Shen Yanhuan. The name scraped across Lu Chenzhou’s mind for the third time as he turned into the street where he rented. Half the streetlights were out; the remaining few cast faint, yellowish halos like overnight tea, trembling on the asphalt, outlining a few shaky circular patches. In the distance, the neon sign of a convenience store flashed a glaring blue "24 Hours," but it was on. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, his fingertips brushing against the cold teeth of his keys. Exhaustion seeped from his very bones, dragging his shoulders down. Yesterday, during the early morning stakeout outside the Shen family mansion, a window on the second floor had indeed lit up. For three to five seconds, a dim yellow light had leaked from the gap in the heavy curtains before going out. At the time, he thought it was an illusion, or perhaps a servant getting up in the night. Now, thinking back, that window’s position aligned precisely with the location of Shen Yanhuan’s studio in the information he had. Coincidence? Or a response—an answer to his cracking of the "L"-shaped zone password? His stomach twisted. Not from hunger, but from a more familiar discomfort—the feeling of being outmaneuvered. The building entrance was ten meters ahead. An old six-story slab building, its beige exterior paint peeling and mottled, revealing the dull gray concrete beneath. The ground-floor windows were fitted with security grilles, rust staining the iron bars a dark red. A hunched figure was squatting by the doorway, two bulging plastic bags at their feet. Lu Chenzhou didn’t break stride. It was only as he got closer that he recognized Granny Zhang from the second floor. The old lady was in her seventies, a former textile mill worker who, unable to stay idle after retirement, sold insoles and socks at the street corner. She had just finished packing up her stall and was catching her breath, leaning on her knees. Half-wilted celery leaves poked out from one of the plastic bags. "Granny Zhang," he said, his voice hoarser than he expected. The old lady looked up, squinting to see. "Oh, Xiao Lu." Her wrinkles bunched together. "Just getting back? It’s so late." "Yeah, some business." Lu Chenzhou stepped forward, bent down, and picked up the heavier bag. The plastic handles bit into his palm, the rough edges chafing his skin. The bag held potatoes and radishes, dead weight. A smell of soil and vegetables on the edge of spoilage rose up, underpinned by a faint fishy odor. "Let me carry this up for you." "Oh, no need, no need..." Granny Zhang protested verbally, but her hand had already let go. She pushed herself up against the wall, her kneecaps emitting a soft *crack*. "Getting old, not much use anymore. Just buying these few things, had to stop and rest three times before I made it to the door." Lu Chenzhou didn’t reply, just held the bag and waited for her. The motion-sensor light in the stairwell was probably broken again; a pitch-black maw swallowed the upward stairs. In the distance, a night bus passed, its tires rumbling on the pavement, the sound gradually fading. The night wind swept along the ground, rustling a few dry leaves. Granny Zhang thumped her lower back and started rambling. "This light, I told the property management last week, still no one’s fixed it. I ask you, fumbling around in the pitch dark, what if someone takes a tumble? This building, all us old folks live here..." She paused, lowering her voice. "The other day, old man Li in unit three, his place got broken into in broad daylight! Isn’t that scary? The public security these days, really..." A slight twitch pulled at the corner of Lu Chenzhou’s left eye. He stepped aside to let the old lady enter the stairwell first. "Take your time." Darkness immediately enveloped them. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust. The stairwell was filled with the mingled smells of old dust and damp plaster, plus a faint, lingering hint of mildew. Granny Zhang’s keys jingled as she fished them out. She fumbled along the wall, probably looking for the light switch—even though she knew it was useless. "Xiao Lu," the old lady’s voice was especially clear in the darkness, "you live alone on the fourth floor, you need to be careful coming back at night too. I hear things haven’t been peaceful around here lately, there are drifters..." She trailed off with a sigh. "You young people are busy with work, but your Twenty-six years old. Reclusive. In poor health. In the summer of 1996, appeared on the auxiliary logistics personnel rotation roster for the "Archives Optimization and Preservation Pilot" project at the Municipal Archives under the identity of a "student teacher." That roster was never formally archived; it was mixed in a pile of papers slated for destruction. He had seen it ten years ago, due to another case—one involving economic crimes, requiring a check on associated personnel. At the time, it was just a fleeting glance; the name hadn't even registered in his mind. But now the memory was forcibly awakened. The tin pencil case, the charred floor plan, the deliberately outlined "L"-shaped area. Not a coincidence. The anonymous person knew he could recall it. Knew he had come across that material ten years ago. Knew how his memory worked. This was more spine-chilling than a simple threat. Lu Chenzhou started walking upstairs. His footsteps echoed in the empty stairwell. Third floor. Fourth floor. His rented apartment was at the far east end of the fourth floor, 401. An old-style security door, its dark green paint peeling badly, revealing the dull red rust underneath. He fished the key from his pocket. The icy metal sensation had just reached his fingertips. The shadow behind him moved. The key slipped from his hand, clattering onto the cement floor. Lu Chenzhou's breath was completely cut off. Rough fabric—like a tracksuit sleeve—dug deep into the skin of his neck, while another hand, wearing a tactical glove, clamped tightly over his mouth and nose. The force was so great it nearly crushed his cheekbone. His vision instantly contracted to a pinpoint-sized black dot; his eardrums filled only with the roaring torrent of his own blood. *Can't fight the chokehold.* The judgment formed half a second before the suffocation drowned his reason. He stomped backward hard, his heel grinding viciously into the attacker's instep. Simultaneously, he slammed the back of his head backward with all his might—not expecting to knock the other out, but to use the recoil. His body lunged forward violently using that momentum, creating a momentary slack in the noose formed by his neck and the arm. *Now.* Lu Chenzhou, like a fish off the hook, wrenched half his body out of the tightening arm. The stinging pain of fresh air rushing into his lungs hadn't even registered before a precise elbow strike landed on his left side, just below the ribs. *A dull thud.* Pain, as if bones had been wrenched out of place, exploded. His stomach clenched, sour liquid surging up his throat. He staggered, crashing into the wall, his shoulder shattering the glass of the fire extinguisher cabinet beside it. The sound of shattering glass was abnormally sharp in the dead-silent corridor. The attacker didn't pause, stepping forward, a dark sneaker stepping on the fallen key. The movement was fluid, as if practiced countless times. Lu Chenzhou leaned against the wall, his left hand pressing hard against his agonizing ribs, his right hand groping through the shards of glass on the floor. His fingertips touched something cold and heavy—the rusted old fire extinguisher canister that had rolled out of the shattered cabinet. He grabbed the handle; its weight made his wrist sink. The attacker closed in, his figure just a deeper silhouette in the faint light filtering through the window, a balaclava obscuring his face. The man reached out, seemingly to grab his collar. Lu Chenzhou didn't wait. He swung the extinguisher canister, not aiming for the head—the easiest place to block—but sweeping it toward the side of the attacker's knee joint. The canister cut through the air, carrying the smell of rust and aged dry powder dust. It hit. A dull impact sound, mixed with a suppressed grunt. The attacker retreated half a step, his movement freezing for an instant. In that half-second, Lu Chenzhou saw clearly: the man had a lean, athletic build, his trained muscle lines wrapped in dark tracksuit, his gloves professional tactical fingerless ones. Not a street thug. Clean technique, clear purpose—that elbow strike just now, if shifted three inches upward, would have been the heart. *A warning, not a kill.* The attacker retreated to the window at the stairwell landing, not pressing the attack further. Night wind poured in through the open window, stirring the lower edge of his balaclava. He raised a hand to press against the side of his neck—a miniature voice changer. An electronically processed, hoarse voice sounded, cold and inhuman, each word like sandpaper grating on tinplate: "Old archives, once burned, are gone." Lu Chenzhou's breath caught in his throat. A slight twitch began at the corner of his left eye. "Next time, it'll be you." With Only his own rough, irregular gasps remained, and the sound of blood droplets falling into the dust on the floor, making an almost imperceptible, faint pattering. The place where his neck had been strangled burned with a fiery pain; swallowing felt like gulping down shards of glass. The wound beneath his ribs throbbed with each rise and fall of his breath, a sharp, persistent sting. He sat there with his back against the wall, eyes fixed unwaveringly on the window through which the assailant had vanished. The night wind kept pouring in, chilling his sweat-dampened forehead. In the distance, the occasional muffled sound of a night bus passing by drifted in, blurred and indistinct across several streets, as if from another world. The smell of years-old dust and damp plaster in the stairwell now mingled with the odors of rust, blood, and the salty tang of fear seeping from his own sweat. "The old files, once burned, are gone." That sentence replayed in his mind on a loop. The electronic voice had stripped away all personal characteristics, but the wording was precise. "Old files"—not "those papers," not "the case files," but a specific designation. The other party knew he had returned to the archives. Knew what he had accessed. Might even know what he had found. "Next time, it'll be you." The threat had escalated. From veiled warnings, to encrypted clues on a doorknob, to direct physical violence tonight. Next time, would it be fire? Like in '87? Lu Chenzhou slowly drew in a breath; the stabbing pain in his side brought cold sweat to his temples. He pressed his left hand against the floor, trying to stand. The first attempt failed, his legs too weak to muster any strength. The second time, gritting his teeth, he braced his right arm against the wall, lifting his body bit by bit off the ground. When he stood, his vision went black for several seconds. He closed his eyes, waiting for the dizziness to pass. The key was still on the floor. He bent to pick it up, the movement tugging at his wound, drawing a muffled groan of pain. His fingertips touched the cold metal and he clenched it tightly. Then he looked at that old fire extinguisher canister. Its red iron shell was mottled with rust, the carrying handle still smeared with a trace of sweat and blood from his palm. He didn't touch it. Left it there. Turning, he shuffled step by step toward the end of the fourth-floor hallway, to Room 401. His dragging footsteps echoed heavily in the silent corridor. Each step sent a reminder of pain from beneath his ribs, of what had just happened. Each step repeated that electronic warning in his mind. He reached the door. The dark green security door's paint was peeling, revealing the dark red rust beneath. He fumbled for the key, his hand still trembling slightly; it took two tries to align it with the keyhole. *Click.* The door opened. Inside was pitch black. Lu Chenzhou walked in, closed the door behind him with his back, and slid the lock into place. The sound of the metal bolt engaging was abnormally clear in the dark room. He didn't turn on the light, just slid down slowly with his back against the door to sit on the cold terrazzo floor. Darkness enveloped him. Only a sliver of extremely faint streetlight seeped through the gap in the curtains, barely outlining the simple furniture in the room: a bed, a table, a chair. The walls were bare. He sat there, back against the door, listening to his own still-unsettled, ragged breathing. The searing pain in his neck. The stabbing pain beneath his ribs. The sticky, greasy feeling of blood clinging to his skin. The taste of blood in his throat. And the dull, throbbing ache reverberating deep in his bones. All these sensory fragments now converged in the darkness, piecing together into a clear, undeniable fact: The threat was no longer abstract, no longer distant. It had just used an arm to strangle his neck, an elbow to strike his ribs, a voice modulator to leave a warning in his ear. It had weight, it had temperature, it had a specific method of inflicting pain. And he was sitting alone in this rented, cold room, wounded, weaponless, possibly with eyes still watching from outside the window. Lu Chenzhou raised his hand, lightly touched the red, swollen mark left by the strangling on his neck with his fingertips. The touch felt hot, slightly raised. Then he slowly clenched his fist. His fingernails dug deep into his palm. *** Lu Chenzhou stood under the dim yellow light of the bathroom, looking at the person in the mirror. Pale face, chapped lips, a circle of purplish-black strangulation marks around his "I detected an anomaly in the public surveillance cameras near your apartment building—a six-second signal interference between 11:47 PM and 11:53 PM. It wasn't a malfunction; it was a deliberate jamming pulse, very professional technique." Fang Mu's voice was tense. "The coverage range precisely matched the third to fifth floors of your building. I reviewed the footage before and after that window and didn't see any suspicious individuals entering or leaving, but… those six seconds are blank." Lu Chenzhou's fingertips unconsciously rubbed the edge of his phone. The left corner of his eye began twitching slightly again, and he pressed down on it firmly. "Also," Fang Mu continued, "regarding that duty roster you asked me to check—the 'Archival Optimization and Custody Pilot Project' from the 1996 Archives… I found a backup. It's not an official record but a scanned copy of a paper form circulated internally within the logistics department at the time, stored in a defunct server partition at the Municipal Archives. Shen Yanhuan's name is indeed on the list, with her position listed as 'Intern Data Organizer,' but her work area…" Fang Mu paused. "Speak," Lu Chenzhou's voice was flat. "The work area wasn't marked as the 'L-shaped Zone.'" Fang Mu's breathing came through the receiver. "It was marked as the 'Special Custody Vault.' That zone codenamed 'L' in the internal structure diagrams from that year was the colloquial name for the Special Custody Vault. It stored… sensitive archives and evidence pending destruction." Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. The shape deliberately outlined by the scorch marks on that burnt floor plan surfaced in his mind. And the indentation at the bottom of the tin pencil case: 871103. "Who had access to that vault?" he asked. "Theoretically, only the project supervisor and two designated custodians. But according to the duty roster…" Fang Mu's keyboard clicks came through. "Shen Yanhuan's shift records show that from September to November 1996, she was scheduled to 'assist with inventory' in the Special Custody Vault three to four afternoons per week. And that period was exactly the three months before the archives fire." Lu Chenzhou's breathing grew heavy. All the clues were converging in the same direction. Shen Yanhuan. The archives. The fire. And last night's icy warning—"Old files burn and they're gone; next time, you burn." "Brother Lu," Fang Mu's voice dropped even lower, "I found something else. November 3, 1996—the day of the fire—the archives' access logs show Shen Yanhuan swiped her card to enter the main building at 3:17 PM, but there's no record of her leaving. The fire broke out around 11 PM. Where was she during those eight hours in between?" "Surveillance?" "The fire destroyed most of the wiring; the surveillance footage is gone. But…" Fang Mu hesitated. "I hacked into the backup of the incident reports from the local police precinct at the time. At 10:05 PM on the night of the fire, an anonymous call was made to the precinct, reporting a burning smell at the archives. The dispatcher recorded the phone number. I reverse-tracked it—it was a public phone booth located on the back street of the archives. And that phone booth's telecom company maintenance records from September to November 1996 show it was 'faulty and inoperable.'" Lu Chenzhou clenched his fist. His fingernails dug into his palm, bringing a sharp sting. A faulty public phone booth couldn't have made a call. Unless the record was fake. Or the caller used some method to make that phone booth "temporarily functional." "Fang Mu," Lu Chenzhou spoke, his voice terrifyingly calm. "Help me with two things." "Go ahead." "First, check all of Shen Yanhuan's communication records, bank transactions, and social activity trails from 1996. Don't just focus on the archives; investigate everyone she had contact with back then, especially… people connected to Shen Moqing but not openly." "Understood. And the second?" Lu Chenzhou walked to the window and pulled the curtain open a crack. The street below was empty; dawn hadn't fully torn through the night yet, the skyline tinged with the pale light of early morning. "Second, prepare a set of surveillance equipment for me. Miniature, anti-interference, with at least forty-eight hours of battery life. And… a knife." Silence on the other end of the line. "Brother Lu," Fang Mu's voice sounded a bit dry, "what are you planning to do?" "To meet someone." Lu Chenzhou let go of the curtain, and the room plunged back into dimness. The melted lotus pattern with the "Shen" character was deformed, but its outline remained. This was what he had discovered in the debris of the fire site's passage, hidden away for so long without telling anyone, including Zhou Zhengping. Now was the time to use it. He put the seal back in its place and closed the cabinet door. Then he walked to the desk and pulled open the bottom drawer. Inside were piled some miscellaneous items: an old notebook, used-up pen refills, an unopened box of band-aids. He pushed these aside and felt around the deepest part of the drawer, retrieving a flat metal box. He opened it. Inside was a photograph. The photo had yellowed, its edges curled. In the frame was a young Lu Chenzhou, wearing a police uniform, standing in front of the city bureau building, his smile clean and bright. Beside him stood Qin Wangshu, back then just a fresh graduate intern, her hair in a ponytail, her eyes full of admiration. On the back of the photo, written in fountain pen, was a line of small characters: *2009.3.21 First independent crime scene appearance, master and apprentice.* Lu Chenzhou stared at that line of text for a long time. Then he turned the photo over, placed it face down back into the metal box, closed the lid, and pushed it back into the depths of the drawer. Some things should be buried away. He changed into a black long-sleeved shirt, the fabric soft to minimize friction against his wounds. He buttoned it up one by one, pulling the collar high enough to just cover the ligature marks on his neck. Then he put on that dark gray jacket, zipping it up to his chest. The man in the mirror still looked exhausted, but his eyes were different now. The shock and confusion following the assault had vanished, replaced by a near-frigid focus. Like an archer with the bowstring drawn taut, arrow nocked, waiting only for the target to appear. Lu Chenzhou did a final check of his belongings: phone, wallet, keys, and that fruit knife taken from the kitchen—the blade wasn't long, but it was sharp enough, its handle wrapped in tape and secured against the small of his back, on the inside. The movement pulled at the wound under his ribs; he grunted softly, a fine sheen of cold sweat breaking out on his temples. Endure it. He opened the door and left the apartment. The hallway was still dim, the motion-sensor light still unresponsive. The traces of last night's fight had already been cleaned up by him: the shattered glass from the fire cabinet swept away, the bloodstains on the floor scrubbed with bleach, leaving only a few faint, barely noticeable water marks. But a faint, lingering scent of iron still hung in the air, mixed with dust and the damp smell of peeling wall plaster. Lu Chenzhou didn't linger, heading straight downstairs. As he reached the building entrance, he saw Granny Zhang squatting by the flower bed, watering a few pots of wilted-looking roses. The old lady looked up, saw him, and grinned, revealing her missing front teeth. "Little Lu, heading out so early?" "Mm, some business." Lu Chenzhou nodded, his steps not pausing. "Hey, wait a sec." Granny Zhang stood up, wobbling over. She fished out two still-warm tea eggs from her apron pocket and pressed them into his hand. "Made them this morning, take them to eat. You look pale, need to nourish yourself more." Lu Chenzhou looked at the tea eggs in his hand, wrapped in a plastic bag, their shells stained a deep brown, emitting a faint aroma of tea and five-spice. He was silent for a few seconds, then said softly, "Thank you." "Don't mention it." Granny Zhang waved a hand, then lowered her voice further. "By the way, last night... did you hear any commotion?" Lu Chenzhou's fingers tightened slightly. "What commotion?" "I can't really say." The old lady frowned, the wrinkles on her face deepening. "Around midnight, maybe? I got up to use the bathroom and seemed to hear a noise in the hallway, like something hitting the wall. I thought maybe someone's cat had gotten loose. But this morning, I saw the glass on the third-floor fire cabinet was broken... Scary stuff." Lu Chenzhou lifted his eyes. "You didn't call the police?" "Call the police for what?" Granny Zhang sighed. "This broken-down building has stuff breaking all the time, the property management doesn't care. Besides, what if it was just some drunk who bumped into it? Better to avoid trouble." As she spoke, she leaned in closer, her voice dropping even lower. "Little Lu, living alone, you must lock your door well at night. Lu Chenzhou did not stop walking, continuing forward. He turned the corner and entered an early morning eatery. Inside, steam rose in waves, the aroma of fried dough sticks mingling with the sweet, thick scent of soy milk. He found a seat by the window and ordered a bowl of plain congee and two fried dough sticks. The congee was scalding hot. He slowly blew on it, taking small sips. His gaze passed through the steam-fogged glass window to the street opposite. The black Volkswagen was not following. But there was one more person outside the eatery. Dressed in a blue food delivery uniform, helmet pulled low, leaning against an electric scooter while scrolling through his phone. The movements seemed natural, but Lu Chenzhou noticed that the scooter's delivery box was not open, and there was no delivery platform logo on the back of the vehicle. Moreover, his gloves were black tactical half-finger gloves. Exactly the same as the ones worn by last night's assailant. Lu Chenzhou set down his spoon. Steam rose from the congee bowl, blurring his face. He raised a hand to wipe the corner of his mouth, a natural movement, but his fingers lightly tapped against his knee under the table—three short, one long, three short. Morse code: SOS. Not a distress call. A test. If the other party was targeting him, if they were surveilling him, then this sudden, covert signal transmission should elicit a reaction. Even if only an extremely subtle pause in movement or an instant change in expression. Outside the window, the "delivery person" was still scrolling on his phone, fingers moving across the screen at an even pace, showing no abnormalities. Either he wasn't the watcher. Or he had received professional training and could perfectly control all micro-expressions and body language. Lu Chenzhou finished the last sip of congee, paid, got up, and left. As he passed by the "delivery person," he deliberately slowed his pace, taking out his phone from his pocket with a slightly larger movement that lifted the hem of his jacket a corner. The outline of the knife at his lower back was faintly visible. The "delivery person" did not look up. His fingers continued scrolling, the speed unchanged. But Lu Chenzhou noticed the other man's left pinky finger twitched slightly—an almost imperceptible movement, like a conditioned reflex forcibly suppressed. Lu Chenzhou walked out of the eatery and turned into a narrow alley next to it. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the confined space. He counted to ten, stopped, and turned around. The alley entrance was empty. But there were fresh shoe prints on the ground—the tread pattern of sneakers, dark mud stains, the impressions clear. No one had been standing there before. Now there were. Lu Chenzhou continued forward, his right hand hanging naturally at his side, fingers slightly curved. The wound beneath his ribs throbbed with each step, but his breathing rhythm remained unchanged. The alley ended at another street where traffic was beginning to increase. He hailed a taxi. "Municipal Archives," he said. The driver glanced at him in the rearview mirror. "That area's under renovation. The main entrance is closed." "Side door," Lu Chenzhou leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. "I know the way." The car started moving. He opened his eyes and looked out the back window. In the direction of the eatery, the electric scooter was still in place, the "delivery person" still looking down at his phone. But fifty meters away at the street corner, the black Volkswagen slowly pulled out, maintaining a distance of three car lengths behind them. Lu Chenzhou turned back around. His fingers tapped on his knee—this time in a different rhythm. He needed to lose them before reaching the Archives. Or, let them follow even closer. Which one to choose depended on whether the person he was meeting today would be willing to talk.