Metal rubbed against metal, producing an extremely faint *shasha* sound, like insects crawling over dry leaves. The boots didn't move. "Look at what?" the rough voice asked. "Seems... pretty deep underneath," the young voice said. "Want to shine a light?" "You crawl in there?" "I... forget it. It's filthy." The lockpick encountered the first pin. Lu Chenzhou's wrist sank slightly, using the pick's tip to press against the bottom of the pin and giving it a gentle upward flick. *Click.* A sound so light it was almost non-existent. But in his hearing, it was as clear as a needle dropping on glass. "What was that sound?" the rough voice asked immediately. Lu Chenzhou froze. The small metal box gripped in his right hand was icy cold. "Didn't hear anything," the young voice said. "Probably a rat." Lu Chenzhou stopped moving. His breathing became heavy inside the coat covering his head, each inhale carrying the metallic, dusty smell. He had to be faster. But the broken pick was stuck in the keyhole; forcing it would only make things worse. Right at this moment stretched to its extreme tension, a sudden, utterly unexpected warmth crashed into his mind. First was the sensation—what his fingertips touched was no longer cold, rusted metal. It was something warm, soft, carrying the aroma of food. The rough texture of oiled paper. The scalding temperature of steamed buns fresh out of the steamer, almost burning his fingertips, which were currently pressed against the cold ground. Three o'clock in the morning on a winter night. The stark white light at the entrance of the convenience store across from the stakeout point. Breath turning to frost. A hand, red from the cold, shoved an oiled paper bundle into his grasp. "Captain, they're hot." The voice was young, carrying the rawness of someone just out of the police academy, and an unconcealed concern. Qin Wangshu. That was Qin Wangshu from many years ago, his eyes not yet holding the complicated shadows they would later, only the tired yet bright focus after a night of stakeout. Then came the smell. The wheat fragrance of the buns, the oily scent of the meat filling, mixed with the biting chill of the winter night, dispersing the metallic, dusty smell currently in his nostrils. He could even recall the slight sting on his tongue from the scalding soup that splashed out with the first bite, and the brief but solid warmth that rose from his stomach. Images followed in quick succession: Under the convenience store lights, Qin Wangshu's ears red from the cold, the white puffs of breath. And his own, almost inaudible "thank you" when he took the buns. The trust in that moment was simple and straightforward, without calculation, without testing, just the most basic mutual care between two people on a mission in the cold night. Warmth. Brief, almost luxurious warmth. It collided with reality, creating a sharp crack. He was now curled under a rusted textile machine, his arm injured, hunted by at least two forces, holding a rusty key engraved with "047" and a needle broken in a lock. And the person who had handed him the buns was now sitting in the Municipal Bureau office, perhaps watching surveillance, perhaps answering an encrypted call, calmly assessing his value and risk. Trust was already riddled with holes. That bit of warmth, in the current icy desperation, felt more like a cruel irony. The memory did not weaken him. On the contrary, the but the rhythms differed slightly. One beam swept urgently, swinging left and right, as if following a set route for a rapid sweep; the other moved much more slowly, its beam steady, its path marked by a cautious, pausing quality, occasionally shining briefly toward the general direction of the first beam. They were wary of each other. This discovery pierced his predicament like a sliver of light. The two forces encircling him—or at least the two groups of operatives—were not a monolithic block. They might share a common objective, but there was suspicion, even mutual wariness, between them. The rough outline of a plan to escape in the gap between them rapidly formed in his mind. He needed to create a distant sound to draw their attention, preferably a commotion that would provoke a confrontation between them, or at least a momentary distraction. Then, using those few seconds—perhaps only seconds—climb out through the damaged ventilation duct in the workshop ceiling. The rusty key was still in his hand, its metallic scent strong. The broken needle was still jammed in the keyhole. But now, these were no longer obstacles; they were clues he had to take with him. Lu Chenzhou stuffed the small metal box and the key into an inner pocket. His fingers brushed against another hard object in the pocket—the piece of evidence he had taken from Wei Ming’s scene, whose connection he hadn’t yet unraveled. All the fragments had to be pieced together. He slowly exhaled a long breath, his body coiling like a spring, and began to assess the nearest location where he could create a sufficiently loud sound without immediately exposing himself. His gaze swept over the pile of discarded textile parts in the corner of the workshop. That was it. Almost simultaneously with the crackle of the radio transmission, a rough response from the Shen family thug came from the other end of the workshop, yelled into a walkie-talkie: "Stop yelling! My guys are inside! You just make sure he doesn’t get out!" Two forces, wary of each other, poor communication. But their objective was the same—to find him. The radio static provided temporary cover. Seizing this noise window, Lu Chenzhou thrust the hooked lock-pick needle into the keyhole, hooked the broken needle, and with a forceful twist of his wrist, wrenched it sideways! The groan of twisting metal was drowned out by the persistent static noise. The lock bolt sprang open. Lu Chenzhou immediately stopped moving and held his breath again to listen. The radio transmission had ended, and the Shen thug’s cursing had stopped. The workshop was left with only a tense, dead silence, like the calm before a storm. Both groups now knew of each other’s presence and were speeding up their search. A strong, metallic smell of rust washed over him. The box was lined with red velvet that had become brittle. Lying on the velvet were two items. With trembling fingers—he didn’t even realize they were trembling—Lu Chenzhou picked up the photograph. It felt cold and smooth, its edges slightly curled. He clamped the small flashlight between his teeth, letting its faint light fall on the photo. It was a group photo of three people, standing in front of a dock. The photo was old, its colors faded and distorted, the faces somewhat blurry, but clear enough to recognize. On the left was Shen Moqing in his younger years. Probably in his thirties, wearing a crisp, light-colored shirt, his hair meticulously combed. His face wore a formal, slightly restrained smile, his eyes looking at the camera but lacking warmth. In the middle was an unfamiliar middle-aged man. Around fifty, with a square face, tightly furrowed brows, and a gloomy, piercing stare fixed on the camera. The corners of his mouth were pressed down, exuding an air of impatient hostility. He wore a dark jacket and stood somewhat stiffly. On the right... was a figure from behind. The person was turned sideways to the camera, seemingly about to leave, only the broad back and a faintly blurred profile captured. His height and build were similar to the man in the middle, but the posture of his shoulders, especially the slight habitual tilt of his head to the left... On the back, written neatly in blue pen with forceful strokes, were two lines: 「2005.08.17 Linjiang Dock Warehouse No. 7」 This date slammed into his mind like a red-hot nail. Ten years ago, one week before he "confessed." The date on the forged "confession" that changed his life was August 24, 2005. Exactly seven days earlier, Shen Moqing, this man with the gloomy eyes, and the third person who had left only a back view, had taken this photo together at Linjiang Dock Warehouse No. 7. That figure’s left shoulder seemed slightly lower than the right, an extremely subtle postural trait from long-term single At that moment, an extremely clear sound of leather boots treading on iron stairs came from a very close distance! *Thump, thump, thump* — steady in rhythm, descending from the second floor, heading purposefully toward the workshop’s ground level, toward his direction! Not just one person. At least two, maybe three. Lu Chenzhou instantly snapped out of that shock-induced daze. He grabbed the rusty key, his fingertips touching the rough, corroded surface and the engraved number "047." The cold touch and the pungent metallic smell made him shiver. He stuffed both the key and the photo into the inner pocket close to his body. With his foot, he swept the small metal box deeper into the shadows beneath the textile machine. Flashlight off. Jacket pulled down. He pressed himself against the cold iron plate at the bottom of the textile machine like a sheet of paper. The footsteps stopped less than five meters in front of the textile machine. "Has this area been checked?" A calm, accentless male voice. It was the radio team. "Checked. Can't hide anyone under there," a rough voice answered. It was the thug leader from the Shen family. The two groups had run into each other. "You sure?" The calm voice held skepticism. "Insufficient light, visual blind spots. I need your men to cooperate and thoroughly check beneath these machines again. Now." "Who the hell are you? Ordering me around?" "Ensuring the mission is complete. Or, would you prefer the target slips right under your nose, and then you explain that to Mr. Shen?" Silence. Heavy breathing. The Shen family thug was clearly choked up. "Fine... Zhuzi, Gouzi, you two, get down and look!" The rough voice ordered angrily. Lu Chenzhou's fingertips dug into the dust on the ground. It's over. Ten seconds at most, and they'd find him. Despair, like an icy tide, instantly drowned the faint, burning hope from moments ago. The surrounding walls seemed to be silently closing in, squeezing out the last bit of air. His throat tightened, as if gripped by an invisible hand. Just as this suffocating pressure reached its peak, without any warning, a fragment of memory slammed into his mind — Not a coherent image, just sensory flashbacks: A winter night, three in the morning, in the old car at the stakeout point. The car windows were thick with frost, breath turning to ice. He stared at the pitch-black entrance of the building opposite, his eyes dry and aching. Then, a still-steaming plastic bag was shoved into his hand. Transmitted through the plastic bag to his palm was a solid, grounding warmth. He turned his head and saw Qin Wangshu's face, red from the cold, her nose tip also red, a bit of white frost clinging to her eyelashes. She exhaled a puff of white breath, her voice trembling slightly from the cold but trying to sound light: Inside the plastic bag were two vegetable-stuffed buns, ordinary street breakfast, but on that bone-chilling winter night, that warmth spread from his palm all the way through, briefly dispelling the cold deep in his marrow. The memory lasted only an instant. The icy reality immediately rushed back — the biting cold of the iron plate beneath him, the pervasive stench of rust in the air, the threat of death now terrifyingly close.