Lu Chenzhou pressed his back against the wall, the brick surface beneath his palm icy to the bone. He held the letter opener in a reverse grip, the cold of the blade seeping into the lines of his palm. He suppressed his breathing to the barest minimum, his eardrums straining to catch everything outside the door—the dull thuds of drawers being rifled through, the sharp *rip* of fabric tearing, and the short, low command: “…Nothing.” The muscle at the corner of his left eye began to twitch, very faintly, like a broken clock gear spinning idly. The lingering anesthetic gas made his temples throb dully, and fine specks of static flickered at the edges of his vision. The inner pocket of his suit jacket pressed tightly against his chest, holding Shen Bojun’s suicide note and that photograph from 1996. The edge of the evidence bag dug into his ribs, the cold, hard sensation feeling more like a branding iron. New footsteps sounded from downstairs. Heavier. Faster. *The wheel has started turning*, he told himself. *No retreat, no window, no miracles. Only this storage room piled with mildewed canvas, and the net tightening outside the door.* No, not outside the door. *Behind him*. Extremely close, almost brushing his ear, came a sound so faint it was almost imperceptible, deliberately suppressed— His muscles tensed instantly. He spun around with minimal movement, his left hand shooting out like an iron clamp toward the throat of the person behind him, the blade in his right hand poised to strike. His knuckles stopped just short of making contact, less than an inch from the Adam’s apple. In the shadows, the outline of Qin Wangshu’s face materialized. She didn’t flinch, didn’t even step back. She just looked at him with those familiar eyes, now unfathomably deep, and slowly shook her head. The tips of Lu Chenzhou’s fingers could feel the pulse in her carotid artery, unnervingly steady. She wore a police uniform jacket, the epaulets gleaming coldly in the gloom. She carried a scent utterly foreign to the old house—faint car exhaust, the chill of the night air outside, and a very subtle whiff of disinfectant, the kind used in police station restrooms. Qin Wangshu’s gaze moved past his shoulder to the closed wooden door. New activity came from downstairs; footsteps began moving toward the stairs. She raised her left hand and quickly traced a few directions in the air with her fingertips: *At least three downstairs, both front and back doors covered.* Then she pointed at the window, pointed at herself, and made a gesture: *Follow me, create a diversion.* His eyes swept to the position of her service weapon at her waist—it was in the holster, safety on. Her breathing was shallow, the rise and fall of her chest barely visible, but a fine layer of sweat beaded at her temples, glistening with moisture in the faint light from the window. He took a deep breath, suppressing the flood of questions surging within him, and gave a slight nod. His left hand released her neck. As he withdrew it, his fingertips unconsciously brushed against his own sleeve—there was a tear there, made earlier by a metal shelf in the archive room. He quickly pulled the photograph and the key pages of the suicide note from his inner suit pocket and sealed them again inside a spare waterproof evidence bag. The rustle of the plastic film sounded brittle and alarmingly loud in the dead silence. Qin Wangshu’s pupils contracted slightly, but she didn’t move. The sealing was complete. He shoved the evidence bag back into the deepest part of his inner pocket, tight against his heart. Then he raised his hand, pointed at himself, then at the direction of the sounds downstairs, then toward the remembered location of the old house’s kitchen—there should still be old-fashioned gas pipes there. Finally, he looked at Qin Wangshu. Qin Wangshu understood his gesture. She nodded, pulled a palm-sized black device from her belt. It wasn’t standard police issue; it looked more like a privately modified signal jammer. She held up three fingers, curled them, then straightened them—*Three minutes.* He pulled open the storage room door, the gap just wide enough to squeeze through sideways. The corridor was pitch black, only the wavering beams of flashlights shining up from below the staircase landing. The smell of mildew and dust was stronger here, mixed with the cheap tobacco scent carried by the searchers downstairs. His footstep landed on the rotting floorboards, producing a soft *creak*. He counted his own heartbeats. *One. Two. Three.* The kitchen was at the other end of the corridor, its door slightly ajar. Qin Wangshu’s figure slid inside like a Lu Chenzhou shouldered his way through the door, slamming it shut behind him. The kitchen was a mess. An old cast-iron gas stove had been dismantled. Qin Wangshu was crouched beside the gas pipe, holding a length of wire stripped of its insulation, the other end connected to the gas valve. The air was thick with the pungent, suffocating odor of gas, mixed with a rusty, metallic tang. "Not enough range for an ignition source," she said rapidly, not looking up. "I need you to lure them to the doorway. Within three meters." "Let them see you." Qin Wangshu finally looked up, her eyes holding a focus that bordered on ruthlessness. "Then get behind the stove. Now." Lu Chenzhou didn't hesitate. He pulled the door open, exposing half his body in the beam of a flashlight. The man charging up the stairs—Old Wu, the one who had been speaking earlier—saw him, his pupils dilating instantly as he raised his stun baton and rushed forward. Old Wu reached the doorway, but his steps faltered for a split second—he smelled the gas. But his companion behind him pushed forward, shoving him inside. There was only a muffled *whoomp*, followed immediately by a blinding torrent of orange-red flame erupting from the dismantled pipe like an enraged fire dragon, instantly swallowing the space before the door. A wave of heat, carrying the stench of scorching and gas, washed over them. Lu Chenzhou had already ducked behind the cast-iron stove, the searing air current grazing his hair. Flashlight beams swung wildly. Staggering figures stumbled back, accompanied by panicked shouts: "Fire! Gas leak!" Qin Wangshu was already on her feet, sprinting toward the grease-stained window on the kitchen's back wall. She drove her elbow into the glass. A sharp *crash* echoed, shards flying everywhere. Cold wind rushed in, thinning the smoke and smell of burning. Lu Chenzhou followed. Outside the window was the adjacent low warehouse, its corrugated iron roof gleaming cold and pale under the moonlight. The distance was less than two meters, but the drop was over three. Qin Wangshu had already jumped, her feet landing on the iron roof with a loud *clang* that echoed far into the night. More shouts rose from below, but they were blocked by the flames and smoke. Lu Chenzhou climbed onto the windowsill, glancing down—Qin Wangshu was below, reaching up toward him, palm open, fingers spread. A gesture of assistance. He took a deep breath of air mingled with cold wind and the smell of char, and leaped. The moment his feet hit the iron roof, the impact shot from his ankles straight to his knees. He grunted, rolling forward to dissipate the force. Qin Wangshu grabbed his arm, her grip strong, pulling him toward the edge of the warehouse roof. Below was an overgrown backyard, weeds waist-high, rustling in the night wind. The weeds cushioned their fall, but the dry, stiff stems scraped across his cheeks and the backs of his hands, leaving a web of stinging scratches. Lu Chenzhou rolled over and scrambled up, looking back—the kitchen window of the old house's second floor still billowed smoke, but the flames didn't seem to be spreading; only thick, rolling smoke remained. Figures moved at the window, but none pursued them. Qin Wangshu was already up, brushing grass and debris from her clothes, heading for a breach in the backyard wall. Her movements were clean, efficient. No extra words, no glance back to confirm he was following—she assumed he would. Through the breach in the wall was a back alley. No streetlights, only a faint glow seeping in from the distant main road. A dark gray sedan was parked in the shadows, lights off, like a crouching beast. Qin Wangshu pulled open the driver's door and got in. The engine started, the sound kept low. Lu Chenzhou opened the passenger door. As he slid inside, the solid *thud* of the door closing shut out the outside world. The car's air conditioning was on, warm air mixing with the faint scent of lemon air freshener and leather. The dashboard glowed with an indigo light, reflecting on Qin Wangshu's tense profile. She shifted into gear, released the handbrake, and the car slid silently out of the shadows, merging onto the empty late-night street. In the rearview mirror, the direction of the old house was just a blurry outline, with faint, rising black smoke. Lu Chenzhou leaned back in the seat. The twitching in the corner of his left eye finally stopped. He pressed a hand to his chest. The evidence bag was still there, its edge rubbing against his shirt fabric with a faint Lu Chenzhou’s eyelid twitched sharply. The reception room’s stark fluorescent light, the reporters’ flashguns poised to fire, and Zhao Tieshan’s eyes, looking especially gloomy under the glare—all of it carried a weight that pressed down on him the moment he stepped across the threshold. The air, thick with the unique blend of disinfectant, old paper, and the accumulated sweat of long-held anxiety, rushed violently into his nostrils. The sleeve of Qin Wangshu’s police uniform brushed against his arm, the fabric emitting a faint rustle. She took half a step forward, her body turning slightly to form a posture somewhere between guiding and shielding. “Captain Zhao.” Her voice was exceptionally clear and professional amidst the chaotic background noise. “Lu Chenzhou is here.” Zhao Tieshan stood behind the office desk, hands braced on the edge, his knuckles white from the pressure. He was in his regular uniform, cap-less, his graying short hair standing on end like an enraged old lion. He looked at Qin Wangshu first, his gaze so complex it could have wrung out ink—shock, anger at being presented with a *fait accompli*, and a deeper, more profound wariness of someone backed into a corner. Then, his eyes finally fell on Lu Chenzhou’s face. “Lu. Chen. Zhou.” Zhao Tieshan pronounced each syllable slowly, each word ground out like stones from between clenched teeth. The three or four reporters clustered around the desk immediately stirred. Cameras were raised, tentative shutter clicks sounding sporadically. A male reporter with black-framed glasses pushed half a step forward, his digital recorder almost poking into Lu Chenzhou’s chest. “Mr. Lu, I’m from *Urban Investigation*. May I ask, does your voluntary arrival at the Municipal Public Security Bureau tonight signify a breakthrough discovery in the Shen Yan case? Is what you’re holding evidence?” The question was like a knife, slicing directly through the surface calm. Lu Chenzhou didn’t look at the reporter. His gaze remained fixed on Zhao Tieshan’s face. He could see the faint pulsing of a blood vessel near Zhao Tieshan’s temple, could smell the heavy, cloying scent of tobacco clinging to him—the body odor of anxiety. Behind Zhao Tieshan, the police emblem on the wall, in its red and blue colors, gleamed with a cold, hard metallic sheen under the lights. “Captain Zhao.” Lu Chenzhou spoke, his voice not loud but steady, cutting through the background clamor. “I possess crucial physical evidence pertaining to the case I was involved in seven years ago, as well as the current death of Mr. Shen Yan. I need to formally submit it to the police and request an investigation in accordance with the law.” He avoided “voluntarily came” and used “need to submit.” The posture shifted from “turning oneself in” to “cooperation.” A subtle difference, but it meant something entirely different to Zhao Tieshan’s ears. Zhao Tieshan’s jaw muscles bulged. He glanced at Qin Wangshu. Her face was expressionless, only her right hand resting lightly on the leather holster of her sidearm—a seemingly natural gesture, yet one filled with vigilance and implication. He swept his gaze over the reporters again. Their eyes gleamed behind their lenses, like hyenas catching the scent of blood. “Qin Wangshu,” Zhao Tieshan finally spoke, his voice raspy. “Quite the production you’ve arranged.” “The reporters came on their own, responding to an anonymous tip, Captain Zhao,” Qin Wangshu replied flawlessly. “Lu Chenzhou has voluntarily come forward carrying physical evidence that may involve major cases. By both reason and protocol, we should accept it. Considering the potential public attention the case may attract, having media present also helps ensure procedural transparency.” “Transparency…” Zhao Tieshan chewed on the word, then suddenly let out a short, humorless laugh. He stopped looking at Qin Wangshu and focused back on Lu Chenzhou. “What evidence? Show it. I’m warning you, Lu Chenzhou, this is the Municipal Public Security Bureau. You understand the consequences of fabricating evidence, obstructing an investigation, or spreading rumors.” “I understand,” Lu Chenzhou said. He reached his hand into the inner pocket of his suit jacket. The edge of the plastic evidence bag rubbed against his shirt, making a faint yet distinct rustling sound. In the suddenly quiet reception room, the sound was amplified, tugging at every nerve. He slowly pulled out two transparent, waterproof bags. He didn’t fully raise them, just laid them flat on the desk before Zhao Tieshan. In one bag was a photocopy of an obviously aged color group photo. Even through the plastic film, one could see the yellowed background He paused, letting the three characters "Gu Zhiyuan" sink into the air. "And this," his fingertip moved to the page of handwritten text, "is an excerpt from the handwritten suicide note of Mr. Shen Bojun—the late uncle of Mr. Shen Moqing. It explicitly mentions that in 1997, under someone's instigation, he used his position to assist in falsifying a crucial project acceptance report. The person who instigated him promised to help his son secure a formal job placement afterwards. And the intermediary who handled the liaison, conveyed the instructions, and delivered the 'remuneration' was this Gu Zhiyuan." The reception room was dead silent. Only the faint hum of the recorder's circuitry and the soft, involuntary inhale of a reporter who had been holding their breath too long. Zhao Tieshan's face shifted from livid to a bloodless pallor. He stared fixedly at the photocopy of the suicide note, his lips pressed into a white line. He recognized Shen Bojun's handwriting; at the very least, he had seen signatures on some old Shen family documents. This shaky, despair-tinged script didn't look fake. The reporter with the black-rimmed glasses was the first to react, his words rapid-fire: "Mr. Lu, you're accusing this Mr. Gu Zhiyuan of being involved in misconduct from years ago. What is the specific connection between this, the politically motivated murder case you were convicted of seven years ago, and the current Shen Yan case? Where is Gu Zhiyuan now?" "Gu Zhiyuan," Lu Chenzhou raised his eyes, his gaze sweeping over the reporters before finally settling back on Zhao Tieshan's face, "passed away in 2011 from a sudden heart attack. That's the official record." A low murmur of surprise rippled through the group of reporters. Dead, leaving no one to testify? "However," Lu Chenzhou's voice rose a notch, cutting through the noise, "in the case I was accused of seven years ago, a key documentary piece of evidence used to prove my so-called 'motive' and 'benefit transfer'—the minutes of an internal meeting regarding the planning adjustment of the North Mountain plot—upon analysis of handwriting and paper, its earliest textual source is highly correlated with archival documents handled by Gu Zhiyuan during his lifetime. Furthermore, one of the key witnesses who testified in court, identifying my 'solicitation of bribes,' three months before the incident, received a remittance from overseas into his personal account. The transfer path involved multiple layers of intermediaries, but the registration information of one inactive intermediary account is linked to a cousin of Gu Zhiyuan's who emigrated overseas many years ago." His speech was steady, his wording precise. There were no impassioned accusations, only icy statements. Each "correlation" was like a cold needle piercing the thick curtain of time. "As for the Shen Yan case," Lu Chenzhou continued, picking up the photocopy of the group photo, "in the final period of his life, Mr. Shen Yan had repeatedly attempted to access certain archival files from his family enterprise's early days, particularly from the mid-to-late 1990s, especially those related to municipal projects. One week before the 'accident' he encountered, he confided to a personal friend that he might have 'found some unpleasant things left behind by his grandfather's generation.' And Mr. Shen Bojun was precisely Mr. Shen Yan's granduncle. This suicide note was found in a hidden location in Mr. Shen Bojun's old residence." He did not say "Shen Yan died because of this." He merely laid out the facts—Shen Yan was investigating old matters; the old matters involved Gu Zhiyuan and Shen Bojun; Shen Bojun left a suicide note accusing Gu Zhiyuan—like puzzle pieces. He let the listeners connect the lines themselves. "Absurd!" Zhao Tieshan slammed his palm onto the table with a loud *bang* that made the pen holder on the desk jump. His chest heaved as he pointed at Lu Chenzhou. "You think you can overturn an ironclad case from seven years ago based on an old photo, a page of so-called suicide note of unknown authenticity, and these vague 'correlations' of yours? And you want to link Shen Yan's death to this? Lu Chenzhou, haven't you had enough of sitting in prison for seven years?!" "Captain Zhao!" Qin Wangshu stepped forward, her voice suddenly stern. "Lu Chenzhou is submitting evidence, applying for an investigation! Whether it's vague or absurd should be determined by technical department analysis, by investigative department verification! Not by your subjective judgment here!" "Qin Wangshu! Do you have any sense of discipline left in your eyes?!" Zhao Tieshan's temples bulged with veins. "Who gave you permission to bring him in here without authorization? Who gave you permission to notify the media At that very moment, flashbulbs erupted in a frenzy. *Click*... *click*... Patches of blinding white light linked together, devouring the two figures locked in confrontation, and devouring the two thin yet heavy folders of photocopies on the table. The reporters grew excited—this was the scene they wanted: internal police conflict, a heavyweight historical mystery, aristocratic secrets... all the elements for a headline were present. Lu Chenzhou stood at the eye of the storm, yet was strangely calm. He even took a subtle half-step back, fully ceding the stage to the argument between Zhao Tieshan and Qin Wangshu, and to those greedily flashing lenses. A faint twitch tugged at the corner of his left eye, so slight only he could feel it. Inside his suit pocket, the true original will and that faded yellow old photograph pressed against his chest, transmitting a constant, icy pressure with every heartbeat. He understood why Zhao Tieshan was furious. It wasn't just about being checkmated. More importantly, on that page of the will photocopy, besides Gu Zhiyuan, there was mention of another, more obscure designation—"the person above." Shen Bojun hadn't used a name, only this vague, ambiguous term. But Zhao Tieshan must have understood it, or guessed at a possibility that filled him with dread. That was the real pressure. Not from Lu Chenzhou, not even from the media, but from the unspoken, potentially earth-shattering subtext on that piece of paper. The sounds of argument were especially jarring in the intervals between flashes. Zhao Tieshan's voice had taken on a hoarse desperation: "...You're poking a hole in the sky! Qin Wangshu, can you bear the consequences?!" "If the sky was already leaking," Qin Wangshu's voice was cold as ice, "could covering it up ever mend it?" Right then, there was a light knock on the reception room door. A young police officer peeked in, his face somewhat pale. He glanced at the tense atmosphere in the room, steeled himself, and said, "Team Leader Zhao, the Provincial Department... the Legal System Unit of the Provincial Department is on the phone for you. It's urgent." Zhao Tieshan's words cut off abruptly. The anger on his face instantly froze, then slowly faded, transforming into a deeper, almost ashen exhaustion. He looked at the two folders of photocopies on the table, then at the room full of reporters. Finally, his gaze, laden with immense complexity, swept past Lu Chenzhou and settled on Qin Wangshu's face. That look held anger, the pain of betrayal, and also a sense of... resignation. "Fine... just fine," he murmured, his voice almost inaudible. Then, he straightened his back, once again donning that formulaic mask befitting a team leader. He turned to the reporters, cleared his throat, and his voice regained its loudness, though it rang hollow: "Friends from the media, we have gained a preliminary understanding of the situation. Regarding the materials submitted by Comrade Lu Chenzhou today, our Municipal Bureau will attach the highest importance, act strictly in accordance with laws and regulations, and immediately organize specialized personnel to conduct verification and appraisal. As for the historical clues involved and any potential connections to ongoing investigations, we will investigate thoroughly to the very end, with absolutely no leniency!" Empty talk. Standard, impeccable empty talk. But "investigate thoroughly to the very end" and "absolutely no leniency"— The fluorescent lights in the Municipal Bureau courtyard made the deep night as bright as day.