Rain hammered on the corrugated iron roof, like countless nails falling at once. Lu Chenzhou crouched behind a dumpster at the mouth of the alley, his fingers unconsciously dismantling a lighter—shell, flint, spring, then reassembling it. His gaze was fixed on a rust-stained iron door thirty meters away. Gu Zhixing's safe house. The payment records in the ledger pointed here. During the blank period from March 4th to 7th, someone behind this door had destroyed his ten years of clean record. Zhou Zhengping, the next target on the hit list, might also be hiding inside this building. He had to get the evidence before Shen Moqing made his move, even if it meant exposing that he had secretly intercepted the Zhao family's confidential information. "Three." Fang Mu's voice came through the earpiece, crackling with static. "Intel said one, but there are actually three. Fully armed, with walkie-talkies." The rust on the iron door glowed a dark red in the rain, like long-dried blood. The metallic, bloody smell of rainwater mixed with rust drilled straight into his nostrils. From deeper within, the faint scent of disinfectant wafted out—someone had been in this building, and they had left not long ago. Lu Chenzhou slipped the lighter back into his pocket. He moved along the base of the wall, his footsteps swallowed by the sound of the rain. The first sentry had his back to the corner, raincoat hood pulled low, a cigarette between his fingers. Lu Chenzhou locked him in a chokehold from behind, his forearm precisely pressing against the carotid sinus. Eight seconds, the body went limp. He dragged the man into the shadows, searched him, found the walkie-talkie, and turned it off. The second was inside the door. An old pin-tumbler lock, two pieces of wire, three seconds—the technique learned in prison had never grown rusty. He pushed the door open a crack. The man inside was looking down at his phone. Lu Chenzhou slipped inside, drove his knee into the man's lower back, clamped a hand tightly over his mouth, and with his other hand, twisted the wrist to disarm him. No sound. Then he saw the third one. The man stood at the end of the corridor, walkie-talkie already raised to his mouth, thumb pressing the talk button. Lu Chenzhou's pupils constricted sharply. "Don't move." The voice came from behind him. Lu Chenzhou froze completely—the voice was all too familiar. Qin Wangshu stood outside the iron door, the hem of her raincoat dripping water, her right hand holding her service pistol. The muzzle wasn't aimed at him; it was aimed at the sentry at the end of the corridor. "City Criminal Investigation Division," her voice was cold and clear. "Drop the walkie-talkie, hands on your head." The sentry froze, the walkie-talkie slipping from his hand and hitting the floor with a dull thud. Lu Chenzhou didn't turn around. He stepped over the second sentry, planted his foot on the fallen walkie-talkie, bent down, picked it up, and switched it off. "You followed me." "Qin Hongyuan signed the surveillance warrant," Qin Wangshu holstered her gun and walked inside the iron door, rainwater flicking from her hair onto the wall. "You thought I'd let you come alone to ruin my father's case?" "Your father's case was whitewashing for the Zhao family," Lu Chenzhou stared at the channel display on the walkie-talkie—it wasn't a regular security frequency. "If you interfere, you're opposing the Zhao family." "I'm interfering because Zhou Zhengping is still alive," Qin Wangshu bit the inside of her lower lip, her tone stiff. "He's next on the hit list." Lu Chenzhou's fingertips rubbed against the rough edge of the walkie-talkie. *Zhou Zhengping. The key witness to Zhao Mingcheng's death.* If Shen Moqing found him first... "Gu Zhixing's private channel," he handed the walkie-talkie to Qin Wangshu. "Someone will check in within five minutes. Five minutes." "Five minutes," she repeated, her hand resting on her holster. "Are you covering me, or arresting me?" "We each get what we need," Lu Chenzhou met her eyes directly. "The ledger from the file room. You want the original." "I want the original case closure report from that year." "Deal." He turned and walked deeper down the corridor. Behind him came the *click* of Qin Wangshu checking her gun's safety—her habitual action under pressure, he remembered. The stairs led down. The basement door was ajar, a warm yellow light leaking through the crack. "I'll check the left side." Qin Wangshu had already pulled open the first cabinet. Flames licked at the hem of her clothes. She took half a step back, her fingers rapidly flipping through files. The fire tongue reached the bottom of the third cabinet. Lu Chenzhou pulled open the third cabinet door, his fingers sweeping over the rows of file folder labels. Sales Department, Legal Affairs Department, Administration Department— Deep blue ink. A kraft paper file folder, with two characters written on the label in brushstrokes: Jingyuan. *Jingyuan.* His codename before he went to prison. Shen Moqing even kept this, like a trophy. "Jingyuan?" Qin Wangshu's voice came through the smoke. She had seen the label. "Yours?" "Irrelevant. Find the Janitor Project. Red serial number." "Janitor Project—" She paused. The firelight reflected on her profile. "My father mentioned that name. He said it was the Shen family's dirty work. He refused to sign—" Lu Chenzhou's hand stopped mid-air. He turned to pull the last cabinet—locked. The fire had already reached the cabinet's feet. The metal emitted faint groans in the high temperature, the hinges glowing red-hot. He drew his gun, used the butt to smash the lock. Once. Twice. The third time, the lock clasp broke open, scalding metal fragments splattering onto the back of his hand. Inside the cabinet were only three files. The one on top had a red serial number printed on the cover, the title four characters: Janitor Project. *Janitor Project.* An assassination plan. He opened the first page. A list. Twelve names. Twelve dates. Some were already crossed out—those people were already dead. His gaze swept over the uncrossed names, his heart pounding like a drum in his chest. Page three. Execution signature column. The three characters "Shen Moqing" were neatly stamped in the approval position. Next to it was the executor's signature— Qin Hongyuan. Lu Chenzhou's hand froze in mid-air. Flames shot up from the cabinet bottom, licking the corner of the plan. He didn't move. The left corner of his eye began to twitch, more violently than ever before. *Qin Hongyuan. Qin Hongyuan. Qin Wangshu's father.* The executioner of political assassinations back then was actually her father. And she had just said—*he refused to sign.* "Lu Chenzhou!" Qin Wangshu took a step closer. Her expression was unclear through the smoke. "What did you find?" He heard his own breathing, heavy, uneven. His fingers pinched the corner of the plan. The paper was brittle in the high heat. "Two minutes! Evacuate from the east ventilation shaft!" he shouted back, his voice so hoarse it didn't sound like his own. He stuffed the plan into his raincoat, pressing it against the "Jingyuan" file folder. Too late. The fire had already reached the desk. The table leg made a dull cracking sound. "Go." He stepped onto the stairs ahead of her. Three steps up, her footsteps were right behind him. The plan pressed against his ribs. That page with Qin Hongyuan's signature was like a piece of red-hot iron, burning his skin through the raincoat. A deep chill crawled up his spine. He couldn't let her see. The stairwell was narrow, thick smoke billowing up from below. Lu Chenzhou coughed once, then again. On the third cough, his hand had already drawn the plan from inside his raincoat, flipping to page three. *Rip.* The page tore. That searing piece of iron was crumpled into a ball, clenched tightly in his palm. The crisp sound of tearing paper was completely drowned out by violent coughs. Lu Chenzhou's knuckles turned white, folding the torn page into a tiny square. *Qin Hongyuan*—the ink of this name pressed tightly against his fingertips. He stuffed the paper square into his concealed inner pocket. The zipper slid against his ribs, the sound of the cold metal teeth clicking together amplified in his eardrums, triggering an uncontrollable shiver. "Coughing that hard?" Qin Wangshu's footsteps stopped three steps behind him, her voice tense, carrying professional alertness. "Smoke." Lu Chenzhou didn't turn around, a burning pain lingering in his throat. "The thick smoke in the building." The paper square in the concealed pocket pressed against his skin through the fabric, like an unhealed wound. He continued upward, the remaining plan and the file folder with deep blue ink firmly tucked under his arm. The title page of the backup instructions was clearly printed with a line: *Backup storage location: Cabinet B-7.* He stopped at the stair landing, and right in front of Qin "Lu Chenzhou." Her voice cut through the curtain of rain, devoid of inflection, yet sharp as a blade tempered in ice. "In accordance with Article 84 of the Criminal Procedure Law, in my capacity as Deputy Captain of the Municipal Criminal Investigation Brigade, I order you to immediately hand over all physical evidence." He did not move. Rainwater slid down his jawline, striking the edge of the folder. The water stain spread rapidly, blurring the ink of the characters "Jing Yuan" into a deep, murky blue. "You heard me." "I heard." "Hand it over." "How much did you see?" he countered. "Enough." Qin Wangshu's fingertip pressed against the cover of the plan, her nail whitening from the force. "'Cleaner Plan.' Twelve names. Six already dead. This is ironclad evidence of systematic elimination, Lu Chenzhou. You have no authority to withhold it." "If this enters the system, it will become scrap paper." Lu Chenzhou looked at her. "Or, it will become a death warrant." "That is for procedure to decide, not you." "Did procedure protect those six people?" His words were measured, precise, devoid of superfluous emotion. "Procedure. Procedure didn't stop the Cleaner." The muscles in Qin Wangshu's jaw tightened, as if she were being backed into a corner. "What exactly are you hiding?" "I am hiding a portion of the content." He repeated the word. "Hiding. What you have is not the whole." "Where is the rest?" "Not in a safe place." "Lu Chenzhou!" Her voice suddenly rose, shifting from a command to something more fragile, like the sound of tearing silk. "Who exactly are you protecting?" His left hand unconsciously opened and clenched, as if measuring an invisible distance. The zipper of the hidden pocket pressed against his ribs, the folded paper block digging into his flesh, each breath bringing a cold, stinging pain. Qin Hongyuan. Her father. "Some things," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice dropping low, "are better burned than kept." Qin Wangshu stared fixedly at him. The rain illuminated by the car headlights wove a silver wall behind her; her breath condensed into white mist in the cold air. She didn't reach out to snatch it, nor did she draw her gun. She was just weighing the situation. Then she did something he hadn't expected. She opened the rear car door, grabbed a dry towel, and threw it at his chest. The coarse fabric brushed against his cheekbone, carrying the mingled scent of laundry detergent and cheap tobacco—her car, her private space. "You owe me an explanation." Her voice had regained its professional steadiness, but the tail end of it trembled slightly. "But not tonight." Lu Chenzhou pulled the towel from his face. He didn't thank her, and she didn't wait. Qin Wangshu walked back around to the driver's seat and pulled the door open. The engine started, its low rumble vibrating the puddles on the ground. He opened the passenger door and got in. The soaked folder and plan were placed on his knees. The rain on the windshield was swept away again and again by the wipers, only to surge back each time. The car's interior lights were off. Qin Wangshu's profile was illuminated by the blue glow of the dashboard, her jawline taut as a bowstring. Lu Chenzhou lowered his head and opened the remaining portion of the plan. The rain had blurred the ink on the first few pages into a muddy mess. The pages, soaked through, took on a fragile transparency, but the final page with the list was still barely legible. Three names not yet crossed out. The first: Zhou Zhengping. He stared at the two characters, his thumb pressing against the rough paper surface. The crisp sound of tearing paper was especially sharp in the silent car. Zhou Zhengping. The handwriting expert who was forced to alter the appraisal report back then. A man who knew too much. The date printed in the plan's column: December 19th. Today was December 17th. A twitch tugged at the corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye. He closed the plan and stuffed it inside his raincoat, next to the folded paper in the hidden pocket. A two-day countdown. To warn Zhou Zhengping meant exposing the fact that he already possessed the elimination plan. Not to go meant letting another person in the know disappear into silence. The car turned onto the main road. The wipers squeaked. Qin Wangshu didn't ask him where they were going next. She simply drove the car in the direction of the southern district—the direction of the hotel where Zhou Zhengping was hiding. She asked nothing, but she knew everything. Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. The paper block in the hidden pocket felt like a piece of sh