The lock clicked shut with a soft sound. Lu Chenzhou leaned back against the cold metal door, his eyes adjusting to the near-total darkness within the room. The curtains had been drawn the moment he entered, the thick velvet blocking the last faint halo of streetlight. He remained motionless, his earlobes twitching slightly, straining to catch any lingering footsteps, breaths, or the faint metallic hiss of elevator cables from the stairwell outside. Only the distant, never-tiring low hum of the city seeped in through the cracks in the walls and windows. No tail. At least, not one within three paces. It had taken three city blocks, two subway transfers, and a detour through a mall's fire escape to shake the silver sedan outside the teahouse. But shaking it off did not mean safety. Shen Yanging didn't need to have someone stick to his heels. In this city, there were too many eyes for rent, too many ears for sale. A faint twitch began at the corner of his left eye. The room was permeated with a faint musty smell, mixed with the lingering chemical floral scent of cheap air freshener. This was the temporary bolt-hole he had rented three days ago, located on the top floor of an old residential building. The walls offered poor sound insulation, but the view was open, and the staircase was the only way up. Now, that single staircase had become a potential trap entrance, and the open view had turned into a window for being watched. He walked to the window. He didn't pull the curtains aside, merely using his fingers to part the velvet fabric a crack less than half a centimeter wide. At the street corner, that dark gray van was still there. Its windows were tinted, but under the flickering neon sign of the convenience store diagonally opposite, the lens of a telephoto camera occasionally reflected a pinpoint of cold, red light. Like the compound eye of an insect lying in wait in the dark. It wasn't Gu Zhixing's people—Gu Zhixing preferred more low-key sedans and wouldn't park in such a conspicuous spot. Nor was it the police; Zhao Tieshan's men would be more professional, wouldn't leave such a telltale glint. Then, it was a third party. Or, another hand of Shen Yanging. Lu Chenzhou released his fingers. The velvet fell back into place, completely extinguishing that faint red light. He turned and walked towards the rickety old desk in the center of the room. The desktop was clean, holding only a laptop in sleep mode and a deep blue USB drive with no markings whatsoever. The USB drive Gu Zhixing had given him. He sat down without turning on the main light. Pressing the power button, the moment the screen lit up, an eerie blue glow washed over his face, outlining his taut jawline and expressionless lips. The fan began a low whir, sounding exceptionally clear in the silent room. He inserted the USB drive. The system recognized it, prompting for an encrypted partition. A password was required. Gu Zhixing hadn't given a password. Back in the legal department, under Manager Li's watchful eye, Gu Zhixing had merely smiled and pushed the drive forward, saying, "The preliminary materials are all in there, Mr. Lu. You can take a look first. If you have any questions, we can communicate anytime." That smile had been gentle and appropriate, yet his eyes held a calm, almost clinical curiosity, like observing a lab rat. Lu Chenzhou's fingers slid across the touchpad, calling up the script program he had prepared in advance. He created a virtual sandbox environment and mirrored the USB drive's data into it. This wasn't routine forensic data analysis; it was more akin to a hacker's penetration test—he needed to pry open the lock on this box without triggering any potential self-destruct mechanisms or alarm systems. The script began to run. On the screen, green lines of code cascaded down like a waterfall. Line by line, instructions parsed the file header structure, probing for weaknesses in the encryption algorithm. He wasn't using the generic backdoor password Shen Yanhuan had provided—that was too obvious, possibly another trap. Based on Gu Zhixing's habitual thought patterns and several common encryption practices within the Shen Group, he had constructed a dynamic password dictionary. The first layer of encryption was stripped away in three minutes and seventeen seconds. No alarm. He let out a breath, which condensed into a brief wisp of white mist in the cold air. His fingers unconsciously began disassembling the only ballpoint pen on the table—the spring, the ink cartridge, the plastic casing… The parts were arranged and rearranged between his fingers, as if performing some silent calculation. The raw database of the suspect list unfolded before his eyes. Seventeen names, corresponding to seventeen detailed background investigations, communication records, financial transactions He wrote a second script, batch extracting the associated person fields, timestamps of data entry, and access log permissions from each suspect's file. He was looking for contradictions—those overly perfect logical closed loops, those coincidental and unnatural connections on the timeline, and those access traces at higher or lower levels that shouldn't have appeared in files of this clearance level. The hum of the fan grew louder, and the chassis emitted a continuous heat that warmed his wrists resting on the keyboard's edge. The flow of green code slowed, entering a deep-structure scan. One name was highlighted by the script: Zhou Mingyuan. Technical consultant, forty-five years old, responsible for IT system maintenance of a marginal subsidiary of the Shen Group. His background was as clean as a brand-new photocopy—local household registration, ordinary university computer science graduate, continuous work history, no bad habits, narrow social circle. In the context of the leak case, this kind of person was usually synonymous with "safety," and also the perfect smoke screen. But Lu Chenzhou noticed an encrypted remark field in Zhou Mingyuan's file. The encryption method of this field was different from the main partition of the USB drive—simpler, even somewhat... outdated. Like a relic from a system many years ago, inadvertently packaged in. He stopped the script and manually pulled up the hexadecimal encoding of this field. His gaze swept over those familiar character arrangement patterns. A thought, cold and clear, rose from the depths of his memory. Shen Yanhuan's voice trembled slightly amidst the swirling steam in the teahouse: "...Uncle Sun, before he retired, he was Father's secretary, following Father for many years. He had a skill, known to very few—he could imitate handwriting almost perfectly. For some of Father's less important but still personally signed occasions, he would sometimes let him..." Sun Henian. The late Secretary Sun. Lu Chenzhou's fingers paused for half a second. Then, in the password input box, he typed the last six digits of the internal system's default initial password that Shen Yanhuan had inadvertently mentioned Sun Henian used before retirement. A long-obsolete password that theoretically should have been invalid. Enter. The encrypted field unfolded. Only one line of words lay coldly in the center of the screen: 「Emergency Contact: Li Mo, 138xxxx, Moyunzhai Mounting Studio. Relationship: Apprentice of Sun Henian.」 The air in the room seemed to be sucked dry in an instant. Lu Chenzhou stared at that line, stared at that name—Li Mo. Moyunzhai. Mounting. Apprentice of Sun Henian. All the fragments were violently pulled taut and snapped shut by an invisible, yet immensely heavy chain of logic. Zhou Mingyuan—the technical consultant on Gu Zhixing's list, a safe smoke screen. Li Mo—Zhou Mingyuan's emergency contact, a mounting artisan. Sun Henian—Li Mo's teacher, the late former secretary, a handwriting imitator. And that handwriting, the handwriting that appeared on the forged "confession letter" ten years ago, nailing him to the wrongful imprisonment; the handwriting that miraculously appeared just days ago on the so-called "leak case" background investigation form handled by Zhou Mingyuan... It was too smooth. Smooth like a straight road meticulously laid out, bait sprinkled, waiting only for the prey to step onto it. His breathing became abnormally slow, deep, each inhalation carrying the gritty particles of dust and mold from the old building, scraping against his windpipe. His heart beat heavily in his chest, the rhythm no longer like the drumbeat of a countdown, but like the dull thud of a bucket hitting the wall of a deep well. Shen Moqing. Was it you? You had Gu Zhixing use Zhou Mingyuan, had Zhou Mingyuan contact Li Mo. You might even have... guided Gu Zhixing, made him "actively" include Li Mo in the investigation's scope. Then, you waited. Waited for me, the person you sent to prison ten years ago with the same handwriting, to "accidentally" discover this fatal connection during the "investigation." You weren't having me find the leaker. You were having me, help you eliminate this possibly disobedient or already exposed pawn around Gu Zhixing—Li Mo. At the same time, test whether this knife of yours was sharp, whether it still recognized the hand holding it. One stone, three birds. Eliminate the inside man. Strike Gu Zhixing. Verify me. And the so-called "breakthrough in the old case" I discovered was merely bait you fed to verify my qualifications. A cold shiver, like a damp snake, slowly crawled up from his tailbone, coiling around his entire spine. It wasn't fear; it was something sharper—the icy humiliation of having one's intellect completely crushed, every step within the opponent's preset chessboard. And a trace The needle-point of red light at the street corner, even through the heavy curtains, seemed to still burn through his back. He slowly leaned back into the creaking chairback. The disassembled ballpoint pen parts were clenched in his palm, their hard edges digging into his flesh. The bait had been swallowed. Now, he was the knife. A knife that knew whose hand held it, and where it would be swung. Could a knife choose to cut the hand that wielded it? The association map on the screen left a searing afterimage on his retinas. Lu Chenzhou stared at the line of text—"Apprentice of Sun Henian (deceased)." Only the low hum of the computer fan remained in the room, like some insect nesting within the walls. A twitch began at the corner of his left eye, a subtle muscle tremor spreading along his cheekbone. His fingers unconsciously disassembled the pen cap. The plastic latch made a soft *click*. Zhou Mingyuan… technical consultant… emergency contact Li Mo… Li Mo is Sun Henian's disciple… Sun Henian is the deceased Secretary Sun… handwriting appears on the background investigation forms handled by Zhou Mingyuan. The chain of logic closed with airtight precision. An airtight precision that was sickening. Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. In the darkness, those names floated, like organs in specimen jars. He smelled the dust in the air, mixed with the uniquely sour, musty odor of old book paper. Occasionally, vehicles passed on the street outside, the sound of tires on asphalt filtered by the curtains into a vague whimper. That car on the corner was still there. The reflection from the telephoto lens flickered in the gap of the curtains every few minutes, as regular as a heartbeat. He opened his eyes, his gaze falling on the signal detector on the corner of the desk. A palm-sized black plastic box, its indicator lights silent. Lu Chenzhou reached out and pressed the switch. A green light lit up. Then, at the third second, the red indicator light on the far right began to blink. Faint. But persistent. There was a signal source in the room. Not from any device he had brought. Lu Chenzhou's breathing slowed. He stared at that red light, watching it blink every five seconds, like some creature breathing in the dark. His fingers paused on the half-disassembled pen cap, the edges of his nails turning white from the pressure. Surveillance. Eavesdropping. Or both. He slowly stood up, his knee joints emitting a soft *crack*. The light from the computer screen reflected on his face, cutting his features into halves of light and shadow. He walked to the window, didn't draw back the curtains, just pressed his ear against the cold glass. In the distance came the sound of a night bus engine. And also… the *hiss* of walkie-talkie static. Very faint. But present. Lu Chenzhou took two steps back, his gaze sweeping the room. A twenty-square-meter space: one bed, one desk, one simple wardrobe. The bathroom was in the corner, its door slightly ajar. He walked to the wardrobe, pulled open the bottom drawer. In the hidden compartment lay a prepaid phone. And a simple set of anti-eavesdropping tools—wet wipes, a shielding bag, a lighter. He picked up the phone. Battery at thirty-seven percent. Enough. Lu Chenzhou walked toward the bathroom, footsteps very light. The floor was old composite board, giving slightly underfoot. He pushed open the bathroom door, turned on the faucet. Cold water gushed out, the sound of it hitting the ceramic sink instantly filling the small space, like a rainstorm. He closed the door. Darkness. Only a sliver of blue light from the computer screen seeped under the door crack. Lu Chenzhou crouched down, his back against the cold tiled wall. The phone screen lit up in the darkness, the harsh white light making him squint. He input the number. Encrypted line. The dial tone sounded, the short *beep* almost inaudible under the cover of the rushing water. Lu Chenzhou pressed the phone to his ear, his other hand against his chest. His heart beat heavily behind his ribs. One. Two. On the third *beep*, halfway through, it connected. In the background noise, there were muffled voices, the rustle of paper being turned. Qin Wangshu's voice came through, low but clear: "Speak." Lu Chenzhou's lips were almost touching the mouthpiece. "It's me." The words were extremely fast, each one like a bullet. "Check someone. Li Mo, framing, possibly related to Sun Henian. Just recent status." He paused for half a second, adding, "Safety first, abort if necessary." Silence on the other end for two seconds. Only the roar of water Silence descended abruptly, like a wet cloth smothering mouth and nose. Lu Chenzhou stood in the darkness for a moment, letting his eyes readjust. Then he pushed open the bathroom door and returned to the room. The computer was still on. The connection diagram was still on the screen. Lu Chenzhou walked to the window. This time, he pulled back a corner of the curtain—only ten centimeters. The black sedan at the street corner sat silently, its windows tinted dark. He raised his hand, aiming his phone screen toward the outside. Light on. Light off. Light on again. The screen light flashed three times in the gap of the curtain, like some kind of Morse code. Then he quickly closed the curtain and retreated to the center of the room. Waiting. Ten seconds. Twenty seconds. The window of the vehicle at the corner rolled halfway down. A blurred figure leaned out, peering in this direction. No one got out, no one approached, just observation. Thirty seconds later, the window rolled back up. Lu Chenzhou relaxed his clenched fist. His palm bore four crescent-shaped nail marks. Surveillance, for now, was primarily observation and reporting. He walked back to the desk and began to pack up. The computer was shut down, the hard drive removed and placed into a shielded bag. All papers on the desk—including the draft with the connection diagram—were neatly folded. He entered the bathroom, closed the door, and flicked on a lighter. A flame leapt up. Orange-yellow light danced on the tiles, stretching his shadow into a twisted giant. The edges of the paper curled, turned black, and crumbled into ash. The smell of burning filled the air, mixing with the moisture to form a thick, fishy stench. Lu Chenzhou watched the last spark die out. He flushed the ashes down the toilet, the swirling water swallowing them. Then he returned to the room, wiping down the desk surface, chair back, doorknob—anywhere fingerprints might have been left—with a disinfectant wipe. The scent of evaporating alcohol was sharp, like antiseptic. Packing done. One backpack, containing the hard drive, phone, and a few changes of clothes. The room was restored to its original state, clean as if no one had ever stayed there. Lu Chenzhou stood at the doorway, taking one last look at this temporary nest. The screen was already dark. The curtains were tightly closed. Only streetlight seeped through the cracks, cutting a pale line on the floor. He pulled open the door. The motion-sensor light in the hallway flickered on, casting a dim yellow glow on the concrete steps. Lu Chenzhou descended the stairs, footsteps light, but each step planted firmly in the center of the step to avoid hollow echoes. In the first-floor lobby, old mailboxes emitted a rusty smell. He pushed open the unit door. The air of 4 AM rushed in—damp, cool, carrying the faint sour-rotten smell of a garbage transfer station from deep within the city. A thin mist hung suspended over the street like gauze, blurring the streetlights into fuzzy, spherical halos. Lu Chenzhou walked into the mist. He did not look back. His figure gradually blurred in the fog, like a drop of ink dissolving in water. The window of the car at the street corner rolled down again. A telephoto lens aimed in the direction of his disappearance, its glass reflecting the cold light of the streetlamp. But it did not follow. Just recorded. Lu Chenzhou turned the corner and entered a back alley. Trash cans piled against the wall emitted a rancid stench. A stray cat darted from the shadows, its eyes glowing green in the dark. He quickened his pace, passed through the alley, and emerged onto another street. It was quieter here. Only a 24-hour convenience store was still lit, water droplets beading on its glass door. Lu Chenzhou stopped before a public phone booth outside the convenience store. He inserted coins, dialed. A busy signal came from the receiver. Hung up. Inserted more coins, dialed another number. This time it connected—to a voicemail. He spoke into the receiver: "Archives. Check the minutes of Sun Henian's participation in municipal projects from 1987 to 1992. The file number is in the system. Use my clearance to pull it." Hung up. Then he entered the convenience store, bought a bottle of water and a pack of compressed biscuits. The cashier was a middle-aged woman yawning, her eyelids drooping, her fingers greasy from potato chips as she gave change. Lu Chenzhou took the coins and walked out. His phone vibrated. Once. Brief, like a nerve twitch. Lu Chenzhou took out his phone. The screen lit up, a single encrypted message popping up. The sender displayed a string of garbled characters. He clicked Lu Chenzhou unscrewed the bottle cap and took a sip of water. The cold liquid slid down his throat, bringing a brief moment of clarity. He put his phone back into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the cold metal shell of the hard drive. The connection chart reappeared in his mind. Zhou Mingyuan — Li Mo — Sun Henian. Gu Zhixing — Shen Moqing. The handwriting clue — the old case — the leak case. A perfect closed loop. And he, Lu Chenzhou, had been designed to be the most crucial gear in this loop — to discover the clue, expose Li Mo, and complete Shen Moqing's one-stone-three-birds plan: eliminating the insider, striking at Gu Zhixing, and testing loyalty. From investigator. To manipulated executioner. The fog grew thicker. The glow from the streetlamps diffused in the milky-white air, like the final bubbles exhaled by a drowning man. Lu Chenzhou stood by the roadside, looking at the empty street. The distant horizon began to show the pale light of dawn, but the night remained thick and viscous, like ink that refused to dissolve. He had to make a choice. Now. Should he watch and wait, observing Li Mo being cleaned up by Gu Zhixing? Or should he actively intervene, disrupting this "purge" directed by Shen Moqing and executed by Gu Zhixing? Or perhaps... Find a third path. A variable that seemed accidental yet could disrupt everyone's rhythm. Lu Chenzhou shouldered his bag and walked toward the Municipal Archives. His steps were steady, each one landing on the damp cement pavement, emitting a faint rustling sound. The fog coiled around his trouser legs, like countless cold hands trying to slow his pace. But he did not stop. Dawn was approaching. And some games must be completed in the darkness. Lu Chenzhou stood in the center of the room. The windows were shut tight, the curtains drawn securely. In the surveillance van at the street corner, the camera lenses had long been retracted. But he knew that some more covert form of monitoring was still ongoing — perhaps vibration sensors in the air conditioning vents, perhaps pressure-sensitive film hidden between the floor layers. Shen Moqing would not rely solely on eyes to keep watch. Qin Wangshu's encrypted message still glowed on his phone screen. "Li Mo, forty-three years old, runs the 'Moyun Studio' framing shop. Three days ago, summoned by the local police station for 'suspected illegal acquisition of commercial information,' currently released on bail pending further investigation. The summoning party is the 'Changfeng Group Legal Department.' Gu Zhixing." Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. In the darkness, images surfaced: the cigar smoke in Shen Moqing's study, the slight upward curve of Gu Zhixing's lips when he smiled, the line of blue handwriting on the file. And Li Mo — this name was like a cold needle, piercing into a crack in his understanding. Gu Zhixing had already made his move. Summons, bail pending investigation. This was the standard purge procedure: first, use legal means to control the person, isolate them from outside contact, then slowly extract value or engineer an accident. Li Mo was now like a bird in a cage, its wings already bound, waiting for its owner to decide whether to keep it or kill it. And Shen Moqing... was waiting for him, this "blade," to fall. Lu Chenzhou clenched his fist, his nails digging into his palm. He felt that stinging pain, as if trying to press back something deeper. He opened his eyes again and walked to the computer. The connection chart on the screen was still open: Zhou Mingyuan → Li Mo → Sun Henian (deceased). Three lines, three names, linked into a chain leading back ten years. He stared at the chart, his mind beginning to reconstruct the timeline. Shen Moqing knew the truth about the old case handwriting — because he had personally designed it. Shen Moqing had planted Li Mo as a pawn beside Gu Zhixing — as a lookout, or as some kind of backup tool. Shen Moqing had induced Gu Zhixing to initiate the "leak investigation" — perhaps through hints, perhaps through pressure, perhaps by dangling some bait. Gu Zhixing, following his own logic, screened suspects — placing Zhou Mingyuan on the list, and Zhou Mingyuan's emergency contact happened to be Li Mo. The handwriting appeared on the background investigation form handled by Zhou Mingyuan. He, Lu Chenzhou, had coincidentally discovered this handwriting — because he was looking for a breakthrough in the old case, and Shen Moqing knew he was looking. "Too smooth," Lu Chenzhou said softly. His voice was like a shard of ice in the silent room. "Smooth like a pre-laid track. I stand on the track, thinking I'm running forward, but I'm really just following the departure schedule." First, put on gloves—the extremely thin latex kind, making the palm lines almost invisible after wearing them. Then take out the prepaid phone from the drawer, remove the battery, and extract the SIM card. He uses a lighter to soften one corner of the SIM card, bends it, and flushes it down the toilet. What about the phone itself? He walks to the bathroom and turns on the faucet. The sound of running water gushes out. He places the phone on the edge of the sink, takes a small claw hammer from his toolkit. The hammer falls. The plastic casing shatters, exposing the circuit board. He smashes it a few more times until the chips on the motherboard are completely deformed. The fragments are swept into a plastic bag, mixed with the ashes of the burned paper. The paper... He pulls out several pages of handwritten analysis notes from the backpack's inner compartment. They are written in pencil, the handwriting light. He tears them up one by one, throws them into the sink, and ignites them with a lighter. Orange-yellow flames leap up. The burning paper releases a scorched smell, mixed with the lingering cheap soap odor in the bathroom. The ashes are black, the edges curled, like dead butterflies. He turns on the faucet, the water washing away the last traces. What about the smoke? The bathroom has an exhaust fan. He turns it on; the old motor emits a low "hum." The smoke is sucked away, merging into the sky outside the window that is gradually brightening. Then he begins to wipe. Special alcohol-based wipes. He wipes the doorknob, table edges, keyboard, mouse, chair armrests. Any surface that might have left fingerprints or skin oils. The wipes release a faint, pungent smell of alcohol, quickly diluted by the moisture in the bathroom. The computer hard drive is removed. He unscrews the bottom cover of the laptop with a screwdriver and takes out the 2.5-inch mechanical hard drive. A small label is stuck on the hard drive's surface, marked with a permanent marker: "Backup-3." He stares at the label for two seconds, then peels it off and burns it. The hard drive goes into a lead-gray portable case. The case is lined with metal foil, with shielding layers. When he closes the lid, it makes a dull "click." He stuffs the case into the innermost compartment of his backpack and zips it up. The backpack grows heavier. Inside are also that voice recorder, a few anonymous transit cards, a stack of cash, a multi-tool knife. And most importantly—the physical copy of the USB drive Gu Zhixing gave him. The original USB drive has already been destroyed, but he made a mirror image in advance. He shoulders the backpack and scans this temporary dwelling. The room is as clean as if no one ever lived there. No fingerprints, no hairs, no personal items left behind. Even the trash can is empty, the plastic bag newly replaced. The thin fog outside the window grows denser. Streetlights go out one by one. That surveillance car is still parked in the same spot, but the shadow behind the window remains motionless, as if asleep or in the middle of a shift change. Lu Chenzhou walks to the door. His hand rests on the doorknob, pausing for three seconds. In these three seconds, he makes a final confirmation of his decision. He cannot follow Shen Yanqing's script—that would mean completely becoming a tool, where even the autonomy of "discovering clues" is granted. He would be nailed to the position of a "qualified blade," never able to turn things around. He cannot directly oppose—protecting Li Mo would immediately make him an enemy to both Shen and Gu's sides. Shen Yanqing would see him as an out-of-control pawn; Gu Zhixing would see him as an obstacle to the cleanup. He wouldn't last three days. He must find a third path. A variable that seems accidental, capable of disrupting their rhythm. An interference that makes Gu Zhixing's "cleanup" less clean and efficient. A... noise that forces Shen Yanqing to reevaluate the value of this pawn. Lu Chenzhou pushes open the door. The corridor is empty, the motion-sensor light not yet activated. He walks quickly toward the staircase, his footsteps absorbed by the thick carpet. Down the stairs, through the lobby, pushing open the glass door with the green "Emergency Exit" sign. Cold air hits his face. The fog is like damp gauze, wrapping around his face. Visibility is less than twenty meters. The shop signs across the street blur into colorful halos. The sound of a street sweeper approaches, then fades away. He does not head toward the main road. Instead, he turns into a back alley. The alley is narrow, flanked by the rear walls of old residential buildings, the plaster peeling to reveal dark He walked straight to the innermost public phone booth—the old coin-operated kind, with a red plastic shell, the number buttons already worn. He dropped in two coins and dialed a number. The number was the public inquiry hotline for the Municipal Archives. "Du—du—" It rang four times before someone answered. It was a young woman's voice, muddled with sleepiness. "Municipal Archives, Inquiry Office." "Hello," Lu Chenzhou said. His voice was steady, even a bit polite. "I'd like to inquire about the archive numbers for a few old municipal project records. They're supporting documents for the old city drainage system renovation between 1987 and 1992." "What unit? A letter of introduction is required." "Personal research. I don't need the original files, just the archive numbers and catalog summaries." Silence on the other end for a few seconds. The sound of papers rustling. "1987 to 1992… drainage system… Are you referring to the 'Records of the Pipeline Network Renovation Project Along Changfeng Road'?" "Yes. Also the 'Dredging Records for the Sunjiaqiao Area' from the same period." "One moment." The sound of keyboard tapping. "Changfeng Road Records, archive number A-1987-043. Sunjiaqiao Records… B-1990-112. Just these two?" "Just those two. Thank you." Lu Chenzhou hung up. He took a small notebook from his pocket and quickly jotted down the two archive numbers with a pencil: A-1987-043. B-1990-112. The pencil tip scratched lightly against the paper with a soft "shasha" sound. Then he tore out the page, folded it, and stuffed it into the side pocket of his backpack. Next was step two. He walked out of the convenience store and turned into an even narrower alley next door. There was a public restroom in the middle of the alley, a "Under Repair" sign hanging on the door. He went around to the back of the restroom, where there was a discarded power distribution box, its door half-open. He took out another phone from his backpack. It was a brand new prepaid phone, not yet turned on. He crouched down, using his body to block any possible view, quickly powered it on, and connected to a public WiFi hotspot—a signal leaking from a nearby internet cafe. Opened the browser. Logged into an overseas temporary email service. The account was registered last night at another internet cafe, with a randomly generated password. Recipient address… he typed in a string of characters. It was the public work email of a local investigative business journalist. This journalist was famous for digging up corporate scandals and was recently writing an in-depth report on the "revolving door between government and business." More importantly, this journalist had a grudge against Gu Zhixing—a report three years ago nearly derailed a merger and acquisition case Gu was in charge of. Lu Chenzhou began typing. Subject: 「A Few Clues Regarding Changfeng Group Legal Department's Unusual Investigation Operation」 The body was brief: "It is reported that recently, the Legal Department of Changfeng Group has summoned a painting and calligraphy mounting artisan (Li Mo, proprietor of 'Moyun Studio') on the grounds of 'suspected illegal acquisition of commercial information.' This artisan studied under the late former government secretary Sun Henian. Sun Henian once served as a coordinator for old city renovation projects and had intersections with Changfeng Group's early municipal engineering endeavors. Is this summons related to internal personnel struggles within the group or unresolved historical issues? Worth noting. Source of information: an anonymous former project participant." No signature. No closing. He checked for typos once, then clicked "Send." The progress bar spun twice, displaying "Send Successful." He immediately logged out of the email, cleared the browser cache, and shut down the phone. Took out the SIM card, snapped it in two. The phone body itself was smashed with a hammer—the same procedure, completed in the restroom sink. The fragments were placed into another plastic bag, mixed with the previous fragments. By the time he finished all this, the sky was already light. The fog began to disperse. The sound of an early morning bus engine came from the end of the alley. Someone's window opened, the aroma of fried eggs wafting out. Lu Chenzhou shouldered his backpack and walked out of the alley. He did not go to Li Mo's "Moyun Studio" mounting shop—that address was clearly written in Qin Wangshu's information: Back Street of the East City Antique Market. Nor did he return to Gu Zhixing's Legal Department, much less to the Shen family mansion. He walked in the opposite direction. The Municipal Archives were in the west of the city, near the old government building. It was a Soviet-style structure from the 195 "Waiting for someone?" she asked casually, busy kneading dough with her hands. "Mhm." Lu Chenzhou replied. "The Archives don't open until nine. Still early." "No rush." He finished the last bite of his fried dough stick and wiped his hands with a napkin. Then, he took out the small notebook with the record numbers from his backpack and looked at them again. A-1987-043. B-1990-112. These two record numbers would leave a query log. The Archives' computer system automatically recorded the access IP, time, and query content. Shen Yanqing could find out—if he was monitoring the Archives' system. Gu Zhixing could also find out—if he had the spare capacity to pay attention to such details. They would see: At this critical juncture in the investigation of the "Leak Case," Lu Chenzhou wasn't pursuing the suspect Li Mo, but instead was looking up municipal project minutes from thirty years ago. Why? They might speculate: Was he searching for Sun Henian's historical blemishes? Was he digging up dirt on the Shen family's early projects? Was he preparing leverage for some more covert negotiation? Let them guess. Lu Chenzhou put the notebook away. What he needed was precisely this kind of speculation—these actions that deviated from the script, actions that couldn't be easily categorized. This kind of "unexpected variable" that would make the chess players frown. He checked his watch. Eight forty-seven. A line was beginning to form at the Archives entrance, mostly students and researchers. The iron gate rattled open with a clatter.