Lu Chenzhou crushed the reflection in the puddle beneath his foot. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the empty street, wet, one after another. The wind scraped across his cheeks, carrying the sharp, dry chill of late autumn. He turned into the alley behind the archives building—a shortcut darker and narrower than the main street. The concrete walls on both sides were mottled, their bases piled with years of fallen leaves that crunched underfoot with a fine, brittle sound, almost like the snapping of dry bones. The air held a faint musty smell, mixed with a distant, elusive sour odor wafting from the garbage station. The sky overhead was sliced by the buildings into a narrow strip of ink, devoid of starlight. He walked at a measured pace. The wound on his left arm burned with a stinging pain, each swing of his arm pulling at the heat. His hand in the trench coat pocket unconsciously fiddled with a metal ring from an old keychain. Unclasping it, clasping it. Unclasping it again. The cold, sharp edges pressed into his fingertip. From the shadows at the base of the left wall, a patch of deeper black abruptly erupted. The movement was as fast as a hunting night owl—silent, lethal. Aimed straight for the throat. Lu Chenzhou’s body reacted faster than his mind. Ten years in prison had etched certain reflexes into his bones. He twisted violently to the side, his right arm instinctively coming up to block. The moment his forearm collided with the attacker’s, the sensation was wrong—not muscle, but some kind of hard protective gear, cold, smooth. The first sensation wasn't searing pain. It was a sharp, piercing cold, as if an ice spike had been driven through. Then, warm liquid gushed out, soaking through his shirtsleeve, clinging stickily to his skin. The smell of blood exploded into the air, mingling with the alley's original musty rot. The figure used the impact to propel itself backward, melting into deeper shadow. The entire sequence took no more than two seconds. Fast enough to seem like an illusion. A voice, pressed extremely low and hoarse, like sandpaper scraping against sheet metal. Each word was enunciated with unnatural clarity, carrying a strange, deliberately controlled rhythm: *"The old archives."* *"Burn them."* *"Keep digging, and the next cut won't be so shallow."* As the last words fell, the figure had already vanished around the bend at the alley's end. Footsteps? Almost none. Only the faintest whisper of fabric brushing against the wall, and... a short, sharp *click*—the sound of some metal object lightly colliding. He remained where he was, his spine pressed tight against the cold, rough wall. He forced his breathing under control, but his chest felt as if it had been hammered, a dull ache spreading along his ribs. The wound on his left arm began to truly throb, a fiery, jumping burn searing along his nerves. Blood dripped from his fingertips, spreading dark circles on the fallen leaves at his feet. *Height of the figure—* slightly shorter than him, around one seventy-five. *Method of attack—* not the wild slashing of a street thug, but a standard military combat opening move. Clean, efficient, no wasted motion. *Feel of the gear—* possibly carbon fiber or special polymer. Not something ordinary muscle would use. *Voice quality—* hoarse, but with strong breath support. Not too old, maybe between forty and fifty? And that warning... Old archives. Which old archives? Shen Yan's case? Or... his own? *Burn them and they're gone.* A threat, or a reminder? Lu Chenzhou's left hand clenched. His fingernails dug deep into his palm, suppressing the trembling from the wound. The corner of his left eye began to twitch slightly, once, then again, uncontrollably. The wind in the alley had died. The smells of mold and blood hung stagnant in the air, pressing down heavily. A faint car horn sounded in the distance, remote, as if from another world. Slowly, he raised his uninjured right hand and pressed it hard against the area above the wound on his left arm. The pain pierced through the fog in his mind. He needed to stop the bleeding. He needed to get out of this exposed alleyway. Shen Moqing? Possible. The old fox was adept at using violence to convey a message of "enough is enough." But his men, like Lei Hu, their methods were more direct, more brutal. They wouldn't leave such an ambiguous warning. They'd break a leg directly. Or worse. Shen Qinghuan? That seemingly innocent, yet inscrutable second daughter of the Shen family? Could she have staged a He had always believed his enemy was Shen Yan, the network of power that had framed him back then. The goal of overturning the case was to find evidence that Shen Moqing had forged the "false confession" and expose the conspiracy. All his calculations and endurance revolved around this core. But what if the one who truly carried it out back then, who executed that "political assassination," aside from the unlucky scapegoat who took the fall, was someone else? Someone more professional, more hidden, who had been lurking in the shadows all along, and might even… already be "dead"? And this "dead man," sensing danger because he had reopened the investigation, had now taken the initiative to appear, warning him in the most direct way: Stop digging further. Old archives burn, and then they're gone—what burned might not just be clues to the Shen Yan case, but "another piece" of evidence this person himself left at the scene back then, evidence that went undiscovered, the crucial evidence that could completely expose him. A cold sweat broke out on Lu Chenzhou's back, instantly absorbed by the icy chill of the wall. A wave of dizziness washed over him, not just from blood loss, but from the violent tearing apart of his understanding. The ground beneath his feet seemed to crack open into an invisible abyss, darkness seeping up from the fissure, icy and piercing. Ignoring the wound, he leaned against the wall, his trembling right hand reaching into his inner pocket for his phone. The screen lit up, the cold blue light making him squint. His fingers, shaky from blood loss and tension, swiped to open the encrypted folder much slower than usual. He pulled up the stored electronic files of the old case—the political assassination from ten years ago that changed everything for him. All the public and non-public records had long been scanned word-for-word into this offline space. He quickly scrolled through the screen, his gaze sharp as a torch, filtering out the clearly identified personnel files with definitive official conclusions. His target was the inconspicuous "associated personnel notes" appended at the end of the file. The "suspected eyewitness" mentioned in the assistance notice, later excluded due to insufficient evidence. The "social idlers" with unusual activity in the vicinity before and after the incident, vaguely recorded. Several informants who had provided leads to the police but later "lost contact." And… those marginal characters summarily dismissed in the case closing report as "deceased" or "whereabouts unknown." The screen stopped on a yellowed scan. It was a "situation statement" issued by a local police station ten years ago, regarding an informant codenamed "Gray Pigeon." The statement was brief, just a few lines: "...This individual proactively contacted the investigating officer three months prior to the incident, claiming to possess information regarding 'abnormal financial transactions' related to the target. After two contacts, the individual abruptly ceased communication. Upon investigation, their registered address was found vacant; neighbors reported they had 'returned to their hometown.' Follow-up verification with the police station in their hometown location reported no such person found. This individual's identity is questionable, the value of the lead requires assessment. Note: During contact, this individual preferred using common proverbs as code phrases or warnings, such as 'Fire needs an empty core, a person needs loyalty,' 'An old ticket won't board a new ship,' etc. Distinctive characteristic." "Gray Pigeon." Identity questionable. Preferred using proverbs as warnings. "No such person found." Lu Chenzhou stared at those lines, his pupils constricting. The wind in the alley picked up again, swirling fallen leaves and making a sound like a sob. In the distance, police sirens seemed to be approaching from afar, faint but growing clearer. His thumb unconsciously rubbed the edge of the phone. His mind raced, comparing rapidly. "Old archives burn, and then they're gone." This wasn't the refined threat of a Shen Moqing, nor the possibly more literary hint from a Shen Qinghuan. This was a down-to-earth, folksy metaphor, carrying a kind of brutally straightforward wisdom of survival at the bottom—things gone are gone, don't dwell on them. Style. Sentence structure. That deliberately crafted sense of "folk wisdom." It matched the description of "Gray Pigeon" in the file with a high degree of similarity. A ghost informant who should have "disappeared" or even "died" ten years ago. A shadow whose identity was a mystery, possibly never even existing in official records. A mysterious figure who possessed information on "abnormal financial transactions" but suddenly cut off contact. If he wasn't dead… If he had been alive all along, lurking in some corner… If he was that undiscovered "second killer" in the political assassination case back then? Or, at the very least, a key executor or insider? Then Lu Chenzhou's current investigation into The sirens grew closer. The alternating red and blue flashes had already begun to dance on the building walls at the distant mouth of the alley, like an anxious heartbeat. Should he leave immediately, tend to his wound alone, and continue his covert pursuit of this suddenly resurrected "Gray Pigeon"? Or should he stay here, wait for the police—most likely Qin Wangshu—to arrive, utilize official resources, but also face more complex interrogations and a truth increasingly difficult to conceal? The light from his phone screen illuminated his pale face. Fine beads of cold sweat seeped from his temple. His gaze fell on the words "Gray Pigeon," then lifted, looking toward the thick, impenetrable darkness at the end of the alley that had swallowed the assailant. That ghost had left a warning. And it had left traces. Lu Chenzhou slowly exhaled a breath tainted with the smell of blood. He turned off the phone screen, pressed the blood-stained sleeve forcefully against his wound to apply pressure. Then, leaning against the wall, he slowly sat down. Sat on the cold, damp ground, next to the pool of his own dripping blood. Waiting for the police car that was sure to arrive, waiting for the person who was sure to appear. He needed bandaging, needed medical attention. He also needed... perhaps, through official channels, to pry open more sealed fragments about "Gray Pigeon." The price was, he had to weave a more sophisticated lie. A half-truth, half-falsehood story that could direct the attack toward Shen Yan, while leaving gaps for his own subsequent, solitary pursuit of "Gray Pigeon." Footsteps sounded from the alley entrance. Hurried, powerful, with a familiar rhythm. Qin Wangshu's figure appeared at the entrance, outlined in a sharp silhouette by the rotating red and blue roof lights of the police car behind her. Her rush into the alley was somewhat frantic, her high heels clicking crisply and chaotically on the uneven pavement. Her gaze immediately locked onto Lu Chenzhou sitting on the ground, and the glaring dark stain on his left arm. Her face changed instantly under the flickering lights. "Lu Chenzhou!" Her voice cut through the stagnant air, carrying an uncontrollable shock, anger, and a trace of... a barely perceptible tremor, "What happened?!" Lu Chenzhou leaned against the wall, looking up at her. The alley's damp, musty smell and the scent of blood now mingled with the clean, faint scent of soapberry from her. The alternating red and blue lights played across her tense face and his blood-stained sleeve, dyeing everything with an unreal, dramatic hue. He took a deep breath, which tugged at his wound, his brows furrowing tightly. But when he spoke, his voice had already regained its usual evenness, even deliberately adopting a hint of weak hoarseness. "Professional," he said, pointing with his uninjured right hand toward the direction where the assailant had vanished, "Didn't see his face." He paused, his gaze falling on Qin Wangshu's hand resting on her gun, then lifted again to meet her sharp, scrutinizing eyes. "Mentioned old files," he added, his tone flat, as if stating a fact unrelated to himself, "Old files from the Shen Yan case? Or... something else?" He deliberately tossed out the term "old files" like a probing hook, observing Qin Wangshu's most minute reactions. Meanwhile, another part of his mind was operating coldly, at high speed, weaving the next line of his story, calculating the chain reactions each sentence might trigger. The ghost in the shadows had already taken flight. And his battlefield was only just now being laid out. A sharp, screeching sound of emergency braking came from the alley entrance, the sound of tires scraping against the ground tearing through the night's silence. The alternating red and blue police lights suddenly flooded into the alley, cutting the damp walls into flowing patches of light. Her figure appeared tense under the rotating police lights, her right hand already resting on the holstered gun at her waist. Her gaze swept over the alley, instantly locking onto Lu Chenzhou leaning against the wall—and the dark, still slowly expanding stain of blood on his left arm. Her voice was pressed low, carrying professional restraint, but her pace was a beat faster than usual. Her footsteps splashed through puddles, sending up small sprays of water. The clean scent of soapberry mixed with laundry detergent washed over him as she approached, briefly diluting the alley's musty odor. His breathing had mostly steadied, but fine beads of cold sweat still seeped from his temple. The wound on his left arm burned fiercely; each heartbeat sent that searing pain spreading up the blood vessels toward his shoulder. He raised his uninjured right hand, making a "calm down" gesture. "Professional," he said, his voice unnerv "Knife. Short blade, single-edged, length no more than fifteen centimeters." Lu Chenzhou's words came at a measured pace, each one seeming squeezed from between his teeth, precise and cold. "Came up from below at an angle, aimed for under the ribs. I blocked it. Slashed my arm." She finally looked at his wound. A neat slit had been torn in his dark jacket, the fibers at the edges slightly curled, revealing the blood-stained shirt sleeve beneath. Blood was still seeping out, the fabric already stuck to his skin, forming a sticky, dark patch. "Don't." Lu Chenzhou said. "It's superficial." "Superficial wounds don't bleed this much?" Qin Wangshu's voice carried a trace of suppressed anger. "Lu Chenzhou, you're not investigating alone now. The attack happened in a public area. This is a criminal case. I have the right—" Lu Chenzhou cut her off. His gaze fell on Qin Wangshu's face, catching every subtle shift in her expression. "'Once the old files are burned, they're gone.'" Lu Chenzhou repeated it, word for word. A slight twitch at the corner of his left eye, a minute movement lasting less than half a second, but Qin Wangshu saw it. The red and blue lights were still rotating, alternately illuminating the side of her face. Her lips pressed into a thin line. Her right hand moved from her service weapon and instead took out her phone, quickly tapping a few keys. "I've already notified the tech team to come." she said, her voice regaining that professional calm. "The scene needs to be sealed, evidence collected. Can you still walk?" He tried to straighten up. A sharp sting from his left arm made his breath hitch. Qin Wangshu reached out to support his right elbow, the movement light but carrying an undeniable force. The warmth of her fingers came through the fabric of his jacket, clean, dry, a stark contrast to the damp, cold air of the alley. "The car's at the mouth of the alley." she said. "We'll go to the hospital to deal with the wound first. We'll talk on the way." She didn't ask for more details about the attacker, nor did she press him about the meaning of those words. This restraint itself put pressure on Lu Chenzhou—Qin Wangshu was waiting. Waiting for a more suitable moment, waiting for him to speak up on his own, or waiting for the scene evidence to give her clearer direction. Lu Chenzhou's footsteps were somewhat dragging, each step with his left leg pulling at the wound on his arm. Qin Wangshu walked half a step beside him, not too close, but maintaining a distance from which she could reach out to support him at any moment. Her gaze continued to sweep the surroundings, like a precisely operating scanner. Qin Wangshu opened the passenger door. Lu Chenzhou got in. The leather seat was cold. The interior of the car was filled with the faint smell of disinfectant and the lemon scent of a car freshener. Qin Wangshu walked around to the driver's seat, closed the door, and started the engine. Streetlights outside the window flashed past one by one, drawing flowing bands of light across the glass. Lu Chenzhou leaned back in the seat and closed his eyes. The pain in his left arm was like a red-hot iron wire, drilling from the wound all the way to his shoulder blade. He forced himself to breathe, deep and slow, using willpower to suppress the physiological trembling. Qin Wangshu suddenly spoke. Her voice sounded particularly clear in the enclosed space of the car. "The attacker said 'old files.'" Qin Wangshu looked at the road ahead, her hands steady on the wheel. "Not 'Shen Yan's files,' not 'the Shen Yan case files.' Just 'old files.' That term is very vague. It could point to many things." Lu Chenzhou heard it. Qin Wangshu was using a method that seemed like stating facts to guide him toward a certain explanation. She was giving him space, but the space was limited, its boundaries clear. "The Shen Yan case has dragged up quite a few old matters." Lu Chenzhou said, his voice carrying just the right amount of weariness. "Shen Yanqing not wanting me to dig too deep is normal." "Normal?" The corner of Qin Wangshu's mouth pulled into a near-sarcastic curve. "Sending a professional assassin to ambush you in the back alley of the archives, just to warn you not to dig too deep? Lu Chenzhou, if Shen Yanqing wanted to warn you, he has plenty of more civilized methods. Gu Zhixing's mouth, the words that come out of it are sharper than a knife." Lu Chenzhou knew she was right. Shen Yanqing's style was pressure, deals, weaving a net of rules He looked out the window. Most of the shops lining the street had already closed, leaving only convenience stores and 24-hour pharmacies with their lights still on, casting a few lonely patches of light into the night. The car turned a corner, and up ahead, the red cross sign of the municipal hospital appeared. Park, turn off the engine. She unbuckled her seatbelt, turned sideways, and looked at Lu Chenzhou. "Listen," she said, her tone more serious than before. "No matter who the attacker was, this matter has already entered the police process. I'll pull all the surveillance footage from around the archives, investigate any unfamiliar faces that have appeared in that area recently. If you have any guesses—any guesses at all—telling me now is better than waiting until I find out and then having to explain." Lu Chenzhou understood. Qin Wangshu was protecting him in her own way, or rather, protecting this relationship already riddled with cracks. She didn’t want to wait until evidence was laid bare, forcing them to tear the facade completely. "My guess is the same as yours," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice as calm as stagnant water. "Someone inside Shen Yan doesn't want me to keep investigating. It could be Shen Yanqing, it could be Shen Yanhuan, or it could be someone else. As for why such drastic means were used..." "Maybe I got too close to some truth," he said. "So close that someone felt a warning wasn't enough anymore." The smell of disinfectant was so strong it almost felt tangible, like a transparent film clogging the nostrils. The nurse cleaned Lu Chenzhou's wound, applied medicine, and bandaged it, her movements practiced and mechanical. Qin Wangshu stood at the doorway of the treatment room, leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over her chest, her gaze fixed on the figures coming and going in the corridor. She took out her phone, glanced at it, replied quickly, her brow never relaxing. Lu Chenzhou's wound was deeper than expected. The blade had cut through the epidermis and part of the subcutaneous tissue, but hadn't damaged any major blood vessels or nerves. The nurse said it needed three stitches. Lu Chenzhou refused, only allowing a pressure bandage. After the bandaging was done, the nurse gave a few instructions for care and prescribed anti-inflammatory medication. Lu Chenzhou took the prescription slip to the pharmacy to get the medicine. Qin Wangshu followed half a step behind him, like a silent shadow. After getting the medicine, the two found a long bench in the emergency observation area and sat down. It was close to midnight. There were still a few patients in the observation area—some on IV drips, some waiting for test results—the air thick with exhaustion and anxiety. The fluorescent lights overhead emitted a faint hum, mingling with the occasional call bell from the distant nurses' station to form a unique, hospital background noise. She walked back, placing one of the cups on the chair beside Lu Chenzhou. The disposable paper cup was thin, the heat of the water seeping through the wall, sending a slight sting through his cold fingertips. Qin Wangshu didn't respond. She sat down on the adjacent chair, leaned back slightly, closed her eyes, and let out a long breath. This gesture made her seem a bit softer than usual, shedding the sharp edges of a police officer to reveal the genuine weariness beneath. The steam rising from the hot water wafted against his face, carrying a faint, woody scent belonging to the paper cup. He took a small sip. The water temperature was just right, flowing down his esophagus, temporarily dispelling the chill deep inside. "The surveillance footage from around the archives," Qin Wangshu suddenly spoke, her eyes still closed. "I've already had someone pull it. But those old alleys, surveillance coverage isn't great, lots of blind spots. Since the attacker chose to act there, they must have scouted the location in advance." "Do you really think it was someone from Shen Yanqing's side?" Qin Wangshu opened her eyes and turned to look at him. Her gaze was very calm, calm enough to be unsettling. "Is that so," Qin Wangshu said, her tone carrying a hint of pensiveness. "But I always feel... something's off." He maintained his outward calm, taking another sip of water. The rim of the paper cup left a damp sensation on his lips. "The method," Qin Wangshu said. "The attacker's method was professional, but also restrained. If that knife was truly meant to seriously injure you, the angle could have been trickier, the force could have been stronger. But they chose under the ribs—a location not easily fatal. Even if it hit, as long as treatment is timely, chances of dying are low. And that sentence..." "'Old files burn, and they're gone.' It sounds like a warning, but the target of Lu Chenzhou felt his breath catch. Blood rushed to his eardrums, producing a buzzing roar. He forced himself to continue rubbing the cup’s edge, the rhythm of the movement not changing in the slightest. "Is that so," he said, his voice so steady it surprised even himself. "What proverb?" "I don't remember clearly," Qin Wangshu said, her gaze shifting toward the far end of the corridor. "I was just a trainee back then, didn’t have access to many details. I only remember Old Zhou—Zhou Zhengping—mentioning it once, saying that informant was very cautious. Every time they made contact, they had to exchange code phrases. The code was an old saying." "That informant supposedly died later. A car accident, or a sudden illness? Anyway, the file recorded it as 'accidental death.'" He set down the water cup, clasped his hands on his knees. This posture could hide the trembling of his fingers. His mind was racing, dismantling, reassembling Qin Wangshu's words, comparing them with the fragments in his memory. A specific proverb. A cautious informant. Accidental death. And the attacker's phrase, "Old files burn, and they're gone"—the sentence structure, that kind of wording with an antiquated feel, really didn't sound like a threat a modern person would use. It was more like some kind of… cant. A secret code, passed down among a specific group of people, carrying symbolic meaning. "That informant," Lu Chenzhou asked, trying to make his tone sound like casual conversation, "had a codename, right?" "Seems like he did," she said. "Called… 'Gray Pigeon.' Yes, 'Gray Pigeon.' Old Zhou said the guy always wore a dusty old gray jacket, walked with a slight limp, like he’d been injured." Lu Chenzhou carved that name deep into his memory. The twitch at the corner of his left eye started again, lasting a full second this time. He raised a hand to rub his eye corner, using the motion to cover it up. "I don’t know," she said, her tone reverting to that professional flatness. "Maybe I just suddenly remembered. After all, you were attacked tonight, and the attacker mentioned 'old files,' which made me think of past events." Lu Chenzhou was almost certain. Qin Wangshu wasn’t the type to "suddenly remember" irrelevant details. Her mentioning "Gray Pigeon," mentioning that informant's habits and fate, was deliberate. She was testing him, seeing if he would react to that name, if he would show a flaw. It was just that, for now, she couldn’t yet confirm what that flaw might signify. "The surveillance footage from the archives should be available tomorrow," Qin Wangshu stood up, stretching her stiff shoulders. "You should go back and rest for tonight. Be careful not to get the wound wet, take your medicine on time. If anything feels off—I mean anything—call me immediately." He stood up too, the pain in his left arm making his movements a bit sluggish. Qin Wangshu looked at him, her lips moving slightly as if she wanted to say something, but in the end, she didn’t. She just nodded, turned, and walked toward the emergency exit. "Lu Chenzhou." She didn’t look back, her voice sounding somewhat ethereal in the empty corridor. "Whatever you're investigating, be careful. Some people… some things, might be more complicated than you think." The sound of her footsteps echoed on the tiled floor, growing fainter, finally disappearing around the corridor's bend. He looked down at his bandaged left arm. The gauze was white and neatly wrapped, the edges showing a faint yellow tint from the ointment. The wound still hurt, but that pain now held a new meaning—it was no longer just trauma from the attack, but a mark, a brand carved onto him by a ghost from the past. The ghost had announced its name. Every step from now on would tread on the edge of its grave.