The subway train sped through the darkness. The dull ache in his ribs pulsed like a pendulum, one beat, then another. Lu Chenzhou leaned against the cold plastic seat back, his face a blur reflected in the window. Streaks of light flowed past, his image shifting between clarity and fragmentation. His thoughts were on Zhou Zhengping. Not the trembling old man from the alley, but that encrypted message. Its content was extremely simple: an address, a time, followed by three words: "The sample is here." The address was in the old cotton mill district in the west of the city, a stretch of long-abandoned industrial ruins. The time was nine o'clock tonight. And the "sample"—Lu Chenzhou's fingers curled involuntarily—did it refer to the possible surviving original handwriting sample of that forged "letter of repentance" from ten years ago, or did it refer to Zhou Zhengping himself? The train pulled into a station, the brakes screeching sharply. He stood up and walked out of the carriage with the sparse crowd. The platform was empty, the air thick with the smell of machine oil and dust. He headed for the exit, his steps steady, but each one precisely calculating distance, sightlines, and cover. The staircase at the exit was long, the daylight filtering through the leaky canopy a sickly white. Halfway down, he stopped to tie his shoelace. On the street below, a dark gray sedan was parked by the curb. It wasn't the one from last night, and the license plate was different. But the driver's side window was half-lowered, a hand resting on the sill, a cigarette held between the fingers, a long column of ash accumulating. It didn't move. Just waiting. Lu Chenzhou finished tying his laces, stood up, and continued down. His breathing didn't change, his heartbeat remained steady. Reaching the street, he turned in the opposite direction from the sedan, merging into the pedestrian flow. After walking two hundred meters, he turned into a narrow alley. The alley ended in a pile of construction debris, the air damp, reeking of rotting vegetables and cat urine. He walked to the edge of the garbage pile, crouched down, and retrieved an old phone wrapped in waterproof cloth from behind some broken bricks. He powered it on, a blue light glowing. He quickly entered a string of numbers and pressed the call button. It rang three times before connecting. There was no sound from the other end, only the faint crackle of static. "The old place," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice very low. "I need a 'diagnosis report.' Fast. It has to look real." The static continued for a few seconds, then an extremely soft, almost inaudible sigh came through. "...How real?" "Seventy percent truth, thirty percent flaw. The flaws need to be in the 'doctor's' signature and the last two comparison points. It has to be the kind of hesitation only an insider would spot." "The risk is too high." The voice on the other end was aged, weary. It was Zhou Zhengping. "Your daughter's name is Xiaowen. She's eight years old, in Class 3, Grade 2, at the Experimental Primary School." Lu Chenzhou's tone was even, as if discussing the weather. "Her grandmother picked her up from school yesterday. She was wearing a pink coat, carrying a blue backpack. They're currently at apartment 501, Unit 2, Building 3, in the 'Warm Home' residential complex in the south of the city. Under the insole of the third shoe from the right on the second shelf of the shoe cabinet by the door, I placed a disposable phone. If you can't reach me after nine o'clock tonight, or if you hear any bad news about the 'cotton mill sample,' use that phone to call the only number stored in it. Someone will take them to a safer place." Silence on the other end of the line. Oppressed, heavy breathing. "This isn't a request, Teacher Zhou." He continued, his tone devoid of threat, only a kind of icy precision. "This is currently the plan with the highest probability of survival. If I die, you and your daughter lose protection. If the plan fails, all three of us might disappear. Only if the plan succeeds, only if we make the people who need to jump out jump out, do we have a chance to see who our opponent is, do we have a chance—" he paused, "to find Xiaowen." The last three words were like needles, piercing the silence. "...The address." Zhou Zhengping's voice was hoarse. Lu Chenzhou gave a location: the abandoned freight yard in the north of the city, Warehouse Three, the small door on the east side. Time: two hours from now. "Bring your tools of the trade," It was even darker inside. A few faint rays of light filtered down from the high skylights, illuminating the dust motes suspended in the air. The corners were piled with discarded tires and wooden crates, and the floor was covered in a thick layer of dust. A hunched figure sat on an overturned oil drum, an old black tool bag resting at his feet. It was Zhou Zhengping. He looked even older than he had the previous night, with puffy bags under his eyes. His hands gripped a white enamel teacup tightly, his knuckles white. Hearing movement, he jerked his head up, his gaze like that of a startled bird. Lu Chenzhou walked over, his footsteps leaving clear imprints in the dust. He didn't speak. Instead, he took two sheets of paper sealed in transparent evidence bags from inside his coat and placed them on a wooden crate beside Zhou Zhengping. One was a clear photocopy of the "Letter of Remorse" from ten years ago. The other was an original, inconsequential approval document signed by Shen Moqing during the same period, retrieved from the Shen family's old archives—obtained through Shen Qinghuan at the cost of another promise. "The real one is here," Lu Chenzhou pointed at the approval document. "The fake is here." He tapped the photocopy of the Letter of Remorse. "I need a report stating that the likelihood these two handwriting samples came from the same person is 'extremely low.' But the report must contain two flaws." Zhou Zhengping set down his teacup, his hand still trembling. He opened his tool bag, taking out a magnifying glass, a portable spectrometer, and a stack of ruled examination paper. His movements were stiff at first, but when he put on his reading glasses and raised the magnifying glass to the original approval document, something shifted within him. His shoulders relaxed slightly, his breathing grew lighter, and his eyes focused into a sharp, pinpoint light. "Pressure distribution…" he murmured to himself, his fingertips hovering just above the paper's surface. "The angle of the initial stroke… The hesitation here isn't quite natural…" Lu Chenzhou stepped back a few paces, leaning against a rusted steel column, watching him work. The warehouse was quiet, filled only with the occasional rustle of Zhou Zhengping turning a page, the scratch of his pen on the examination paper, and Lu Chenzhou's own steady, deep breaths. Dust slowly swirled within the shafts of light. Time passed. Zhou Zhengping became completely absorbed, sometimes scanning the paper fibers with the spectrometer, other times rapidly jotting notes on the examination paper, drawing complex pressure curves and stroke vector diagrams. His trembling had ceased, and a fine sheen of sweat appeared on his forehead. Finally, he removed his reading glasses, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and let out a long sigh. "It's done." His voice was still hoarse, but now held a note of professional certainty. "The conclusion is as you requested: Based on inconsistencies in initial stroke habits, peak pressure distribution, the arc of connected strokes, and particularly the treatment of the hook at the end of the character 'Qing,' the likelihood that the two handwriting samples came from the same person is below fifteen percent. In forensic terms, this is sufficient to support a 'highly questionable' conclusion." Lu Chenzhou walked over and picked up the pages of the report filled with professional terminology and charts. The handwriting was neat, the logic clear, the citations standard. Perfect. "The flaws?" he asked. Zhou Zhengping pointed to the summary of comparison points at the end of the report. "Here, the third and seventh comparison points. I deliberately blurred the specific parameter ranges of the spectral data, using ambiguous phrasing like 'differences exist, but require comprehensive judgment considering paper age factors.' A true expert, especially one familiar with the paper and ink formulations commonly used back then, would notice the hesitation here. They would suspect the examiner might be uncertain about certain interfering factors." "Good," Lu Chenzhou nodded. "Sign it." The examiner signature line at the end of the report was still blank. Zhou Zhengping's hand began to tremble again. He picked up the pen, holding it poised over the paper, unable to bring it down. "I… they might recognize my handwriting…" "I'll do it," Lu Chenzhou said, taking the pen from him—the old-style fountain pen Zhou had been using to take notes. He flipped to a blank space on the last page of the report. Without hesitation, the pen tip touched down. *Scratch, scratch, scratch.* A few characters quickly took form: "Examiner: Zhou Wenyuan." The handwriting was steady, carrying a slight deliberate hesitation and linking strokes characteristic of older calligraphic styles, bearing a remarkable resemblance to the penmanship Zhou Zhengping had just used for his notes. Yet, in certain finishing strokes, it intentionally revealed a subtle, almost imperceptible “You leave here and go to this place.” Lu Chenzhou handed him a slip of paper with an address written on it—an old apartment building in the eastern part of the city. “Use the key I gave you to enter. Inside, you’ll find food, water, and a landline phone that can only receive calls. Unless I call you, don’t go out, don’t turn on the lights, don’t go near the windows. Understand?” Zhou Zhengping took the slip of paper and clenched it tightly. “You… you’re going to lure them?” “Mm.” Lu Chenzhou carefully tucked the file folder into the inner pocket of his jacket, near his left chest, making it bulge slightly. “The bait is ready. Now it’s time to dangle it where the fish are.” “They… will they believe it?” Zhou Zhengping looked up, his clouded eyes reflecting the faint light leaking from the warehouse roof. “Shen Moqing is no fool. Shen Qinghuan… since she could help you get the approval, wouldn’t she warn her father?” “Shen Qinghuan has her own motives; her father has his own judgment.” Lu Chenzhou zipped up his jacket, his movements crisp. “This report is the first stone thrown between them. When a stone hits the water, someone will move first. As long as they move, we’ll see the ripples.” “Shen Moqing is suspicious by nature; he won’t believe it entirely. But what he fears more is the possibility that it might be true.” Lu Chenzhou adjusted his jacket; the subtle rustling of the fabric was unusually clear in the empty warehouse. He pressed his fingers against the left side of his chest, making the outline of the manila file folder underneath more distinct. “As long as he believes even thirty percent, thinks this ‘evidence’ is worth verifying, he’ll send people—either to snatch it, destroy it, or warn the person holding it.” Zhou Zhengping’s fingers gripping the teacup tightened, his knuckles turning white. “Then you…” “I’ll wait for them to come.” Lu Chenzhou walked toward the small, rusted iron door. He placed his hand on the cold doorknob, paused for a moment, and did not look back. “Teacher Zhou, remember that disposable phone. If… use it.” He pulled open the door; the hinges let out a piercing shriek. The evening wind from outside swept in, carrying the distinct smell of rust and machine oil from the industrial area. He slipped out sideways, and the door closed behind him, leaving Zhou Zhengping alone in the dimness. Zhou Zhengping did not move. In the distance, faint, intermittent barks of dogs could be heard. He stared at the spot where Lu Chenzhou had just been sitting, as if he could still see the silhouette of that man, head bowed, imitating the signature—the rustling of the pen tip across the paper, the steady pauses, the final decisive stroke. So calm, as if solving a problem. But the answer to that problem was stained with blood. *** 6:40 PM. Lu Chenzhou appeared at a bus stop three kilometers away. His dark jacket looked slightly bulky; the file folder was tucked against his body, its edge pressing against an old rib injury, causing a dull ache. He boarded the bus heading for the city outskirts and took a seat by the window in the back. The bus rocked and swayed. He leaned against the window, his gaze fixed on the flowing street scene outside, while the corner of his eye locked onto the rearview mirror. At the third stop, a black SUV came into view, trailing two car lengths behind. At the seventh stop, the SUV was still there; the silhouette of the driver had changed. Lu Chenzhou showed no reaction. The bus entered a neighborhood mixed with hardware stores and processing plants, where pedestrians were sparse. He pressed the stop bell early. The bus stopped. He got off and walked toward a convenience store by the roadside, lit with stark white light. The glass door reflected his figure, as well as the black SUV that had slowly pulled over across the street. *Ding-dong.* The doorbell chimed. Inside, only one yawning clerk was on duty. Lu Chenzhou walked to the cooler, took a bottle of water, and went to the counter to pay. While scanning the payment code, he turned sideways, his left hand seemingly unintentionally pressing against the inner pocket of his jacket on his left chest—a quick movement, but at a precise angle—enough for someone outside at a certain position to see clearly. Taking the change and water, he pushed the door open and left. He didn’t walk away immediately. He stopped at the entrance, unscrewed the cap, took a sip, and swept his gaze across the street. The SUV’s windows were He bought a ticket, entered the park, and walked straight to the bench deep inside near the bamboo grove. The pre-selected spot was relatively open, but the bamboo and rockery provided ample cover and maneuvering space. The bench was empty. He sat down, placed the water bottle to one side, leaned back, and calmly swept his gaze around. Crickets chirped, and faint music from square dancing drifted from the distant plaza, making this area feel deathly still. Waiting. Time ticked by. 7:40. 7:50. 8:00. The SUV hadn’t followed him in, but outside the park on the road, headlights occasionally swept over the treetops. He knew people had already come in. More than one group. 8:05. A light crunching sound of dry leaves being stepped on came from the direction of the bamboo grove. Not an animal. Lu Chenzhou didn’t move, maintaining a relaxed posture, only his left-hand fingers curled slightly. Two men emerged from the shadows of the bamboo. Ordinary jackets and work pants, like citizens out for a night jog. But their walking posture, the rhythm of their steps, and the way their eyes scanned the surroundings were far too synchronized. They stopped about five meters from the bench, one left, one right, blocking both directions of the small path. The one on the left had gaunt cheeks, the one on the right a thick neck. The gaunt man spoke first, his voice not loud, each word clear: "Mr. Lu." Lu Chenzhou raised his eyes. "Mr. Shen asked us to deliver a message." The gaunt man’s tone was flat, like recitation. "Some old papers are better burned than kept. When the ashes are gone, it’s clean. People, staying put lets you live longer than running around. The road ahead is long." "Finished?" Lu Chenzhou asked. The gaunt man nodded. In that very instant, the burly man on the right moved. A step forward, his right fist driving straight toward Lu Chenzhou’s left chest—the location of the bulging document pouch! Lu Chenzhou’s body slid backward on the bench, his left arm rising to block. Fist met forearm with a dull thud. A shock ran up his forearm, a burst of soreness and numbness. The opponent’s force was fierce, the knuckles hard, wearing brass knuckles. The burly man, failing with the first strike, had already grabbed toward Lu Chenzhou’s shoulder like an iron clamp with his other hand. Lu Chenzhou twisted his body, sliding off the other side of the bench, avoiding the grab, and stood up smoothly, creating distance. The two didn’t pursue immediately. The gaunt man watched coldly from the sidelines. The burly man flexed his wrist, his eyes now carrying a hint of scrutiny. "Leave the stuff," the burly man spoke, his voice coarse, "and you can go." Lu Chenzhou didn’t speak, subtly adjusting his center of gravity, his gaze shifting rapidly between the two. Not a kill attempt, but a probe, a warning. They wanted to confirm the "evidence," assess his ability to resist, convey a threat. The burly man rushed forward again. Faster this time, using both fists and feet, his moves ruthless and direct, all practical combat techniques—subdue, seize. Lu Chenzhou blocked, dodged, used the bench and tree trunks to maneuver. He didn’t fully reveal his capability, his movements slightly sluggish, as if hampered by old injuries, but each time he avoided vital points at the critical moment. The sounds of fists and feet colliding were especially sharp in the silence, startling night birds from the trees, which flapped away in a flurry. The burly man, unable to gain the upper hand after prolonged attacks, grew impatient. A fierce straight punch was sidestepped by Lu Chenzhou, who then grabbed Lu Chenzhou’s jacket lapel and yanked hard! *Riiip—!* The sound of tearing fabric was piercing. A large gash was torn open on the left chest of the jacket, exposing the kraft paper document pouch, askew, a corner of the "Appraisal Report" peeking out. The burly man’s eyes lit up, and he reached out to grab it. Just as his fingers were about to touch it, Lu Chenzhou’s knee slammed upward into his ribs! The burly man withdrew his hand to block, but this was a feint—the real force was in the following elbow strike, smashing hard against the wrist of the hand gripping his lapel! The burly man grunted in pain, his grip loosening. Lu Chenzhou seized the chance to leap backward, breaking contact, simultaneously stuffing the exposed document pouch back inside the torn jacket and pressing it tightly with his hand. He panted Shen Moqing now knew about the "evidence" and had confirmed he would protect it with his life. The warning had escalated into a semi-public hostile encounter. The gears of the trap had begun to turn. He bent down, picked up the water bottle, unscrewed the cap, and poured the remaining water over the wound on his arm. The cold water made the wound contract sharply. He tore off a relatively clean piece of cloth from the lining of his jacket and bandaged it roughly. Then he turned and walked towards the park's side gate. His steps were somewhat unsteady, but his direction was clear. He needed to leave quickly, get to the backup safe house, treat the wound, and reassess the situation. Outside the park's side gate was a dimly lit alley, piled high with trash bins, the air thick with the stench of decay. He emerged, the streetlight at the mouth of the alley casting a faint, yellowish glow. He leaned against the cold brick wall, catching his breath briefly, and pulled out his silenced phone from his pocket. The screen lit up. There were no missed calls, but there was one unread text message. Sent at: 8:12 PM. Right around the time he was confronting those two men. Sender: Unknown number. The content contained no text, only a single picture. Lu Chenzhou opened it. The resolution wasn't high, but it was clear enough—a quiet, dimly lit street flanked by old red-brick apartment buildings. A green mailbox stood on the corner, next to a parked tricycle. His pupils contracted violently. This street... It was the street outside the building where Zhou Zhengping was hiding. The angle of the photo was aimed directly at the entrance of Unit 3. The timestamp displayed in the message: 7:45 PM tonight. The caption was just one line: "The old man is out for a stroll. Nice scenery." Lu Chenzhou stared at the screen, his fingers tightening, knuckles turning white. The foul stench of the alley flooded his nostrils, mixing with the damp, metallic smell of the water-soaked cloth on his arm wound. The snake had emerged from its hole. But the forked tongue it flicked out had probed towards another direction—earlier and more accurately than anticipated.