The alarm blared like a runaway heartbeat, waves crashing against the cold concrete walls of the archives only to rebound, vibrating until eardrums went numb. The air was thick with the smell of rust, the must of old paper, and the acrid scent of overloaded circuits, all forcing their way into the nostrils. Shen Moqing’s pupils had contracted to pinpricks, her lips moving soundlessly, emitting only a hollow, wheezing breath. Lu Chenzhou’s question hung in the murky air, carrying a chilling weight. Then, someone stood up. The movement was agonizingly slow, as if their joints were filled with lead. It was Shen Bo’an. He had been sitting in that high-backed chair beside the head of the table, the white porcelain teacup before him untouched, the tea long since cold, a ring of dark yellow tea stain clinging to the rim. When he rose, he didn’t even tip the cup. The red alarm light flickered across his face, that perpetually mild and weary countenance now as placid as a deep well, yet churning with unseen undercurrents beneath the surface. His right hand emerged from the pocket of his deep gray silk tang suit, clutching a small black rectangle. Thumb-sized, its casing was matte plastic, topped with an embedded red indicator light that shone steadily, like a solidified, never-drying drop of blood, glaringly bright in the dim light. “Jingyuan.” Shen Bo’an spoke, his voice not loud, but like a blunt knife easily slicing through all the clamor. He didn’t use the speaker, yet each word was as clear as an ice pick striking the ear bone. “You finally found your way here.” He paused, the pad of his thumb gently rubbing the cold, angular edge of the remote control, producing a faint, grating sound. “But did you really think… that video could be sent out?” Lu Chenzhou’s left hand had already moved to his left ear. The miniature earpiece hidden beneath the skin pressed against his ear canal, but what came through was not the short, firm confirmation from Qin Wangshu he had anticipated—only a sharp, sustained, teeth-grating whine—a high-frequency jamming signal, specifically targeting encrypted transmission bands. The sound was like a red-hot needle, driving straight into the depths of his eardrum. His heart plummeted, sinking into an icy abyss, yet every fiber of his body instantly tensed. Transmission failed. The evidence had been intercepted in the final meter, locked down in this sealed space that was rapidly turning into a pressure cooker. He immediately withdrew his hand, his fingertips leaving a patch of cold dampness on the skin behind his ear—sweat. His right hand simultaneously slid toward the inner lining of his suit jacket, his fingertips precisely finding the modified pen. The metal barrel was cold; its internal structure instantly unfolded into a schematic in his mind: the miniature high-voltage stun module, the strong acid etching tip, and a spare battery. His gaze, sharp as a scalpel, swept over Shen Bo’an’s entire body. The deep gray silk tang suit fit closely, with no obvious bulges or unusual contours. His left hand hung naturally at his side, knuckles thick, but the little finger was slightly curled inward, forming an unnatural curve—a muscle memory formed from long-term, forceful gripping of some small, hard object. His right foot was positioned half a step ahead of his left, his weight slightly forward, his heels barely touching the ground—a combat-ready stance, prepared to move or sidestep at any moment. Shen Bo’an’s position was cunning, less than two meters from the gray metal power distribution box in the corner. That housed the archive’s emergency power interface and the main control valve for the ventilation ducts; red, yellow, and blue cables hung like tangled snakes from the gaps in the box. The two bodyguards, who had initially been somewhat flustered, upon an almost imperceptible, slight tilt of Shen Bo’an’s head, simultaneously pivoted on their heels, their steps shifting rapidly. The soles of their leather shoes scraped short, sharp sounds against the floor. Left and right, their burly frames blocked the heavy oak main door of the conference room like temple guardians. The dull, solid *click* of the brass latch falling into place was especially clear in the lull between alarm blares, like the final nail being driven into a coffin. The air in the room suddenly grew heavy, as if oxygen was being rapidly siphoned away. “Second Uncle?” Shen Qinghuan was the first to react, her voice trembling, the end cracking. “You… what are you saying?” Shen Bo’an didn’t look at her. His gaze remained welded to Lu Chenzhou’s face. That look held no anger, no panic Almost simultaneously, the nerve-wracking "Black Kite" alarm that had been echoing incessantly in the distance was abruptly silenced, as if choked by an invisible hand. The world instantly plunged into an even deeper silence, leaving only the low, persistent hum of the ballasts from the emergency lighting overhead, and the increasingly heavy, uncontrolled breathing rising and falling in the room. Someone began to sob, muffled. Deathly silence. A more oppressive, more suffocating dead silence than before. "The video is still in this room," Shen Bo'an continued, his tone as placid as if he were commenting on tomorrow's weather. "The data packet didn't go out. Qin Wangshu won't receive it, Zhou Zhengping won't receive it, anyone you were counting on... won't receive it." He tilted his head slightly, his gaze sweeping past Shen Moqing, who was slumped in the chair, his face ashen like a shattered piece of porcelain. "Moqing, you were too hasty. Some things can't be kept covered up. But letting them out in the wrong way, at the wrong time, is even worse." Shen Moqing jerked his head up, the veins in his neck bulging, his lips trembling like leaves in the wind. "Bo'an... you... you knew all along? You've been..." "I knew." Shen Bo'an cut him off, his tone even carrying a hint of an elder's reproach for a junior's imprudent actions. "I knew you interfered with that child's case, knew you used some unsavory methods. I also knew that Ayan... always had something weighing on his mind." His gaze swept past Shen Yan, who was standing frozen to the side, his face deathly pale, and paused for half a second. A barely perceptible ripple seemed to pass through the calm depths of his eyes, like a stone dropped into a deep pool, but it was gone too quickly to grasp, the surface of the water immediately returning to its deathly stillness. "But I didn't expect you to be foolish enough to leave the evidence in your own study, stored on an old magnetic media analyzer. And I certainly didn't expect Jingyuan to be able to dig it out and bring it here." He turned back to Lu Chenzhou and let out a soft sigh, the sound unnaturally clear in the silence. "You're formidable, Jingyuan. More formidable than I imagined. I even... admire you a little." He paused, the corner of his mouth lifting into a faint, desolate curve. "A pity." Lu Chenzhou hadn't spoken. The corner of his left eye began to twitch uncontrollably, a blood vessel throbbing at his temple—signals of pressure nearing his physiological limit. But his right hand, loosely gripping the pen, was steady, the knuckles distinct, not a single tremor. His breathing was deliberately controlled in a slow, deep rhythm; each inhalation drew the cold air, laden with dust and acrid smells, into his lungs, each exhalation an attempt to suppress the surging anxiety. He was observing, calculating. Shen Bo'an's position, the tension in the two bodyguards' muscles and their blind spots, the location of the room's load-bearing pillars, the reflective angles on the metal surfaces of the filing cabinets... and Shen Bo'an's left hand, which remained naturally lowered yet subtly radiated force. That hand definitely held something else. Something more lethal than a signal jammer. "What's a pity?" Lu Chenzhou finally spoke, his voice not loud, but each word seemed dredged from an icehouse, tempered with cold. Shen Bo'an smiled, a faint smile carrying the unique weariness and desolation of an old man who has seen through the ways of the world. "A pity you targeted the wrong person, and came at the wrong time." His left hand finally lifted, the movement still steady. From the inner pocket on the other side of his Tang suit, he produced a smaller, flat, black device. Slightly thicker than a remote control, its surface was matte metal, with a transparent plastic cover that could be flipped open. Beneath it, the faint glow of a backlit LCD screen was visible, along with several round buttons of different colors. "Do you recognize this?" Shen Bo'an asked, his tone as casual as if he were showing off an inconsequential old object. "An old-fashioned mechanical timer detonator. The core is a spring and gears; the electronic parts only handle display and final triggering. Resistant to interference, difficult to remotely hack or block. In my youth... in the logistics department, I tinkered with quite a few." His thumb flipped open the plastic cover with a soft *click*. The green backlight of the LCD screen instantly illuminated the outline of his thumb and the dark jade thumb ring. The screen displayed a set of numbers: **40:00**. The seconds were ticking down silently, rhythmically. He paused, his thumb hovering above the sole red button on the detonator panel. The button was slightly raised, like the waiting eye of a venomous snake. “I set it for forty minutes. Enough for us…” His voice carried a strange gentleness, as if he were presiding over a final rite, “to say our goodbyes.” Then, he pressed the button. There was no deafening explosion. Only a deep, grinding hum that seemed to rise from the very core of the earth, like a slumbering giant being forcibly roused. A clear, continuous tremor traveled up from the soles of their feet—subtle yet impossible to ignore, making the soles of their shoes tingle. Dust on the floor began to dance and skitter. Immediately after, the ventilation grilles in all four corners of the ceiling hissed in unison, spewing forth a pungent, pale yellow gas. It wasn’t smoke; it had no particulate texture. It was more like some kind of high-pressure liquefied inert gas rapidly vaporizing, hissing as it spread, swiftly displacing the already thin air. “Ahhh! Let us out!” Screams erupted completely. Several younger family members with weaker mental fortitude broke down entirely, weeping and shrieking as they threw themselves at the locked oak door, pounding it with fists, elbows, and shoulders in a frenzy. The dull thuds mingled with desperate wails and the screech of nails scraping wood, echoing and amplifying within the sealed space, assaulting everyone’s eardrums. Shen Moqing roared, like a beast driven to the brink, his eyes bloodshot. He sprang from his chair and lunged at Shen Bo’an. “You’re insane! Shen Bo’an! You’d blow yourself up too?! You madman!” The nearest bodyguard reacted with lightning speed. He took a lateral step, his right hand clamping down like an iron vise on Shen Moqing’s shoulder, fingers digging deep into the flesh beneath the suit fabric, and slammed him heavily to the floor. Shen Moqing’s back hit the ground with a heavy thud and a pained, gasping wheeze. He curled up, unable to rise again. Amidst the chaos, dust and pale yellow gas swirled, obscuring vision. Lu Chenzhou moved. He did not charge toward Shen Bo’an, nor did he attempt to snatch the detonator held in the other man’s hand—the distance was too great, with two bodyguards blocking the way at an angle. The chance of success was infinitely close to zero. Instead, his body slid swiftly and silently to his own right—diagonally backward to where Shen Yan stood. His left foot pivoted, his right foot tracing a half-step arc. The entire motion was fluid, as if rehearsed a thousand times. Simultaneously, his right arm extended at a precise angle, fingers splayed, and he clamped down on Shen Yan’s wrist, which hung limply at his side, trembling slightly. The touch was cold. Beneath the skin, he could clearly feel a pulse beating wildly, chaotically. Lu Chenzhou tightened his grip, pulling Shen Yan firmly behind him. The force was controlled perfectly—decisive enough to ensure the pull, yet careful not to make Shen Yan lose balance and fall. At the same time, his body turned with the pull, using most of his frame—his shoulder, his side—to form a solid barrier between Shen Yan and Shen Bo’an. The maneuver was executed with extreme speed. From initiating the pull to completing the protective stance, the entire process took less than two seconds. Shen Yan stumbled a step, his forehead lightly bumping against Lu Chenzhou’s solid shoulder blade, letting out a muffled grunt. Lu Chenzhou did not look back. His eyes remained fixed like a hawk’s on Shen Bo’an’s figure beyond the haze. At the very instant Shen Yan was pulled away, Shen Bo’an’s eyes—which had remained placid and fathomless until now—contracted almost imperceptibly. Though they returned to normal immediately, the flicker did not escape Lu Chenzhou’s rapt observation. The thumb on Shen Bo’an’s right hand, which still held the detonator, remained poised above the red button, but the second knuckle of his index finger tightened ever so slightly, turning white. And his gaze—in that fraction of a second when Lu Chenzhou pulled Shen Yan away, Shen Bo’an’s eyes, defying his current posture of absolute control, instinctively followed Shen Yan’s movement for a tiny distance. Then, as if tugged by an invisible string, they were forcibly dragged back, locking once more onto Lu Chenzhou. Extremely subtle reactions. Fleeting. But Lu Chenzhou caught them. A faint glimmer pierced the icy depths of his heart. *The gamble paid off.* “ The icy calm on Shen Bo'an's face cracked for the first time, a clear fissure. It was subtle—just the utterly weary, bleak curve at the corner of his mouth vanishing completely, his lips pressed into a rigid, straight line. His eyelids drooped slightly, the thick, gray-white lashes shielding the look in his eyes that might have revealed everything in an instant. He did not immediately deny it. He did not even refute it. This silence itself was the loudest admission. The chaos in the room was escalating further. Someone was trying to smash the metal grille of the ventilation duct with a chair, producing a grating, ear-splitting screech and thuds; someone had slumped to the floor, muttering with vacant eyes, drool trickling from the corner of their mouth. The pale yellow gas continued to seep thread by thread from the vents. The pungent, choking odor in the air—like a mix of ammonia and sulfur—grew stronger, making throats itch and eyes stream with tears. It mingled with the musty smell of old paper, dust, and the sour stench of panic-sweat from the crowd, forming a dizzying, nauseatingly sweet, foul miasma. Shen Bo'an remained silent. Those few seconds stretched into infinity, punctuated only by the pitiless, ghostly green digits ticking down on the detonator's screen (**39:14**, **39:13**...) and the increasingly distinct, low hum and faint metallic grinding noise rising from deep beneath their feet—reminders that time was slipping away, second by second, toward the abyss of destruction. He finally raised his eyes. His gaze swept past Lu Chenzhou. "Forty minutes," Lu Chenzhou said slowly. He shielded Shen Yan, his shoe soles grinding over scattered fragments of paper on the floor with a soft, rustling sound, then shifted another half-step to the side. Their current position was now roughly seven meters from the enormous family tree diagram on the eastern wall. The air was thick with dust and the sour smell of old, heated glue. "You gave us forty minutes. But the real collapse might not take that long." He paused, his gaze like a nail, driving straight into the pocket watch in Shen Bo'an's left hand. "Or, you gave *yourself* forty minutes—to accomplish something. To destroy whatever is inside that pocket watch, for instance." Shen Bo'an's stroking motion over the pocket watch abruptly ceased. The metal casing reflected a cold gleam between his fingers. That moment of stillness was so brief it was almost imperceptible. But Lu Chenzhou saw it. The corner of his left eye twitched slightly—an unconscious physical confirmation signal his body gave when his thoughts aligned. *The pocket watch is the key. More crucial than the detonator.* "Let him go," Shen Bo'an's voice turned icy again, but that iciness now betrayed a thread of intensely suppressed agitation, like an undercurrent beneath frozen layers. "I'll say it one last time. Let Shen Yan go, and I can make your death... less painful." "You can't," Lu Chenzhou said. His tone was calm, as if stating a law of physics. Shen Bo'an narrowed his eyes. His right hand, gripping the detonator, pressed the pad of his thumb tightly against the plastic edge of the red button, the skin turning pale. "You have the detonator. You could press it right now," Lu Chenzhou continued, his pace measured, each word slicing through the air with surgical precision. "But you won't. Because Shen Yan is here. Because what's in that pocket watch—you fear its public exposure more than the outcome of 'mutual destruction.'" He paused, driving in the final thrust. His voice was not loud, but it pierced like an awl: "Shen Bo'an, you are a 'cleaner.' You're accustomed to working in the shadows, accustomed to making all traces vanish without a trace. You cannot bear—your own 'handiwork' being laid out under the bright sun, seen by everyone. Especially, being seen by Shen Yan." Shen Bo'an's breathing showed its first clear sign of disturbance. The rise and fall of his chest grew more pronounced. His right hand, holding the detonator, kept his thumb less than a millimeter from the red button, yet it seemed tethered by an invisible thread; his knuckles were white with tension, but he could not press down. A faint, suppressed rasp escaped his throat. "Uncle..." Shen Yan's voice was choked with tears, yet it carried a strange, fierce edge, like a tightly drawn bowstring. "Is it... in the pocket watch... is it my father... no, is it you and that person..." "Shut up!" Shen Bo'an cut him off sharply, his voice so shrill it nearly cracked, sparking a brief echo in The pen slipped from his hand, tracing a short, sharp whistling sound through the air as it shot straight toward the tall bodyguard who had been blocking the main door behind Shen Bo'an. The bodyguard was caught off guard, instinctively raising his arm to block. The pen struck the hard muscle of his forearm with a *smack*, bounced off, and landed on the concrete floor with a crisp *clack*. An insignificant attack. But it was enough. In the instant all eyes were drawn to the pen, Lu Chenzhou had already dropped low and charged forward. The soles of his leather shoes scraped the floor with a brief, sharp screech. He wasn't lunging at Shen Bo'an, but at the nearby toppled filing rack—and the mountain of old documents spilled across the floor. *Crash—!* Dust erupted like a cloud of filthy fog. The choking smell of moldy paper, mixed with the sharp, sour stench of some aged ink, instantly flooded his mouth and nose. His vision was mostly obscured, only vague human shapes visible in the haze. "Get him!" Shen Bo'an's roar rose from within the dust, carrying a rare, nearly panicked edge. The other bodyguard growled and lunged toward the densest part of the dust cloud, his heavy footsteps thudding. But Lu Chenzhou wasn't there. Already using the dust as cover, he had slid like a shadow hugging the ground, his back almost grazing the cold, rough wall, reaching the vicinity of the east wall—only three meters from that family genealogy chart. Dust clung to his eyelashes, bringing a faint, itchy sensation. Shen Bo'an whirled around sharply, his right hand raising the detonator, his thumbnail digging deep into the soft rubber edge of the red button from the force. "Uncle!" Shen Yan's shriek tore through the murky air at that moment. Shen Bo'an's hand froze. He saw that Shen Yan had somehow broken free from Lu Chenzhou's cover and was now standing at the edge of the dust cloud, his face deathly pale, but his eyes glaring at him, bloodshot. That gaze held fear, despair, and a kind of... venomous hatred he had never seen on his nephew's face before. "Are you going to blow me up too?" Shen Yan's voice trembled, yet was unnaturally clear, each word like shards of ice. "Just like you dealt with those people back then? Just like you dealt with my father?" Shen Bo'an's pupils constricted to pinpoints. The muscles on his face twitched, as if struck by an invisible whip. That moment of hesitation was enough. Lu Chenzhou had already rushed to the family genealogy chart. It was a huge embroidery piece framed in dark teak, densely stitched with the branches of the Shen family lineage over nearly a century. Gold and silver threads shimmered with a faint, cold luster under the emergency lights' pale glow. He reached out, his fingers quickly tracing along the edges of the frame, his fingertips brushing over the wood grain and fine dust particles. No mechanism. No hidden catch. "Lower left corner!" Shen Yan shouted urgently behind him, his voice hoarse from agitation. "The embroidery thread of the 'Shen' character in the lower left corner... it's loose! When I was a kid... I climbed up to play, pulled on it... that part moves!" Lu Chenzhou's fingers immediately shifted to the lower left corner. Sure enough. A small section of the embroidery thread at the lower right corner of the 'Shen' character was noticeably looser than the rest, the end slightly lifted, its color a shade darker, as if repeatedly rubbed. He pinched that loose end, his fingertips registering the silk's slickness and fine roughness. He pulled hard— *Click.* A faint but distinct mechanical sound came from within the frame, like some slumbering bone being roused. The entire genealogy chart, along with the seemingly solid concrete wall behind it, slowly rotated inward by thirty degrees. The hinges emitted a dry, grating sound. Revealing a dark, narrow gap behind it, just wide enough for one person to squeeze through sideways. Chilly, damp air immediately surged from the gap, like a cold tongue licking his cheek. It carried the distinctive earthy, fishy scent of underground soil, the musty odor of aged stone bricks, and a kind of... indescribable, faint metallic rust. Emergency passage. Found. "No—!" Shen Bo'an's howl finally lost all composure at that moment, becoming a beast-like roar. He hesitated no longer, his right thumb pressing down hard. But what he pressed was not the detonator's red button—but a smaller, black backup button beside it. The plastic button was pressed all the way down with a dull *clunk*. *Beep—! Beep—! Beep—!* A sharp "The load-bearing pillars..." Shen Yan's face was devoid of color, his lips trembling. "He's detonating parts of the load-bearing structure remotely... The archives... they're starting to collapse!" Lu Chenzhou turned his head. Dust was slowly settling. He saw Shen Boan standing in the center of the room, the flickering light of the emergency lamp stretching and shrinking the distorted shadows on his face. His right hand still gripped the detonator fiercely, his knuckles white, but his left hand—that pocket watch he had always clutched tightly—now hung at his side. The silver chain slipped from between his fingers, swaying slightly in the air, reflecting broken shards of light. He was looking at Shen Yan. In those eyes that had always been calm and still, deep as an ancient well, something extremely complex now churned: despair, regret, madness, and a trace of... something almost like a relieved release. That gaze was like a red-hot branding iron, searing Shen Yan's face. "A-Yan," Shen Boan's voice, in the gaps between the sharp alarms, was so faint it was almost inaudible, yet it pierced the clamor with startling clarity. "Go." Then he abruptly turned and walked, step by step, with absolute resolve, in the opposite direction of the emergency passage—deeper into the archives, toward those dark areas already rumbling with the sounds of collapse, choked with swirling dust. His back was straight, yet he moved like a body walking toward its grave. "Uncle!" Shen Yan tried to rush forward, but Lu Chenzhou grabbed his wrist. The teenager's wrist bones were slender and cold, his skin slick with cold sweat. "No time." Lu Chenzhou's voice was cold and hard as iron, brooking no argument. "The passage can only stay open for thirty seconds. After thirty seconds, the painting frame will automatically reset and lock." He could feel the frame door beginning to move back, extremely slowly but inexorably, its hinges emitting a faint creak. He dragged Shen Yan toward the gap. Their feet crunched over scattered documents and broken glass, the sound sharp and brittle. Just as he was about to turn sideways and squeeze through, Lu Chenzhou's footsteps suddenly halted. His gaze, sharp as a hawk's, fell to the floor—the spot where Shen Boan had just been standing. That old silver pocket watch lay quietly amidst the dust and paper scraps. Its case reflected a faint, stubborn gleam under the flickering emergency light, like a silent eye. Shen Boan had not taken it with him. He had left it behind. Lu Chenzhou bent down and picked up the pocket watch. The metal case was icy cold to the touch, its edges slightly worn and burred, scraping against the skin of his palm with a subtle, distinct sting. The case still retained the warmth of Shen Boan's fingers, an ominous heat that was rapidly dissipating. He had no time to examine it closely. He directly stuffed the watch into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, tight against his chest. The cold metal pressed through the fabric of his shirt against his skin, causing his heart to clench. Then he shoved Shen Yan into the dark entrance of the passage. "Get in!" Shen Yan stumbled into the darkness, his shoulder colliding with the rough stone wall with a muffled grunt. Lu Chenzhou followed immediately after, slipping sideways into the gap. The cold, damp stone walls immediately pressed in, scraping against his suit fabric with a rasping sound. The air inside the passage was even colder and more dank, carrying a heavy smell of earth that drilled straight into his lungs. Just as his entire body disappeared into the darkness— ***BOOM—!!!*** A sound of collapse far more terrifying than any previous noise erupted violently from behind, like a giant beast roaring in their ears. A blast of scorching air, mixed with rubble, dust, and searing heat, surged in through the not-yet-fully-closed gap, smashing hard against Lu Chenzhou's back. Rubble struck his shoulder blades, sending a wave of dull pain. Dust and heat rushed into his throat, burning painfully. The painting frame door of the emergency passage shuddered violently under the impact of the blast wave, groaning under the strain, and then began to accelerate its closure. Through the last sliver of light, now stained a murky yellow by dust, about to vanish, Lu Chenzhou saw— The main hall of the archives was collapsing at a visible rate. Massive reinforced concrete load-bearing pillars snapped in the middle, their twisted steel reinforcement bars protruding like the ribs of a monster. Sections of the ceiling fell in chunks, crashing to the ground, sending plumes of dust soaring into the air, rubble flying in all directions. The towering stacks of filing cabinets toppled like dominoes pushed by an invisible giant hand, the ear-piercing sounds of metal cabinets colliding, deforming, Absolute, viscous darkness instantly descended, like cold ink flooding the entire space. Vision was stripped away, and the other senses immediately sharpened. Only the continuous, thunderous roar of collapse from behind came through the thick walls and picture frames, faint but constant, one after another. It sounded like the dying gasps of some colossal beast, or like a heartbeat from deep within the earth, shaking the ground beneath their feet with a faint tremor. The air was thick with the pungent smell of dust, and a trace of... an elusive, strange odor of burnt protein. Lu Chenzhou leaned against the cold, damp stone wall covered in slippery moss, breathing heavily. Each inhalation burned his lungs with a fiery pain, carrying the sweet, rusty tang of dust and blood. His throat was parched and tight. His suit jacket was covered in dust, and the spot on his shoulder struck by rubble throbbed with a dull ache. In the darkness, so close it felt tangible, came Shen Yan's suppressed, intermittent sobs, the sound muffled in his throat, trembling with despair. "He... he's dead..." Shen Yan's voice was shattered, echoing in the narrow passageway. "Uncle... why... why..." Lu Chenzhou did not answer. He needed to conserve oxygen and, more importantly, to clear his thoughts. Groping in the dark, he took out the pocket watch from his inner pocket. The case was still cold to the touch in the darkness, but soon a small area was warmed by the heat of his palm. His thumb found the almost imperceptible tiny latch on the edge of the case. Feeling the metal protrusion with his fingertip, he pressed it gently. *Click.* A faint yet clear, metallic sound of a hinge, jarringly sharp in the deathly silence of the dark. The pocket watch was open. There was no dial, no hands. The inside of the case had been cleverly modified into a miniature compartment. Within it were two thin, already yellowed and brittle items, pasted flat. Lu Chenzhou turned sideways, blocking any possible, non-existent sliver of light that might seep through the cracks from behind with his body. Carefully, he touched them with his fingertips. The first was an old photograph. It seemed even older than the 1996 group photo he had seen earlier in the filing cabinet. The paper was stiff and brittle, its edges worn and frayed. He could barely feel the raised contours of the image with his fingers. He couldn't see in the dark, but the image from that fleeting glimpse was etched precisely into his memory: in the photo, two young men stood side by side under an old locust tree. Both wore the typical Mao suits of that era, their clothes crisp, their smiles bright, their eyes shining. The background was the blurred wall of an old-style courtyard. The one on the left...