The printed sheets lay on the desk, still carrying a faint, burnt warmth. Lu Chenzhou glanced at the time: 4:17 AM. The city outside the window was a monochrome of gray-blue silence. He picked up the forged plan, his fingertips tracing the edge of the paper, feeling its slight, almost cutting sharpness. This wasn't evidence; it was a mask. A mask he had to put on to keep the appointment. He turned off the computer. The moment the screen went dark, the room plunged into complete darkness. Streetlights in the distance, seeping through the unsealed gap in the curtains, cut a stark, pale line of light onto the floor. He didn't turn on the lights, sitting in the dark for several minutes. His breathing was steady, almost soundless. Yet, the corner of his left eye twitched involuntarily, a subtle spasm. Six o'clock sharp, dawn light began to pale the sky. Lu Chenzhou started the car and drove towards the west side of the city. The abandoned printing factory was on the edge of the urban-rural fringe, within a dilapidated industrial zone awaiting demolition. The red brick walls were mottled, gnawed by rain and time; tall chimneys stood isolated. The air held a smell of rust, old ink, and decaying vegetation, clinging thickly deep in the nasal passages. When his car was still two intersections away from the factory zone, he saw the flashing police lights. Alternating blue and red lights spun silently in the gray morning mist. The tires screeched briefly against the ground. He braked, sitting in the driver's seat, watching the distant yellow police tape through the windshield. Inside the tape, several uniformed police officers moved about. Outside it, two patrol cars and a black SUV were parked. The target location. A police cordon. His fingers gripping the steering wheel tightened, the knuckles turning slightly white. Not an accident. This was definitely not an accident. His phone vibrated. The screen lit up, the caller ID showing Qin Wangshu. He stared at the name for two seconds, then answered. "Are you there?" Qin Wangshu's voice came through, efficient, direct, with the faint background crackle of a walkie-talkie. "At the intersection," Lu Chenzhou said, his gaze not leaving the cordon. "What's the situation?" "Homicide. Male victim, around forty years old. Preliminary identification suggests he was a... fringe element in this area." Qin Wangshu's wording hesitated for half a second. "The manner of death is rather unusual. We need a scene consultant. Deputy Chief Zhao has approved. You'll enter as an expert." "You'll understand when you see it." Qin Wangshu paused. "Also, the 'assistant' Mr. Shen Moqing sent to assist you has already arrived. He's waiting for you outside the cordon." Lu Chenzhou's breath hitched for a fraction of a second. The morning wind seeped through the car window crack, carrying the uniquely damp, cold, fishy scent of the riverbank, blowing against his face. He slowly exhaled. "Understood." He hung up the phone, pushed open the car door, and stepped out. Underfoot was pitted concrete, gravel crunching beneath his shoes. He walked towards the police tape, his steps steady, each footfall solid. The smell of rust and dust grew stronger, mixed with a faint, drifting scent of bleach from the distance. Beside the cordon stood a man of medium build, wearing a dark gray jacket, his features utterly unremarkable. He looked to be in his forties, his face so ordinary it would vanish instantly in a crowd. Only his eyes, which lifted as Lu Chenzhou approached, met his gaze calmly. There was no curiosity in that look, no scrutiny, not even much emotion. "Mr. Lu," the man spoke, his voice as bland as his appearance. "My surname is Li, Li Guohua. Mr. Shen Moqing sent me to assist you with your work." As he spoke, he took a document from his pocket but didn't open it, just held it in his hand, indicating it. Lu Chenzhou stopped, two paces away. His gaze lingered on Li Guohua's face for less than a second before quickly dropping—sweeping over the other man's hands. The finger joints were large, the skin rough, with calluses on the webbing between thumb and forefinger and the inside of the index finger. His nails were trimmed very short, the edges clean. The jacket was made of ordinary synthetic fabric, the cuffs slightly worn but very clean. The entire person exuded a carefully cultivated, flawless ordinariness. "Assistant Li," Lu Chenzhou nodded, his tone equally bland. "Thank you." He didn't ask Qin Wangshu stood at the entrance of the factory building, clad in a blue field investigation suit zipped up to her chin, holding a clipboard. When she saw Lu Chenzhou, her gaze first swept over his face before settling on Li Guohua behind him, her eyebrows twitching almost imperceptibly. “Consultant Lu,” she spoke in a strictly professional tone, handing him a folded investigation suit and gloves. “Inside. The body hasn’t been moved, waiting for you to see it first.” Lu Chenzhou took the clothing but didn’t put it on immediately. “Scene protection?” “The first discoverer was an elderly scavenger from the area, who reported it at four in the morning. The local police station arrived first, set up a perimeter, and didn’t let anyone enter. Our team just got here half an hour ago, preliminarily photographed the exterior.” Qin Wangshu spoke rapidly. “Inside… you’ll see for yourself.” After speaking, she turned and pushed open the half-collapsed, rusted sheet-metal door. The door hinge emitted a sharp, piercing groan, stirring echoes in the empty factory building that made one’s eardrums itch. Lu Chenzhou pulled on the investigation suit; the sound of the zipper was exceptionally clear in the silence. He put on the gloves, the latex tightly wrapping his fingers. He walked inside, with Li Guohua silently following one step behind, his footsteps almost overlapping with his. The interior of the factory building was extremely spacious, with a ceiling height exceeding ten meters. The bases where large printing presses once stood remained on the ground, like giant tombstones. Light leaked in from the broken roof and high windows, forming slanted columns of light within which dust danced wildly. And in the center of the factory, on the empty ground faintly illuminated by the light, lay a large white plastic sheet. On the plastic sheet lay a human silhouette, covered by a white body sheet brought by the police. But what drew Lu Chenzhou’s gaze wasn’t the body—it was the ground around it. Centered on the body, within a radius of about two meters, someone had drawn a massive, incomplete symbol on the ground using coarse, granular white lime powder. The lines of the symbol were bold and rough, resembling some deformed, incomplete bird’s wing. The lime powder glowed a ghastly white in the dim light, its edges appearing fuzzy due to uneven application, yet exuding a chilling sense of ritual. At the edge of the powder were traces of careful footsteps, leaving behind half of a blurred shoe print. His pupils contracted sharply. Not out of shock, but a deeper, colder confirmation. The curvature of that symbol, that incomplete way the stroke ended… he had seen it before. Not in files, not in publicly available case photos. It was seven years ago, at the Star Light Nightclub crime scene, in that supplementary record that had been ordered to be “temporarily withheld from filing.” In a corner of a blurry Polaroid photo, beside a hastily sketched pencil drawing, there was a line of small text: “Unidentified carving found on wall, suspected unrelated to this case, already covered over.” The pungent smell of lime powder suddenly invaded his nostrils, mingling with the faint, sweet, fishy odor beginning to emanate from the body. Lu Chenzhou felt a slight cramp in his stomach, but the muscles on his face remained completely still. He walked toward the body, his footsteps landing on the dust-covered concrete floor, making a dull, sandy sound. Li Guohua stopped three steps behind him, took a small notebook and pen from his jacket’s inner pocket, and quietly opened it. Qin Wangshu walked over to the white sheet and glanced at him. He nodded. Qin Wangshu bent down, pinched a corner of the sheet, and slowly lifted it. The fabric made a faint rustling sound as it rubbed. The deceased lay on his back—a middle-aged man, gaunt, with prominent cheekbones and greasy, matted hair. His eyes were tightly closed, his lips slightly parted, revealing yellowish teeth inside. His complexion was an unnatural bluish-gray, with obvious lividity already appearing, pooling into dark purple patches on the sides of his neck and his lower back. Time of death—at least six to eight hours ago. The key point was the deceased’s posture. His hands were deliberately crossed and placed on his chest. Not casually arranged, but crossed in an extremely formal manner—left hand below, right hand on top, fingers slightly curved. And around his neck, there was a clear, deep purple ligature mark. The rope pattern was coarse, with subcutaneous bleeding and minor skin abrasions along the edges. Lu Chenzhou crouched down, leaning closer to examine it. The ligature marks overlapped at the back of the neck, forming a crude knot. He raised his eyes Lu Chenzhou did not reply. His gaze swept over the lime symbol once more, then shifted toward the dark corners deep within the factory building. Outside the beam of light, the shadows were as thick as ink. He could feel the faint sound of Li Guohua’s pen tip scratching across the notebook—rhythmic, steady, devoid of any emotion. This was no ordinary murder. This was a display. A warning. And he himself was standing at the very center of that warning. The sensation of the microSD card’s edge scraping across his palm lines still lingered on Lu Chenzhou’s fingertips. Cold, hard, like a tiny shrapnel fragment buried in flesh and blood. Without changing his expression, he tightened his left hand, completely enclosing the card within his palm. Even through the latex glove, he could feel its minute edges. “Some old stains,” he spoke, his voice so steady it felt unfamiliar even to himself. “They show up under the UV light, could be marks left by workers in the past. Need to collect samples for comparison.” He turned sideways, allowing Qin Wangshu to see the direction of the staircase while his body blocked most of Li Guohua’s line of sight. “What were you looking at just now, Captain Qin?” Qin Wangshu’s gaze lingered on his face for a second before shifting to the toppled typesetting frame. “There are drag marks behind the frame,” she pointed at the ground. “Fresh ones.” Lu Chenzhou crouched down. He lowered the UV light beam, directing it toward the gap between the typesetting frame and the wall. A clear track had been wiped through the dust, about fifty centimeters wide, stretching from the corner of the wall all the way to behind the frame. The edges of the mark were uneven, with intermittent pause points—as if something heavy had been dragged, struggling and moving unevenly due to an unbalanced weight. He followed the mark with the light beam. At the end of the drag mark, where the rusted iron base of the typesetting frame met the ground, a few extremely subtle dark red fluorescent spots appeared under the UV light. Bloodstains. Minute, spatter pattern. “This isn’t Old Cat’s death location,” Lu Chenzhou said. His mind was racing, arranging the pieces like a jigsaw puzzle: the mark on the second-floor wall, the memory card in his hand, the drag marks and bloodstains before his eyes. “Another movement happened here. Or… another person.” Qin Wangshu crouched beside him, taking another UV light from her own pocket. Their beams crossed and focused together. “The drag direction is from the corner to behind the frame. The frame was originally against the wall; someone moved it.” Her voice was very low, carrying the focused intensity unique to crime scene investigation. “Was the frame moved to check behind it? Or to hide something?” Lu Chenzhou didn’t answer. He extended his gloved right hand, lightly pressing the edge of the rusted iron plate. The plate shifted, emitting a faint creak. He increased the pressure, and the entire iron plate—roughly thirty centimeters square—tilted inward, revealing a pitch-black gap beneath. A stronger musty smell mixed with the scent of rust wafted up. Li Guohua’s voice came from behind them, calm as if reporting the weather: “Need tools?” “Flashlight,” Lu Chenzhou said. Li Guohua handed over a high-power flashlight. Lu Chenzhou took it and directed the beam into the gap. Inside was the void between the building’s foundation and the ground, filled with rubble, hardened cement chunks, and years of accumulated trash. But among that debris, the flashlight beam illuminated a corner of dark blue fabric. Canvas. Thick, with worn edges. Lu Chenzhou and Qin Wangshu exchanged a glance. Qin Wangshu stood up and gestured to a forensic officer in the distance. Two officers jogged over, already gloved, carrying evidence bags and a pry bar. “Carefully,” Qin Wangshu said. “Possible biological evidence.” The officers carefully pried open the loose iron plate with the bar, widening the opening. Dust billowed up, swirling in the light. One of them bent down, reached into the gap with long-handled tweezers, clamped onto the corner of the fabric, and slowly pulled it outward. The fabric came out with resistance; clearly something was weighing it down. As more of the fabric was revealed inch by inch, Lu Chenzhou saw more details—dark blue canvas, edges with white binding, a faded reflective strip sewn along the side. It was a tool bag. The kind commonly seen on construction sites. When the tool bag was completely pulled out, it landed with a dull thud. The bag was bulging, its zipper half-open, revealing the outlines of metal tools inside. Qin Wangshu signaled July 19, 2013. The night of the Star Light Nightclub incident. Qin Wangshu looked up at him, a sharp glint flashing in her eyes. "The date?" "Could be an inventory label," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice still steady. "Construction sites often use this method." But he knew it wasn't. No one would mark a bag of tools with the date of an incident. Unless the bag of tools itself was a memento—or evidence—from that night. Qin Wangshu carefully placed the paper packet into an evidence bag, sealed it, and attached a label. She then picked up a second paper packet with her tweezers. This one was slightly larger, with no writing on the surface, but through the plastic bag, a corner of the paper packet showed some seepage of a dark yellow oily stain. The tip of the tweezers gently pried open the seal of the plastic bag, then teased apart the folded edges of the paper packet. Inside was a stack of photographs. Old-style glossy prints, their edges slightly curled and yellowed. The top one was a bird's-eye view of a night street scene—neon signs flickering, the five characters for "Star Light Nightclub" on one sign blurred into a patch of light in the lens. Below the sign, at the nightclub entrance, several figures were walking in. The photo's resolution wasn't high, the distance was far, and the faces were blurred. But Lu Chenzhou recognized the build and silhouette of one person. Himself. Himself from seven years ago, in plain clothes, his profile to the camera, pushing open the nightclub's glass door. Qin Wangshu's fingers tightened slightly outside the evidence bag. She didn't look up, continuing to turn the photos over with the tweezers. The second one: the interior hallway of the nightclub. A surveillance camera angle. A man in a waiter's uniform, his back to the camera, was pushing open a private room door. Light spilled through the crack, illuminating half of the man's face—young, tense, holding a tray. The third one: inside the private room. The angle was strange, as if taken secretly from a ventilation shaft or decorative gap. The frame showed only a hand, wearing a uniquely shaped ring, handing a small paper packet to someone opposite. Only the sleeve of the opposite person was in the shot, a deep gray suit, the cuff fastened with a silver cufflink. The pattern on the cufflink was a stylized letter "S." Lu Chenzhou's temples began to throb. Once, then again, like a hammer striking inside his skull. He forced himself to keep looking. Qin Wangshu turned to the fourth photo. This one was daytime. The exterior wall of a rental building in an urban village, the window shattered, the wall blackened by smoke. A fire truck and police cars were parked on the roadside, caution tape cordoned off the area, and a crowd of onlookers pressed in the distance. In the bottom right corner of the photo, a line of small characters was written in ballpoint pen: **Li Guohua, Case Closed**. Date: July 26, 2013. The day after the explosion. Qin Wangshu's movements halted. She stared at the photo for a full three seconds without speaking. Then, she slowly raised her head and looked at Lu Chenzhou. The earlier scrutiny in her eyes was gone, replaced only by a cold, professional examination. "Consultant Lu," she began, each word hitting the ground like an ice pellet. "Have you seen these photos before?" Lu Chenzhou met her gaze. His left hand clenched at his side, the edges of the micro SD card digging deep into his palm lines. "No," he said. It was the truth. He had never seen these photos. But he knew who the people in the photos were, what the photos pointed to, what the hand behind these photos wanted him—wanted everyone—to see. Qin Wangshu slowly stood up, still holding the evidence bag containing the photos. Her gaze shifted from Lu Chenzhou's face, swept over Li Guohua, over the entire workshop, and finally settled back on the tool bag. "The tool bag, the photos, the marks on the wall, the body downstairs," she said quietly, as if sorting out a logical chain. "Someone is telling us a story. A story that started seven years ago and continues to today." She looked at Lu Chenzhou, something turbulent deep in her eyes. "And Consultant Lu," she said, "it seems you play more than one role in this story." In the distance, the sound of police sirens approached, growing louder. Reinforcements had arrived. Qin Wangshu turned and walked towards the door, the evidence bag swaying slightly in her hand. "Seal the tool bag and all photos, send them back Lu Chenzhou watched Qin Wangshu walk out of the factory building, watched the forensic technicians busily packaging evidence, watched the corpse on the ground being zipped up inside a black body bag. He raised his left hand, pretending to adjust his glove, and slid the micro SD card silently into the inner pocket of his jacket. The moment the card settled at the bottom of the pocket, he felt a cold weight. It wasn't the weight of a memory card. It was a key. Or a lock. And he hadn't yet decided which door he should use it to open. "A few suspicious traces," Lu Chenzhou answered before Li Guohua could speak. He switched off the ultraviolet lamp, plunging the workshop into sudden dimness. Only the pale daylight filtering through the broken windows cast a few stark, white patches on the floor, like puddles of congealed wax. "Need further testing. Your side?" Qin Wangshu took a small sealed evidence bag from a larger one and held it up to the light. Inside lay several fibers—dark red, shimmering under the angled light with the unnaturally slick sheen unique to synthetic materials. "Three meters southeast of the body, ground crack." Her voice was flat, each word measured as if with a ruler. "Not from the victim's clothing. Preliminary assessment: from some kind of workwear or protective suit." Lu Chenzhou took the sealed bag. The fibers were of uniform length, with sharp breaks, lacking any natural, frayed wear. "Scraped off," he said in a low voice. "Agreed." Qin Wangshu's gaze returned to his face, like two cold probes. "Anything else on the second floor?" Lu Chenzhou handed the bag back. The plastic edge brushed against her glove with a faint rustle. "There are cleaning marks on the wall, possibly where the perpetrator stayed. Also..." Li Guohua stood two steps behind and to his side, silent as a shadow pasted to the wall. "Also," Lu Chenzhou continued, but his gaze locked onto Qin Wangshu's reaction, "beside the old printing press at the far west end of the second floor, there are fresh drag marks. Not blood. Very light, as if dragging a lightweight object." Qin Wangshu's brow tightened sharply. "I'll go see." The three of them went upstairs again. Lu Chenzhou led, Qin Wangshu in the middle, Li Guohua still bringing up the rear. The rusted iron stairs groaned underfoot with a stifled sound, each tremor making the presence of the memory card in Lu Chenzhou's left palm feel sharper—pressed against his skin, slightly cool, hard, like a piece of shrapnel embedded in flesh. As they reached the second-floor landing, Lu Chenzhou's peripheral vision caught Li Guohua's right index finger tapping three times, extremely lightly and quickly, on the back of his left hand. Tap. Tap. Tap. Lu Chenzhou's pupils constricted instantly. That rhythm—a simple private signal they had agreed upon seven years ago, meaning "danger, but contact possible." Only three people had known it: Lu Chenzhou, Li Guohua, and their informant Old K, who had died in the prison hospital. Li Guohua's gaze briefly met Lu Chenzhou's peripheral vision. Those eyes held no emotion, no hint, only a deep, unfathomable, stagnant calm. Then he looked away, as if the movement had been merely an unconscious muscle twitch. Lu Chenzhou turned and continued towards the west side of the workshop. The old printing press crouched in the corner, its body covered in a thick layer of dust mixed with grease. Between the machine's base and the concrete floor, the dust had been dragged, leaving a clear mark—about ten centimeters wide, extremely faint, as if someone had hastily wiped it with a damp cloth. Qin Wangshu crouched down. The beam from her powerful flashlight cut through the gloom, landing precisely on the mark. "Not blood," she observed after a few seconds, a trace of tension in her voice. "The color is wrong, and there's no smell of protein reaction. It seems like..." She extended a gloved fingertip, lightly brushed the edge of the mark, and lifted it. The tip was smeared with a small amount of grayish-white powder that reflected the light faintly. "Lime powder," Qin Wangshu said. "The same kind used to draw the symbol beside the body." Lu Chenzhou crouched down as well. His knee pressed against the cold concrete floor, the chill piercing through his trousers, needling his skin. He followed the direction of the drag mark—it extended from under the printing press base, snaked for three meters, and disappeared beside a pile of discarded cardboard boxes. "The perpetrator handled something here," Qin Wangshu stood up, brushing the dust from her The workshop fell silent. From the distant lower floor came the muffled voices of other officers, and the intermittent static of walkie-talkies crackled like the dying buzz of some insect. Daylight slanted in through the high windows, cutting shafts of light through the air, each beam filled with slowly churning dust motes. Li Guohua remained standing two steps away, notebook in hand, occasionally looking down to jot something. His presence was deliberately low-key, so low it was like Shen Yanqing had driven a silent thumbtack into the crime scene. The memory card in Lu Chenzhou’s left palm now felt as hot as a piece of red-hot iron. "That's about it." Qin Wangshu glanced at her watch, its face reflecting a cold glint. "Preliminary on-site investigation complete. Remaining work handed over to the tech team. Advisor Lu…" She looked at Lu Chenzhou, her tone reverting to the steely hardness of official business. "Thank you for your assistance. I'll contact you again if needed later." Lu Chenzhou nodded. "After the body is removed, maintain scene protection for at least forty-eight hours." The three of them went downstairs, passed through the empty workshop on the first floor, and walked toward the factory gate. Outside the cordon, the sky had darkened. The setting sun burned a murky orange-red in the western sky, like congealed blood. Police car lights rotated in the twilight, red and blue beams sweeping across everyone's faces, cutting their expressions into alternating fragments of light and shadow. As they reached Qin Wangshu's police car, Li Guohua suddenly stepped forward. "Mr. Lu." His voice was clear, steady, loud enough for several nearby officers packing up equipment to hear. "Mr. Shen Yanqing instructed that this document be delivered to you for reference in the subsequent investigation." He took a kraft paper file folder from his tool bag and handed it over with both hands. The folder was ordinary, the kind you could find anywhere. But the seal was closed with red wax. The impression on the wax—Lu Chenzhou recognized it at a glance—was the Shen family's private seal. Two intertwined snakes, their eyes inlaid with extremely fine gold dust, occasionally flashing a strange, eerie glint under the sweep of the police car lights. The paper surface was rough against his fingertips. The folder had thickness; clearly, it contained more than just a page or two. "Mr. Shen hopes you can compare it with the existing clues to deepen the investigation direction," Li Guohua continued, his tone respectful like a genuine assistant. "He said you would understand the connection." Lu Chenzhou did not open it on the spot. He merely nodded and tucked the file folder under his arm. The edge of the paper folder pressed against his ribs, delivering a solid, heavy sensation. Qin Wangshu stood on the other side of the police car, instructing a young officer about on-site guard duty. Her peripheral glance swept over them, her expression unmoving, as if this were just the most normal work handover. Lu Chenzhou turned and walked toward his car parked by the roadside. The moment he opened the door and got in, the file folder under his arm and the memory card in his left palm felt like two counterweights of vastly different mass, pressing against both sides of his body. The engine started, headlights slicing through the deepening dusk. In the rearview mirror, the printing factory's silhouette flickered in and out under the flashing police lights, eventually shrinking to a vague black dot. Traffic was sparse; the streetlights hadn't fully lit up yet. Lu Chenzhou drove for about ten minutes, then pulled over onto the service road at the head of the river-crossing bridge. There were no surveillance cameras here, and no vehicles within a hundred meters in front or behind. The river water under the bridge shimmered with a dark, heavy light in the twilight, the faint sound of flowing water like a distant sigh. Darkness enveloped him from all sides. Only a few dim indicator lights on the dashboard glowed with an eerie green light in the dark, like the pupils of a beast. Lu Chenzhou sat in the driver's seat, not immediately touching the memory card, nor opening the file folder. He just watched the flowing car lights on the bridge ahead, those points of light stretching into long, trembling lines before being swallowed by the darkness. The memory card in his left palm was now warmed by his body heat. The black micro SD card lay quietly in the center of his palm, its edges reflecting the faint light of the indicator lights. It was too small, small enough to be easily hidden in any crevice, small enough to be destroyed in an instant. But what it might contain—if Li Guohua wasn't lying, if this wasn't another trap—might be heavy enough to overturn all the ground he had stood on for the past seven years. Lu Chen Shen Yanqing had given him a memory card that could potentially overturn everything. What exactly was that old bastard trying to do? Use him as a knife to stab a deeper hornet's nest? Or was it... that Shen Yanqing himself was also trapped in some scheme and needed to borrow his hand to tear open an opening? Lu Chenzhou stubbed out his cigarette, pressing the butt into the car's ashtray. Then, he took out a palm-sized portable card reader with a physical lock screen from his jacket's inner pocket—given to him by Fang Mu, claimed to be able to block all remote access and program implantation. A tiny indicator light on the side of the card reader lit up with an eerie blue glow. Lu Chenzhou connected it to his phone—similarly modified, its operating system stripped of all possible backdoors and cloud sync functions. A file manager popped up a new drive letter. No name, just a randomly generated string of alphanumeric characters. Inside, there was only one folder, its name a simple date: "20130915." His fingertip hovered over the screen for three seconds, then pressed. Three files: a video, a PDF document, and an encrypted compressed file. The moment the document loaded, his breath stopped. It was a scanned copy, the paper yellowed, the edges curled and damaged. But the handwriting on it was clearly legible—the key evidence transfer record from the "Starlight Nightclub" case seven years ago. Among the thirty-seven pieces of evidence collected by the police from the scene at the time, seven were marked as "biological specimens," including hair from the bathroom drain, skin flakes from the edge of the sink, and trace skin tissue from under the victim's fingernails. The DNA test report on that skin tissue ultimately became one of the "ironclad proofs" used to implicate him. But on this transfer record currently on the screen, in the "recipient signature" column for the "biological specimen - skin tissue" entry, the name signed was not that of the technician responsible for evidence custody back then. It was a name Lu Chenzhou knew to the marrow of his bones—the deputy captain of the city bureau's criminal investigation division at the time, who later rose steadily through the ranks and was now the head of an important department in the provincial public security department. The signature handwriting perfectly matched the deputy captain's signature on all public documents in Lu Chenzhou's memory. And beside the signature, there was a small, almost overlooked handwritten note in red pen: "Sample replaced. Original sealed and stored in auxiliary vault. Number pending." He had heard of that place—nominally storing "redundant evidence with a complete chain but temporarily unnecessary for use," but in reality, it was a transfer station for certain people to handle "troublesome evidence." Things that went in rarely came out. If the skin tissue sample that implicated him back then had really been swapped... Then the real culprit's DNA might still be sealed on some dusty archive shelf to this day, labeled under another case, awaiting a re-examination that would never come. Outside the car window, the night had completely swallowed the river surface. In the distance, the city's lights connected into a blurred sea of light, while Lu Chenzhou sat in the dark interior of the car, the cold glow of the screen illuminating his utterly expressionless face. The corner of his left eye...