The dull thud of the car door closing seemed to cut off the outside air as well. Lu Chenzhou didn’t look at the passenger seat. His right hand was already shifting gears, his left wrenching the steering wheel. The tires of the old Santana let out a short, sharp screech on the gravel of the alley behind the community center, and the car lurched sideways into the narrow lane. Zhou Zhengping was thrown back against his seat by the inertia, the seatbelt digging into his shoulder. He was still clutching the tin stationery box he’d pried from the ventilation duct, his knuckles frighteningly white. "Rearview mirror," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice flat as if measured by a ruler. Zhou Zhengping stiffly turned his head. The grey sedan at the mouth of the alley was slowly driving away, its taillights glowing only as two dim red dots in the grey-white afternoon light. Too far to make out the license plate. "How long have they been following?" Lu Chenzhou asked. The car had already turned into a second side road. He stared ahead, but the corners of his eyes swept over the side mirrors. "Don't know." The words tumbled roughly from Zhou Zhengping's throat, hoarse with lingering alcohol fumes. "I... I only looked up when I smelled the cigarette smoke. The second-floor curtains were moving." "Fresh smoke?" "Yeah." Lu Chenzhou fell silent. The steering wheel turned continuously in his hands as the car weaved through the web-like small roads of the old city district. The asphalt was long cracked into pieces, the tires jolting constantly as they rolled over them. The cabin was filled with the mingled scent of old leather and dust. Zhou Zhengping's breathing was heavy, each breath crashing against the silence like a broken bellows. At the third intersection, Lu Chenzhou suddenly slammed on the brakes. The car lurched violently. Zhou Zhengping nearly hit the dashboard, the tin box in his hand clattering onto the floor mat. He hurriedly bent to pick it up, his movements clumsy as a recruit handling a gun for the first time. Lu Chenzhou didn't move, his gaze fixed on the left side mirror—thirty meters back, the grey sedan had just rounded the corner and was now parked by the roadside, the driver's side window rolled halfway down. "They didn't lose us," Zhou Zhengping's voice trembled. "Not 'they,'" Lu Chenzhou released the brake, and the car slid forward again. "There's only one person in the car." "How did you—" "He slowed down during the last turn. A single driver will subconsciously keep a greater following distance." Lu Chenzhou's speech remained even, but each word was like a nail. "Teacher, I need a place. Right now." Zhou Zhengping froze. He turned his head and saw the light brown scar running from Lu Chenzhou's cheekbone to his ear on his profile—a memento from the stairwell attack in the last chapter, now faintly reflecting the dim light inside the car. Lu Chenzhou's left hand rested on the steering wheel, his fingers unconsciously flexing, a peculiar habit when he was thinking. "What kind of place?" Zhou Zhengping asked reflexively. "A place to examine evidence. Quiet, no disturbances, preferably with basic equipment." Lu Chenzhou paused. "You know this kind of person." It wasn't a question. Zhou Zhengping opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but in the end, he just lowered his head. He reached into his pocket and pulled out an old enamel teacup—several patches of glaze were chipped off the body, revealing the dark red tin beneath. He gripped the cup, his thumb rubbing back and forth along the rim, faster and faster. The car turned another corner. Lu Chenzhou glanced at the rearview mirror. The grey sedan was still there, the distance slightly closer. "Old city district... west side," Zhou Zhengping finally spoke, the words seeming squeezed from between his teeth. "There's a private jewelry appraisal workshop. The owner is... a former informant of mine. Had a cerebral hemorrhage last year, paralyzed. The shop's been empty ever since." "Key?" "I... I have a spare key. Helped him collect rent a few times." "Address." Zhou Zhengping recited a string of house numbers. Lu Chenzhou asked no more. The steering wheel turned full right, and the car plunged into an even narrower alley. On either side stood red-brick walk-up apartments from the 1980s, clotheslines extending from windows, hung with faded bedsheets and work clothes. Tires rolled through a puddle, splashing mud onto the windows. Amid the jolting, the lid of the enamel cup in Zhou Zhengping's hand slipped open. There was no tea inside, only The tires screamed as they locked up. The car fishtailed on the slick road, its rear scraping against the left wall, sending a shower of sparks flying. The piercing screech of metal grinding filled the cabin. Zhou Zhengping was thrown against the door, his forehead hitting the glass with a dull thud and a grunt. But the car completed the turn. Lu Chenzhou immediately released the brake and hit the gas. The Santana lurched into a more concealed side road on the right. He took one last look in the rearview mirror — the grey sedan had been forced to stop by the pile of foam boxes and the sharp turn and was now trying to reverse. The distance had opened up. "He… he didn't follow?" Zhou Zhengping asked, holding his forehead, his voice tinged with disbelief and a desperate hope. "For now," Lu Chenzhou said. He took his left hand off the steering wheel and pulled the wax seal fragment from his inner coat pocket. The copper piece gleamed with a cold, hard, dark gold hue in the dim cabin light, its melted edges like some twisted scar. He ran his fingertip over the engraving, feeling the raised and recessed pattern of the lotus. Zhou Zhengping stared at the seal, his breathing growing ragged again. "This thing…" he swallowed hard, "it wasn't… on the evidence list back then." "I know," Lu Chenzhou said, putting the seal away and gripping the steering wheel again. The car had already left the old city district. Ahead were residential buildings constructed in the 90s, the streets somewhat wider now. He glanced at the time on the dashboard — seven minutes had passed since their retreat from the community center. Seven minutes. Long enough to decide many things. "Teacher," he suddenly spoke, his voice a notch lower than before, "back in the courtyard of the activity center, you mentioned the chimney effect was off — the fire spread faster than normal." Zhou Zhengping's body stiffened. "Do you remember the on-site investigation report from the fire department back then?" Lu Chenzhou continued, his tone as calm as if discussing the weather. "Did the report mention any unusual accumulations in the ventilation ducts? For example… oil stains? Or accelerant residue?" Silence. The cabin was filled only with the roar of the engine and Zhou Zhengping's increasingly labored breathing. The hand clutching the enamel teacup was trembling, the lid and body clicking together with a faint, rattling sound. "I…" he started, then stopped. A few seconds later, he forced a few words from his throat: "The report… I saw it. But… but it was too long ago…" "November 3rd, 1987. Fire alarm received at 9:17 PM," Lu Chenzhou recited the date and time, precise to the minute. "The point of origin was confirmed in the southeast corner of the archives room. The first firefighter on the scene was Wang Jianguo. He should be sixty-two this year, retired and living in the nursing home east of the city. Should I go on?" Zhou Zhengping whipped his head around, his eyes rimmed red. "You investigated me?" "I investigated the case," Lu Chenzhou also looked at him, his gaze like a scalpel. "Teacher, you were the head of the on-site investigation team back then. Every report, every photograph, the chain of custody for every piece of evidence — it all ultimately required your signature. Something like a wax seal, if it was truly at the scene, how could you possibly not know?" "I didn't know!" Zhou Zhengping almost shouted, spittle spraying onto the windshield. "I fucking didn't know! The list… the list was only later…" He suddenly stopped, as if his own words had burned his tongue. Lu Chenzhou didn't press him. The car entered a relatively quiet neighborhood, flanked by low-rise storefronts, most with their rolling shutters half-down. He slowed, looking for the house number Zhou Zhengping had mentioned. "The list was only later… what?" he asked, his voice soft as a whisper. Zhou Zhengping didn't answer. He lowered his head, burying his face in his palms. His shoulders began to tremble uncontrollably, first slightly, then more and more violently, his whole body like the last withered leaf in a cold wind. The enamel teacup slipped from his hand, fell onto the floor mat, rolled twice, and came to rest beside the tin stationery box. Lu Chenzhou saw it but didn't pick it up. He found the studio — a very small storefront, its dark green rolling shutter door plastered with a faded "Prime Location for Rent" ad. Next door was a barbershop already closed, its glass door covered in thick dust. He parked the car by the curb and killed the engine. The moment the engine noise vanished, the silence in the cabin "Teacher," he said, "get out. We need to verify that seal." Zhou Zhengping finally looked up. His face was covered in tears and snot, smeared together into a mess. At over fifty years old, he looked like a lost child at this moment. He took the teacup, his fingers brushing against Lu Chenzhou's knuckles, icy cold. "If..." he rasped, "if that seal... was really at the scene back then... what do we do?" Lu Chenzhou pushed the car door open. The afternoon wind rushed in, carrying the sour stench of spoiled garbage from the street-side bins. "Then it means," he got out, his voice drifting in from outside, terrifyingly calm, "the evidence inventory from back then was fake. And you signed it." He closed the car door and walked towards that dark green rolling shutter gate. Zhou Zhengping sat in the passenger seat, staring at his retreating back, not moving for a full five seconds. Then he shoved the car door open and stumbled after him. He gripped the enamel teacup in his hand so tightly his knuckles stood out white. The rolling shutter gate made a piercing screech of metal scraping as it was lifted, like some ominous portent. The small private appraisal studio was filled with the smell of metal polish and old dust. Lu Chenzhou adjusted the fragment of the wax seal under the microscope. Zhou Zhengping huddled in a chair in the corner, hands clenched, knuckles white. The copper piece gleamed with a cold, matte finish on the stage. Lu Chenzhou's left eye began to twitch. He adjusted the focus, the microscopic structure of the copper piece's edge gradually sharpening in the field of view—the cut marks were too uniform. Hand-cast seventeen years ago shouldn't have this near-mechanical level of smoothness. "Teacher," he began, his voice as calm as if discussing the weather, "you were the final handler for the evidence archiving back then." Zhou Zhengping's body stiffened slightly. "The inventory and the physical items don't match." Lu Chenzhou continued adjusting the focus, observing the residual melting traces on the back of the copper piece. "How could you possibly not have noticed?" A chattering sound of teeth came from the corner. The faint clicks of the microscope's fine-focus knob were particularly jarring in the silence. Lu Chenzhou's fingers unconsciously rubbed the edge of the stage, his nails scratching the metal surface with a soft, rustling sound. He smelled the sweat coming from Zhou Zhengping—not hot sweat, but that cold, fear-induced dampness. "I..." Zhou Zhengping's voice seemed squeezed from deep in his throat, "I was... too disoriented back then." "Too disoriented to even verify an evidence inventory?" Lu Chenzhou finally looked up, shifting his gaze from the microscope to the corner. "You are Zhou Zhengping. Back in the entire criminal investigation division, no one was more meticulous than you." Zhou Zhengping suddenly stood up, the chair legs scraping the floor with a sharp, piercing sound. He braced his hands on the edge of the workbench, his knuckles turning bluish-white from the force. His eyes fixed on that copper piece as if it were some poisonous creature that could bite. "Stop asking," he said hoarsely. "Some things... it's better not to know." Lu Chenzhou didn't respond. He bent down again to look through the eyepiece, his right hand adjusting the angle of the light source. Strong light hit the surface of the copper piece; the color of the oxidation layer showed an unnatural uniformity at a specific angle—as if it were the result of artificially accelerated oxidation. Seventeen years of natural copper patina shouldn't look like this. His hands wouldn't stop moving, repeatedly adjusting the angle of the stage. "This seal," Lu Chenzhou said, each word weighed carefully, "the copper purity is too high. The brass used by local workshops in the 80s had at least over three percent impurities. But this..." He tapped the stage. "...is close to modern refining process purity." Zhou Zhengping's breathing suddenly became ragged. "And the oxidation layer," Lu Chenzhou continued, his voice devoid of emotion. "The degree of corrosion at the edges and in the depressions is almost identical. Natural oxidation would have a gradient—exposed protrusions would corrode more deeply. But this..." He paused. "...looks like it was soaked together in a chemical bath to create an artificial patina." Only the sound of Zhou Zhengping's heavy breathing remained in the studio. Lu Chenzhou straightened up, took the cigarette butt he'd picked up in the alley behind the community center from his pocket—the filter had fresh tooth marks. He placed the cigarette butt on the workbench, side by side with the copper piece. "That person smoking by the second-floor window," he said. "You said at His fist clenched tightly, nails digging into his palm. The old enamel teacup spun ceaselessly in his hand, the rim clinking softly with each turn. The sound amplified in the silence, like a countdown. “They forced me...” Zhou Zhengping suddenly spoke, his voice broken beyond recognition, “After the fire... someone from the evidence room... someone from Shen Yan passed a message...” Lu Chenzhou listened motionlessly. “Said some things... were ‘irrelevant.’” Zhou Zhengping’s eyes reddened, “Putting them on the inventory would only complicate the case... drag it out longer. At the time... at the time I just wanted to close the case quickly. That fire killed three people, the higher-ups were pushing hard...” “Who passed the message?” Lu Chenzhou asked. Zhou Zhengping shook his head, tears mingling with snot as they streamed down. “I don’t know the name... a call to my office... the voice was processed... but I knew whose meaning it was. Shen Yanqing... it could only be Shen Yanqing.” “What was missing from the inventory?” “Some odds and ends... metal buttons warped by the fire... half a belt buckle... and...” Zhou Zhengping suddenly choked, staring fixedly at the copper piece on the workbench, “But not this! I swear... there was absolutely no wax seal on the inventory! They just said ‘irrelevant items,’ didn’t specify what... I... I just crossed out those lines...” Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. The wind seemed to steal his breath. The room shrank with every heartbeat, walls pressing in, the air growing thick. He heard the sound of his own blood flowing, the distant, indistinct rumble of traffic from the street, Zhou Zhengping’s suppressed sobs. Then he opened his eyes. “This seal.” He pointed at the copper piece on the stage, “If it was placed there recently... the dust layer in the ventilation duct would be disturbed. We didn’t examine it that closely at the time.” Zhou Zhengping jerked his head up, a flicker of hope flashing in his eyes—then fading just as quickly. “You mean... this could be a trap? A false piece of evidence deliberately left by Shen Yanqing?” “False evidence requires two conditions.” Lu Chenzhou raised two fingers, “One, it must point to Shen Yan. Two, it must be discoverable by us.” He paused, “The first condition is met—the Shen Yan emblem. The second condition...” He looked at Zhou Zhengping, “...requires someone to take me to the scene. Requires someone who knows there were problems with the evidence inventory back then, so when they see the seal, they won’t doubt it, only feel wild excitement.” Zhou Zhengping slumped back into the chair. His face buried in his palms, shoulders heaving violently. The old enamel teacup slipped from his hand, fell to the floor, rolled twice, and stopped in the corner. The familiar chip on its side faced upward, like an open eye. “I thought...” His voice leaked from between his fingers, indistinct, “I thought I finally had a chance... to make amends...” Lu Chenzhou did not answer. He looked back at the microscope, making one final adjustment to the focus. The faint scratch at the edge of the copper piece was clearly visible under the intense light—it wasn’t deformation caused by the fire’s high temperature, but the mark of some sharp instrument deliberately scraped across it. To make it look aged. To make it seem like it had been buried in the ruins for seventeen years. He switched off the microscope’s light source. The studio plunged into dimness, only the faint green glow from the emergency lamp in the corner casting its pallid light. The shadows of the two men stretched and twisted on the walls, like two ghosts struggling in deep water. “The inventory is fake.” Lu Chenzhou said, his voice unusually clear in the darkness, “But this seal might also be fake.” He turned to face Zhou Zhengping. “Now you have two choices.” He said, “Keep pretending you don’t know, wait for me to fall into the trap. Or...” He paused, “...tell me who else handled that inventory back then. Besides you, who else signed it?” Zhou Zhengping lifted his head. Tears had carved two dirty tracks down his face, mixed with dust and sweat. His eyes gleamed with a murky light in the dimness, like two wells about to run dry. “Old Wang from the archives.” He said hoarsely, “Wang Dehai. He was responsible for receiving... the inventory I submitted... he also had to sign for confirmation.” “Is he still alive?” “Three years ago... cerebral hemorrhage.” Zhou Zhengping’s voice grew lower, “Gone.” Lu Chenzhou was silent for a few seconds. "He was still a squad leader back then," Zhou Zhengping added, his voice carrying a kind of desperate candor. "The arson case... was his last major case before being promoted to deputy brigade commander. Solved quickly... earned him a commendation." The wheels began to turn. Lu Chenzhou felt a massive, rusted gear start to grind slowly, crushing through seventeen years of time, crushing through those altered files, burned records, and buried truths. The gear's teeth were stained with blood, and with the names of three dead people. He walked to the workbench and picked up the copper piece. A cold metallic sensation spread from his fingertips, carrying a slick, artificially aged feel. He held it up under the emergency light; the Shen Yan emblem glowed with an eerie dark luster in the green light. Lotus and the character "Shen." "Teacher," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice terrifyingly calm. "I need you to help me investigate two things." Zhou Zhengping looked up, tears still lingering in his eyes. "First, records from seventeen years ago of Shen Yan customizing sealing wax stamps—any workshop, any channel. Second..." Lu Chenzhou paused. "...in the last three months, who could access that sealed ventilation duct in the community center. Property management, maintenance workers, cleaning companies... everyone." "I..." Zhou Zhengping's voice trembled. "How can I investigate? They're already watching me..." "Because you're still alive," Lu Chenzhou cut him off, his tone devoid of warmth. "Wang Dehai is dead. The people from the investigation team back then... I remember two were later transferred elsewhere, one died in a car accident, one retired due to illness. All dead, or disappeared. Only you are still here, still breathing, still able to speak." He walked up to Zhou Zhengping and crouched down. Their eyes were level. "This is what you owe," Lu Chenzhou said, each word like a nail. "Not to me. To the three people who burned to death in that fire. To the police uniform you wear." Zhou Zhengping's tears welled up again. He nodded, once, twice, mechanical and forceful. "I'll investigate," he said hoarsely. "But I need time... and to be careful..." "You have one day," Lu Chenzhou stood up, pulled a tissue from the workbench, and stuffed it into Zhou Zhengping's hand. "At this time tomorrow, I want a preliminary list." He turned and walked toward the door, placed his hand on the doorknob, then stopped. "And," he said without looking back, "if that car appears again... if you feel you're being watched more closely. Tell me." "Why?" Zhou Zhengping's voice came from behind, filled with confusion and fear. Lu Chenzhou pulled the door open. The dim light from the corridor flooded in, cutting a sharp patch of light on the floor. "Because that would mean," he said, "we've caught Fang Mu's attention." The door closed. Only Zhou Zhengping remained in the studio, along with the crumpled tissue in his hand. A faint, distant clock tower chimed the hour—four o'clock in the afternoon. The copper piece still lay on the workbench, glowing green under the emergency light like a coin from hell. And the one who had tossed the coin had already left the room, walking into deeper darkness. Zhou Zhengping slowly stood up and walked to the workbench. He reached out, his fingertips trembling as they touched the copper piece. The cold sensation made him shiver. He remembered that afternoon seventeen years ago, the smell of dust permeating the archives room, the processed voice on the phone, the sound of his pen tip scratching across the paper as he crossed out those lines on the list. Back then, he told himself: This is to solve the case quickly. This is to give the dead closure. Now he knew. That was the first grave he had dug with his own hands. And for seventeen years, he had been lying inside it, just unaware. Tears dripped onto the floor, making a soft *pat* sound. He picked up the copper piece and clenched it in his palm. The metal edge pressed against his skin, bringing a slight sting. Then he walked to the corner, pried up a loose floor tile, and shoved the copper piece into the gap beneath. When he laid the tile back in place, his hands were steadier. The green light from the emergency lamp fell on his hunched back, casting a distorted shadow on the wall. The shadow swayed with his movements, like something crawling out of a grave. And outside the window, the gray sedan slowly drove past the street corner. The radio in the car crackled, a voice saying: "Target B remained alone indoors for forty-seven minutes. Target A has left, walking west. Should we follow?" A brief silence. Then another voice replied: " Zhou Zhengping slumped to the floor, the tweezers clinking crisply as they hit the concrete. A tiny red dot remained on the skin of his throat, like an insect bite. His breathing was heavy and ragged, mixed with snot and tears that glistened with a sticky sheen in the dim light. "Back then..." he began, his voice like sandpaper grinding over rust. "Three days after the fire... during the evidence inventory... Shen Yan sent someone." Lu Chenzhou didn't move. He remained in his crouch, his gaze fixed on Zhou Zhengping's trembling fingers. "Who?" "Gu Zhixing." Zhou Zhengping closed his eyes. "He wasn't the legal counsel back then... he was Shen Yanqing's personal assistant. He said... the fire scene was chaotic, some 'irrelevant items' had gotten mixed into the evidence bags, needed to 'standardize the procedure'." Footsteps sounded outside the window. Very light, but definitely approaching—slowly moving from the end of the corridor toward this door. Lu Chenzhou's left hand dropped to his waist, his fingertips brushing the metal casing of the folding knife. The wound beneath his ribs throbbed with each breath. "Continue," he said, his voice lowered further. "The list... they gave me a revised list." Tears welled up again in Zhou Zhengping's eyes. "Said the original had 'input errors'... wanted me to sign to confirm. I said I needed to verify against the actual items, Gu Zhixing laughed... he said, 'Officer Zhou, your daughter is taking the college entrance exam next year, right? The guaranteed admission spot at City First High School, Mr. Shen can help with that.'" The footsteps stopped outside the door. Lu Chenzhou slowly stood up and walked to the door. The old door panel had a thin crack; he tilted his head, looking out with one eye. The corridor was empty. But there was a shadow on the ground—cast diagonally from the staircase, stretched long. Someone was standing at the stairwell landing, hadn't come up, but hadn't left either. "You signed," Lu Chenzhou said. It wasn't a question. Zhou Zhengping buried his face in his hands. "I signed... three items were missing from the list. A charred belt buckle, half a fountain pen, and..." He paused. "And a photograph. A child's photo, in a tin box, burned until only a corner remained... I thought at the time, these really had nothing to do with the arson case..." "But this seal wasn't on the list." Lu Chenzhou turned around, his gaze like a nail. "You said earlier you 'hadn't seen this'—was that the truth?" "The truth!" Zhou Zhengping jerked his head up, his eyes bloodshot. "I swear... the wax seal wasn't on the list, Gu Zhixing never mentioned it either! If this thing had been there at the time... if it had been..." His voice caught in his throat. Lu Chenzhou walked back to the workbench and picked up the copper piece. The microscope light was already off; in the dimness, the piece was just a vague, dark shadow. He rubbed the edge with his fingertip—the sensation of that scratch was clear and cold. "A relic from seventeen years ago should have a thicker oxidation layer," he began, his tone calm, almost lecturing. "But the patina on this seal is unevenly distributed... thin on the edges, thick in the center. As if someone aged it with acid etching but didn't control the time well." Zhou Zhengping froze. "And this scratch." Lu Chenzhou held the copper piece before his eyes. "High fire temperatures would soften the copper; the edges of the scratch should be rounded and blunt. But this mark... look, the cut is sharp, the angle perpendicular. It was made recently." "You mean..." Zhou Zhengping's voice trembled. "This seal is fake?" "Not necessarily." Lu Chenzhou set the copper piece down. "It could be a real seal, but someone reworked it. Or it could be a replica, deliberately aged and placed in the ventilation duct—waiting for us to find it." The shadow outside the door moved. Lu Chenzhou quickly crouched, looking out under the door gap. The tips of a pair of black leather shoes, stopped about two meters from the door panel. The uppers were clean, but the edges of the soles were stained with a bit of dark red mud—the same color as the soil in the alley behind the community center. The person from the gray sedan. "Teacher," Lu Chenzhou stood up, his voice suddenly becoming very soft. "You have two choices now." Zhou Zhengping looked at him, his pupils dilating in the gloom. "First, keep playing dumb." Lu Chenzhou said. "After I leave, you can call Gu The clock tower in the distance struck—three in the afternoon. The sound came through the walls, muffled, like some kind of countdown. Zhou Zhengping’s hand reached into his coat’s inner pocket. He fumbled for a long time before pulling out a flat plastic evidence bag. The bag had yellowed, its edges repeatedly patched with clear tape. Inside was a folded page of paper. “A photocopy of the original list.” His voice was hoarse. “I secretly went to the copy room that night to make it… The original was filed away and sealed the next day. I’ve kept it all this time… Didn’t know what to do with it, just… kept it.” Lu Chenzhou took the bag but didn’t open it immediately. “What else?” “Also…” Zhou Zhengping took a deep breath. “I kept a diary. Started the day of the fire, wrote for three months straight. Who I saw each day, what was said, how the evidence changed… I wrote it all down. The notebook is at my house, in the study, under the floorboards, the third loose plank.” Footsteps sounded outside the door again. This time they were leaving—leather shoes stepping on the concrete floor, rhythm steady, unhurried. But Lu Chenzhou knew this wasn’t giving up. It was to call for people, or to fetch tools. Time was running out. “Teacher.” Lu Chenzhou tucked the evidence bag into the inner lining of his own coat. “I need you to do two things for me.” Zhou Zhengping looked at him, his eyes like a drowning man clutching a floating log. “First, check Shen Yan’s records from seventeen years ago. Not the surface-level accounts, but the channels for privately customizing seals, letterheads, sealing wax. Families like that have fixed artisans, passed down for generations. Find that person.” “And the second?” “Check who could access the ventilation ducts of the community activity center in the last three months.” Lu Chenzhou said. “Property management, maintenance workers, cleaning companies… and anyone who entered under the pretext of ‘inspection’ or ‘research.’ Names, times, surveillance—if there’s any left.” Zhou Zhengping gave a bitter smile. “That’s practically asking me to investigate Shen Yan…” “Yes.” Lu Chenzhou stood up, rummaged through a workshop drawer, pulled out a disposable phone, and tossed it to him. “Use this to contact me. The number’s already saved. Turn it on every day at four in the afternoon, for five minutes. Keep it off at all other times, take the battery out.” “What if… what if I’m discovered?” Lu Chenzhou walked to the door, his hand on the doorknob. He glanced back at Zhou Zhengping—the man who once taught him how to observe a scene, how to distinguish lies, now curled in the corner like a puddle of melted wax. “Then tell them,” Lu Chenzhou said, “that I forced you. That I threatened you with your daughter’s safety, with your signature from back then. Shift all the blame onto me.” He turned the knob and opened the door. The corridor was empty, save for a small pile of dark red mud crumbs left at the stairwell corner. Lu Chenzhou crouched, scraped a bit with the corner of the evidence bag, sealed it, and tucked it into his pocket. From behind came Zhou Zhengping’s voice, soft but clear: “Jingyuan.” Lu Chenzhou stopped. “I’m sorry,” Zhou Zhengping said. Lu Chenzhou did not look back. He walked down the stairs, his footsteps echoing in the empty stairwell, once, then again, like a slow heartbeat. The lobby on the first floor was cluttered with discarded furniture. He exited through the side door into the glaring afternoon sunlight. Across the street, a gray sedan was parked—its windows tinted dark, the inside invisible. But the engine was still running. Lu Chenzhou turned and walked into the alley beside him. He didn’t walk fast, his right hand always tucked in his coat pocket, gripping that cold copper piece. The smell of patina still lingered on his fingertips. Like the smell of dried blood. Deep in the alley was a convenience store. He went in, bought a bottle of ice water, stood at the counter, unscrewed the cap, and took a large gulp. The icy water slid down his throat, bringing a stinging clarity. The cashier was a young girl, head bowed as she scrolled through her phone, the screen’s light reflecting on her face. Lu Chenzhou paid, and as he turned, his peripheral vision caught a glimpse outside the window. The gray sedan slowly drove past the alley entrance, its speed very slow, as if searching for something. The dark window rolled down a "Teacher," Lu Chenzhou spoke, his voice unnaturally clear in the gloom. "When you said just now 'never seen this'—that was the truth. I believe you." Zhou Zhengping's shoulder twitched. "But you knew the inventory was fake," Lu Chenzhou continued. "You knew they had tampered with it. You allowed it." It wasn't an accusation, but a statement. Like a doctor reading indicators on a lab report. A sound escaped Zhou Zhengping's throat, like a leaky bellows. "...Yes." "Who approached you?" "Gu... Gu Zhixing." Zhou Zhengping's voice was parched and cracked. "He said, some things... weren't suitable to remain at the scene. 'Cleaning it up is good for everyone.'" "What were the terms?" "My partner... his son was taking the college entrance exam that year, missed the cutoff by two points." Zhou Zhengping closed his eyes. "Gu Zhixing said, Old Master Shen knew people in the admissions office. And... my wife's factory was on the brink of bankruptcy. Shen Yan invested." Lu Chenzhou's fingertips tapped lightly against his trouser seam. Once. Twice. The wheels were turning. He saw the gears now—not a conspiracy, but a transaction. Trading a small-time cop's future and a family's livelihood for a "clean" evidence inventory. Cheap, efficient, and perfectly legal. Gu Zhixing was best at this kind of thing. "What about the fire investigation report?" Lu Chenzhou asked. "The part about the chimney effect. Did you discover that yourself, or did someone 'suggest' you write it?" Zhou Zhengping's eyes snapped open, his pupils contracting in the dim light. "You... how do you know..." "The preserved charred walls at the scene, the pattern of fire spread didn't follow natural laws." Lu Chenzhou said. "Back then, you were my mentor. The first lesson you taught me was 'fire speaks.' You couldn't have missed it." Silence spread through the air like spilled ink. In the distance, the sound of a vehicle passing, tires rolling over damp asphalt with a sticky hiss. The single desk lamp in the studio cast a perfect cone of light on the floor, its edges sharp as if cut by a knife. Half of Zhou Zhengping's face was in the light, half in shadow, the dividing line slicing right across his trembling eye. "...Someone mailed an anonymous package to my office." He finally said, his voice as low as a whisper. "A few photos of the scene, from very specific angles. And a photocopy of a foreign fire case report, with the words 'chimney effect' circled in red pen." "You used it." "I used it." Zhou Zhengping pulled a smile uglier than crying. "At the time, I thought... since the person was already dead, did it really matter how the report was written? Providing a 'reasonable' explanation, closing the case sooner, was better for everyone. I even... even thought I was doing the right thing." He paused, his breathing becoming ragged. "Until what happened to you." Zhou Zhengping lifted his head, his eye sockets red, but no tears this time. "That confession... the signature on it. I recognized your handwriting, but I also recognized that... trembling of someone pushed to the brink. Jingyuan, did they use the same method on you? Using people you care about to force you to sign something that never existed?" Lu Chenzhou didn't answer. The corner of his left eye twitched slightly, very briefly, like faulty electrical contact. His fingers stopped in mid-air, no longer tapping. The room was left with only the sound of two people breathing, one light, one heavy, intertwining, as if measuring some intangible distance. "Teacher." When Lu Chenzhou spoke again, his tone had changed. It was no longer an interrogation, but a deployment of forces. "I need two things." Zhou Zhengping was stunned. "First, all your personal records related to that year's fire case—notes, photos, contact lists, anything that wasn't filed officially." Lu Chenzhou said. "Second, I need a channel to verify the age and machining marks of a metal object. Completely independent, no official procedures, and Shen Yan must not detect it." "You want me to..." "I want you to atone." Lu Chenzhou interrupted him, his voice as calm as if stating the weather. "Not with repentance, but with action. You plug the hole you allowed back then, and help me find the real evidence." Zhou Zhengping's lips moved, but no sound came out. Lu Chenzhou took the evidence bag containing the wax seal fragment from his pocket and held it up to the light. The copper piece gleamed dully in the yellowish light, the outline of the lotus emblem blurred, like something rusted at the bottom of a lake for years. "You can refuse," Lu Chenzhou added. "I'll take today's recording—your full confession admitting to tampering with the evidence inventory and accepting benefits from Shen Yan—to Qin Wangshu. Guess how interested a deputy squad leader currently investigating the Shen Yan case would be in this material?" Zhou Zhengping’s face instantly turned deathly pale. "Or," Lu Chenzhou continued, his tone softening slightly but growing even more chilling, "you choose to help me. We make a deal: you trade your evidence and channels for a chance to possibly overturn the case. If I succeed, what you tacitly allowed back then will become 'tainted witness' material to atone for your mistakes. If I fail..." He paused, letting the weight of the second half of his sentence sink in completely. "Then you’ll just have one more thing to cover up. No different from the past seventeen years." The air in the room solidified. Zhou Zhengping stared at the floor, at his own hands covered in age spots. They were trembling, uncontrollably. He remembered that evening seventeen years ago, when Gu Zhixing sat across from him, handing over a "simplified version" of the evidence inventory, his face wearing that same calm, non-negotiable expression. Back then, he chose to lower his head. Because the price seemed too small—just overlooking a few "irrelevant" items, in exchange for his partner’s son’s future, his wife’s smile, and his own pension that was about to be lost. The price was too small. So he paid it. It was only later that he understood: those seemingly minor compromises would, like rust, gradually gnaw away at your backbone as a police officer, at your bottom line as a human being. By the time you noticed, your bones had already turned brittle, and you could never stand straight again. "...Alright," Zhou Zhengping said. His voice was hoarse, but unusually clear. He pushed himself up from the floor, slowly standing. His legs trembled; he had to hold onto the workbench to steady himself. Then he walked to the corner, dragged out a dusty file bag from behind a pile of old toolboxes. It was made of kraft paper, the edges worn and frayed. "This is the backup I kept," Zhou Zhengping handed the bag to Lu Chenzhou. His fingers, touching the other’s palm, were as cold as a corpse’s. "Photos, notes, and contact information for a few key witnesses from back then... some are already dead, some have moved away. But at least it’s a starting point." Lu Chenzhou took it, not opening it immediately. He weighed it in his hand; it was light, too light to seem capable of carrying a seventeen-year secret. "And the verific