The heavy door of the Shen residence closed behind him with only the faintest click, so soft it seemed afraid to disturb something. Lu Chenzhou stood in the foyer, a scent invading his nostrils—expensive wood polish, dried flower arrangements, underpinned by a more stubborn layer of old dust, as if seeping from deep within the walls. This was not the smell of a home; it was a specimen room of power. Gu Zhixing stood half a step ahead and to his side, neatly blocking the line of sight to the main staircase. Behind his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes curved, the angle as precise as if calibrated by an instrument. "Mr. Lu, this way, please," he said, his voice not loud, yet causing the movements of several servants polishing antique vases in the foyer to halt in unison before they bowed their heads even lower, the friction of their cloths becoming soft and frantic. "The master instructed that we proceed directly to the study." There was no eye contact. Lu Chenzhou's back was taut as a drawn bowstring. He could sense what lay beneath those lowered eyelids—scrutiny, perhaps even contempt. An ex-convict, a tool "invited" back by Shen Yan. Prey stepping into the predator's lair, every footfall landing on invisible lines. "Thank you," Lu Chenzhou said, his tone level. They passed through a long corridor covered in thick carpet. Oil paintings hung on both walls, light slanting down from high windows, cutting a checkered pattern of light and shadow on the dark wainscoting. The air held a museum-like silence, their footsteps swallowed by the carpet. Lu Chenzhou's gaze swept over wall seams, floor edges, the shadows of ceiling moldings—professional habits like dormant beasts stirring awake beneath the skin of humiliation. He was memorizing the route, also searching for any detail out of place. This mansion was too clean, unnaturally so. The study was at the end of the second-floor corridor. Two men stood outside. One wore a black Tang suit, his build like an iron tower. Lu Chenzhou recognized that face—Lei Hu, Shen Yan's head of security. The other was younger, around twenty-seven or twenty-eight, his features bearing some resemblance to Shen Yan's but with sharper lines. He leaned against the wall with his arms crossed, his gaze like nails dipped in ice, fixed directly on Lu Chenzhou. "Young Master Qingyang," Gu Zhixing gave a slight nod. Shen Qingyang snorted through his nose, his eyes not moving. "This is the guy?" he said to Gu Zhixing, though his eyes remained locked on Lu Chenzhou. "Father really is... dragging every dirty, stinking thing into the house." Lei Hu didn't speak, merely adjusted his posture slightly, sealing off the retreat from the other side of the corridor. Pressure squeezed in from both sides. A barely perceptible twitch flickered at the corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye. He lowered his gaze, looking at the intricate interlocking vine pattern on the deep red carpet beneath his feet. His fingers moved unconsciously by the seam of his trousers, as if disassembling a nonexistent pen. He needed to focus, needed to press everything before him—these hostile faces, this suffocating mansion, the cold fire in his chest—into a box labeled "professional." Gu Zhixing acted as if he hadn't heard Shen Qingyang's words, turning to Lu Chenzhou instead. His tone remained gentle and proper, yet brooked no argument. "Mr. Lu, the master's intention is for you to inspect the study alone. However, to avoid any appearance of impropriety and to cooperate with any procedures that may be required later..." He paused, his gaze behind the lenses calm and unreadable. "I will accompany you. Young Master Qingyang and Lei Hu will wait here for the results. Time is limited; I trust you understand." Alone, yet accompanied. Avoiding suspicion, yet under surveillance. The subtle barbs in his words were like fine needles. Lu Chenzhou raised his eyes, meeting Gu Zhixing's gaze. "Understood," he said, just two words. Gu Zhixing took out a key and unlocked the heavy solid wood door of the study. A smell rushed out first—pungent, sharp, the scent of strong cleaning agents, trying to mask something, yet instead highlighting the faint, elusive sweetness of rust beneath. Blood. Faint, but to Lu Chenzhou, as distinct as a lighthouse in the dark. The study was large, facing south, but now heavy dark green velvet curtains were drawn, only a few slivers of pale daylight leaking in from the edges. Rosewood desk, bookshelves reaching the ceiling, leather sofa, lush green plants with broad leaves in the corner—everything was orderly, even excessively neat. Lu Chenzhou stood at the doorway, Gu Zhixing followed quietly inside, closed the door lightly behind him, and leaned back against the door panel, hands folded in front of him. A perfect observation spot—neither intrusive, yet able to see every move Lu Chenzhou made. He did not urge, his mere presence itself was a silent death sentence. Lu Chenzhou ignored him. He crouched down, took out a pen-shaped high-intensity flashlight from his tool bag, and twisted it on. The light was not aimed directly, but swept at an extremely low angle, almost skimming the surface of the dark teak floor. The distribution of dust, tiny fiber fragments, the barely visible, extremely shallow imprints left on the floor from heavy objects being pressed or dragged... His brain automatically began constructing a model: someone had stood here for a long time, there had been a hurried movement over there, the carpet fibers to the right of the desk showed slight matting, as if stained by some viscous liquid and then vigorously cleaned... He moved slowly along the wall, left hand slightly raised, fingertips gently tracing a few millimeters above the wallpaper surface, sensing the airflow and any possible, imperceptible irregularities. His movements were slow, so slow they seemed almost frozen, his breathing kept extremely low. The room was left with only his faint footsteps and the vague, indistinct chirping of birds from the garden outside the window. The bird sounds, muffled by the thick glass and curtains, seemed distant and unreal. "Mr. Lu." Gu Zhixing's voice suddenly sounded, not loud, but like a stone dropped into still water. Lu Chenzhou's movements did not pause, his gaze fixed on an almost invisible color variation on the wallpaper. "The police have already conducted very detailed evidence collection." Gu Zhixing's tone remained even, even carrying a hint of discussion, "Traces, fingerprints, biological samples... the report is a thick stack. Do you think it's still necessary to repeat these... basic tasks?" The skepticism in his words was like a dagger wrapped in velvet. He was reminding Lu Chenzhou of his identity, testing his professionalism, and applying invisible pressure—time is limited, don't waste it. Lu Chenzhou slowly straightened up, but did not turn around. His voice was flat, betraying neither offense nor urgency. "Scene investigation isn't repetition, Mr. Gu. It's reconstruction." He paused, shifting the flashlight's beam toward a fine chip on the edge of the desk. "Different angles, different light sources, different 'traces' of focus. The report is the conclusion, but the scene..." He finally turned around, his gaze landing on Gu Zhixing's face for the first time in a formal manner, "...the scene is the mother of all conclusions." His wording was precise, even carrying a touch of academic coldness. Gu Zhixing's expression did not change much, he merely lightly pushed his glasses. "I see. Please continue." Lu Chenzhou turned back again. The brief exchange was like a momentary voltage fluctuation; now the circuit was reconnected, and his full attention once again submerged into the physical world before him. He walked toward the innermost part of the room, to the huge floor-to-ceiling window covered by heavy velvet curtains. The curtain's texture was cool and thick, brushing the back of his hand with a heavy, oppressive weight. He had seen a photocopy of the police report—the scene was sealed, the windows intact, no signs of forced entry from outside. The initial inference was either an inside job or the deceased's own actions. His gaze fell on the steel window frame. An old-fashioned inward-opening window, the paint a deep brown, with slight aging cracks in some places due to its age. He leaned close, almost pressing his face against it. First, he checked the window lock, an ordinary rotary type, no signs of tampering. Then, his flashlight beam began moving slowly along the seam where the window frame met the wall. The light needed a specific angle. Too direct, the paint's reflection would obscure everything; too oblique, it couldn't illuminate the depths of the seam. He adjusted his wrist, letting the light cut in at an almost parallel, extremely tricky angle to the paint surface. The light was like a blade as thin as a cicada's wing, slicing through the shadows, exposing a microscopic world absolutely imperceptible to the naked eye. The accumulation pattern of dust, the extremely fine scratches on the paint surface, and... at a location near the bottom on the inside of the window frame, completely covered by the shadow of the curtain track. Lu Chenzhou's breath hitched for an instant. There, the paint's sheen had an extremely subtle difference from its surroundings. Not the matte finish caused by aging, but a... "newer" feel. As if someone had hastily covered a small area with paint of a similar color. The method of coverage was not particularly skillful, impossible to detect under normal lighting, but under this extreme sidelight, the subtle, perhaps not a dent from impact, nor corrosion. It was the stress mark left inside the metal by some hard, flat tool inserted through a gap outside the window, attempting to pry the window frame. Because the outer layer of paint had been re-covered, this deformation was nearly invisible, but it was indeed there. Like a crack that remains after a bone has healed, only the most professional eye, from the most extreme angle, could glimpse that unnatural distortion. Prying marks. Fresh. In direct conflict with the conclusion in the police report: "Windows intact, no signs of external forced entry." Lu Chenzhou maintained that bent-over, close-up posture for a full five seconds. In those five seconds, countless shards of information collided and rearranged wildly in his mind. Who issued the report? Qin Wangshu's task force. Qin Wangshu… his former disciple, now a key figure. Was it negligence by her people? Impossible. This sidelight trace examination was one of the basic procedures for on-scene investigation. Even the most incompetent person under Qin Wangshu wouldn't miss such a potentially case-altering check. Then, was it intentionally omitted? Or… had the scene been tampered with *again* after the police arrived? Hastily repaired, trying to cover up the signs of forced entry? Who could do this in this house, under Shen Yan's nose, after the police investigation? Shen Yan's people? Or someone inside the police force? Who was the possible intruder outside the window? What was the purpose? To kill Shen Yan? Or to find something? Could this pry mark have some hidden connection to that old case of his from ten years ago? The person who framed him back then was equally meticulous, equally adept at using rules and misdirection… Each question was an icy needle, piercing his nerves which had briefly warmed with the discovery of evidence. A chill crawled up his spine, mixed with the heavy realization of "just as expected." This water was deeper, murkier than he had imagined. He slowly, with extreme control, inhaled, then exhaled. Turned off the flashlight. The moment the strong light vanished, the study was once again enveloped in gloom. Only the few slivers of light seeping through the curtain gaps sliced through the floating dust in the air. That stagnant air, mixed with the scent of cleaning agents and blood, seemed to grow thicker. Evidence in hand. Now, he faced his first real decision. Lu Chenzhou maintained his observation posture, time stretched taut like a tightly drawn bowstring. The flashlight beam was fixed on that subtle patch of paint on the inside of the window frame, like a focused insect pinned to its prey. The light cut across at an extremely low angle, making the almost invisible, micron-level disparity between the old and new paint layers impossible to hide. It wasn't a smooth transition formed by natural wear, but an overlay—a layer of hastily applied new paint trying to conceal a deeper secret underneath. Beneath the paint, at the corner of the metal window frame, there was an extremely subtle inward dent and deformation, its edges sharp, the unique imprint left by a tool prying. The report stated in black and white: Windows intact, no signs of external forced entry. His heart gave a heavy thud in his chest, as if clenched by an icy hand. Blood rushed to his fingertips, then receded just as quickly, leaving behind a cold numbness. The corner of his left eye began to twitch slightly, uncontrollably—a physiological reaction when he was under extreme stress, impossible to suppress. He closed his eyes, then opened them again. That patched paint and deformation were still there, silently mocking the authority of that official report. Who handled it? The question stabbed into his mind like an ice pick. The police? Qin Wangshu's task force? They had no reason, nor any need, to hastily cover up a key trace that might point to external intrusion right after the preliminary investigation. Unless… the report itself required the conclusion of "no external forced entry." Or, was it Shen Yan's people? After the police investigation, before the scene was handed over, they had ample time and motive to "repair" this flaw. For what? To preserve the family's dignity? To cover up the possibility of an inside job? Or… both? Gu Zhixing was still standing by the door. That gaze, even with his back turned, could be felt like a thin layer of spiderweb sticking to his spine. Lu Chenzhou slowly, with extreme steadiness, drew in a breath, then slowly let it out. His lungs expanded, inhaling that same stagnant air mixed with blood, cleaning agents, and old velvet. He turned off the flashlight. The moment the beam vanished, the study was once again swallowed by darkness, only a few pale strands of daylight leaking through the curtain gaps. The cold touch of the metal casing lingered in his palm, intertwining with the dull ache left by his suddenly tightened grip Gu Zhixing still stood in place, hands folded before him, his gaze behind the gold-rimmed glasses calm and unrippled, as if the few minutes of stillness just now had merely been Lu Chenzhou’s pointless daze. “Mr. Lu?” he spoke, his tone still gentle, yet like a ruler measuring the time the other had wasted, “Did you find anything?” Pressure descended like a ceiling, pressing down inch by inch. Outside the window in the garden, the birdsong had ceased at some point. Replacing it was a clear, impatient snort from the far end of the corridor—a young man’s voice, carrying undisguised hostility. Shen Qingyang. He was urging, but also warning. Lu Chenzhou’s mind was operating at high speed, gears meshing, calculating the cost and risk of every possible choice. Full disclosure. Point to that window frame, use the most professional terms to point out the existence of pry marks, overturn the police’s preliminary conclusion. This was the most direct way to fulfill the “contract,” perhaps earning a sliver of Shen Yan’s fleeting “trust.” But then what? Stir the grass and startle the snake. If the intruder was connected to Shen Yan’s inner circle, or even related to the mastermind who framed him years ago, this discovery would immediately be erased by higher forces. He would lose this one and only, hidden bargaining chip. Worse, what if these marks were themselves a trap fabricated by Shen Yan after the fact, to test his loyalty? Complete concealment. Pretend to have seen nothing, pack up, and leave. The risk was even higher. Gu Zhixing was not blind; his overly calm reaction itself could be a form of observation. If a technical review later discovered it (Shen Yan was fully capable of that), the charge of “concealing key evidence” would be firmly pinned on him. The fragile “contract” he had just bought with his sister’s safety would instantly shatter, all previous efforts wasted. He had to find balance on the knife’s edge. Lu Chenzhou raised his eyes, meeting Gu Zhixing’s gaze behind the lenses. His face had already regained that professional, almost indifferent calm, with only the subtle, nearly imperceptible twitch at the corner of his left eye still betraying the alarm from his nerve endings. “Mr. Gu,” he began, his voice steady, his pace deliberately slowed to ensure every word was clear and precise, “Here on the window frame,” he gestured vaguely toward the spot he had just observed without touching it directly, “the inner seam shows some abnormal wear on the paint surface. The gloss and texture are inconsistent with the aged paint around it.” He paused, observing Gu Zhixing’s reaction. A perfectly measured expression of mixed confusion and concern appeared on the other’s face—a slight furrow of the brow, a subtle lean forward, as if striving to understand this technical detail. It was too standard, standard to the point of seeming rehearsed. Lu Chenzhou continued, his wording carefully staying with “abnormal” and “wear,” avoiding clearly directional terms like “prying,” “damage,” or “break-in.” “The cause of this wear requires further appraisal. It could be from daily use, or perhaps…” Here he paused again for half a second, leaving a meaningful blank, “…related to some external force. I recommend that a more specialized technical department conduct a review using high-precision instruments. This might provide a new direction for the investigation.” He had tossed out the discovery, but wrapped it in a layer of professional and ambiguous sugarcoating. He had pointed out the anomaly, fulfilling his superficial investigative duty, yet had not provided a definitive conclusion strong enough to immediately overturn the case’s characterization. He kicked the judgment back to Shen Yan, while also preserving room for himself to maneuver—if questioned later, he could explain it as a “reasonable suggestion based on the principle of prudence.” Gu Zhixing listened to the end. He did not immediately look at the window frame. Instead, he first gently pushed his gold-rimmed glasses—an action he had performed many times, but this time, his fingertips seemed to linger on the frame a fraction of a second longer. Only then did he cast a glance in the direction Lu Chenzhou had indicated. The gaze was fleeting, not even focusing on a specific point, more like a polite acknowledgment. “Wear?” Gu Zhixing repeated the word, his tone carrying a precisely measured note of prudent skepticism befitting a legal professional. “The initial scene report… doesn’t seem to have mentioned this detail.” He turned to Lu Chenzhou, the trace of confusion on his face not yet fully dispersed. “Captain Qin and his team’s work has always been quite meticulous.” The words were light, yet sharp as a needle. They placed the “police report” and “Lu Chenzhou’s discovery” side by Lu Chenzhou met his gaze, his face showing no ripple of emotion. "On-site investigation—the angle and lighting are crucial. Some traces only become visible under specific conditions." He avoided directly evaluating the police's work, attributing the discrepancy to objective conditions—the safest and most unassailable explanation. "I'm merely suggesting a possibility, Mr. Gu. Ultimately, whether it needs to be adopted, and how, is of course for Mr. Shen and the professionals to decide." He passed the ball back, positioning himself as a tool providing "technical reference" rather than a decision-maker making "qualitative judgments." Gu Zhixing looked at him for two seconds. In those two seconds, the study was so quiet that one could faintly hear the distant hum of an old air conditioning compressor starting up somewhere deep within the mansion. The air seemed to grow thinner, carrying the chemical scent of residual cleaning agents, clogging one's throat. Finally, Gu Zhixing nodded, his face once again displaying that formulaic, inscrutable gentleness. "Understood. I will record Mr. Lu's... observation in detail and submit it to Mr. Shen and the technical department for reference." His wording was equally cautious, using "observation" rather than "discovery," and "reference" rather than "adoption." "Thank you for your professional opinion." The conversation seemed to have reached its end. Lu Chenzhou had achieved his preliminary goal—sowing the seed of doubt without fully revealing his hand. He gave a slight nod and began packing up the simple toolkit on the floor. The sound of the zipper sliding shut seemed particularly sharp in the silent study. Just as he finished zipping it up and was about to say, "I'm done, we can leave now," Gu Zhixing suddenly spoke again. His voice was not loud, but it was like a stone thrown into seemingly calm water. "Mr. Lu," he took a small step forward, narrowing the already limited distance between them. This movement brought an intangible sense of pressure. "Based on your observation just now... if, I mean *if*, the anomaly on the window frame is ultimately confirmed to be related to the case, which speculation would you personally lean toward?" His glasses reflected the faint light from the window, making it impossible to see the true emotion in his eyes. "Is it a misdirection deliberately created by an insider during the crime, or... does there indeed exist an external intervention factor we are not yet aware of?" The question had arrived. It went straight to the core, and cleverly presented both possibilities (internal/external), forcing Lu Chenzhou to make a leaning choice in terms of stance. Whichever side he chose might reveal his true inner judgment, or, touch upon some sensitive taboo. Lu Chenzhou fastened the toolkit and straightened up. The weight of the bag dug into his shoulder, giving a tangible sense of heaviness. He looked at the window again, his gaze sweeping over the heavy velvet curtains as if he could see through them to the possible, ghostly intruder outside. "Mr. Gu," his voice remained steady, but his pace was slower, each word seeming precisely weighed. "The traces at the scene themselves do not speak; they only show 'how it happened.' As for 'who' and 'why,' more evidence is needed to close the chain." He avoided a direct either-or choice, pulling the question back to the basic logic of criminal investigation. "My 'leaning' is meaningless. The significance of evidence lies in its ability to rule out wrong options and narrow the scope of investigation. For now, it only points to a... detail that needs to be re-examined." He used the word "detail" again, downplaying it, yet firmly nailing that potentially case-altering "anomaly" to the position of "needing re-examination." He neither rashly took sides nor abandoned the potential importance of the discovery. After listening, Gu Zhixing's expression showed no change. He merely adjusted his glasses gently again, then stepped aside, clearing the path to the study door. "I've learned something," he said, his tone ambiguous—whether sincere or polite was unclear. "Then, Mr. Lu, please. Mr. Shen is still waiting for the preliminary report." Lu Chenzhou took a final glance around the room. The smell of blood seemed to have faded, replaced by the stronger scents of cleaning agents and stale air. But something had been left behind—invisible yet heavily permeating the air—lies, or a concealed truth. He stepped forward, heading toward the door. His leather shoes made no sound on the thick carpet. The corridor was slightly brighter than the study, yet still oppressive. Shen Qingyang was indeed still waiting there, leaning against the opposite wall with his arms crossed, his face gloomy. Seeing Lu Chenzhou emerge, he immediately straightened up, his gaze scraping over him like a blade, filled with undisguised contempt and suspicion. But he said nothing, merely Gu Zhixing followed Lu Chenzhou out, gently closing the heavy wooden door of the study behind them. The soft *click* seemed to lock a certain secret back inside. He turned to Shen Qingyang, his tone reverting to the careful yet distant manner of a butler: "Young Master Qingyang, Mr. Lu has completed his preliminary inspection. I will go and report to the Master now." Shen Qingyang snorted through his nose, his gaze lingering on Lu Chenzhou's face for a moment as if trying to dig something out of his placid expression. In the end, he just irritably looked away. "Hurry up," he tossed out the two words, turning and heading first toward the staircase. The sound of his footsteps echoed in the empty corridor. Gu Zhixing made a gesture of "please" to Lu Chenzhou, indicating the direction downstairs. "Mr. Lu, I will see you out. Regarding today's inspection, and the details you mentioned... Mr. Shen may have further arrangements later." Lu Chenzhou nodded and followed him silently down the corridor paved with dark red carpet. Behind him, that gaze seemed to still be clinging, even with Gu Zhixing walking beside him. He knew that today's "inspection" was over, but the real game of chess had perhaps just begun. He had grasped a contradictory piece of evidence and made a dangerous, ambiguous choice. The credibility of the police report had developed a crack, and the undercurrents within the Shen family were churning beneath the calm surface. He had paid the price of enduring surveillance and humiliation in the enemy's lair, exchanging it for this chip of unknown fortune or misfortune. His status had shifted from that of a completely passive, contract-bound prisoner, sliding toward a more complex edge—an investigator who had grasped a secret and was beginning to try to find leverage points within the gaps of his shackles. The path ahead was uncertain, but the pieces on the chessboard had already quietly moved one space because of that trace of cold on the windowpane his fingertip had touched. Who was the intruder outside the window? What kind of hand was hidden behind that clean report? And what kind of report was Gu Zhixing weaving beneath his calm, unreadable gaze right now? These questions had no answers, like the dusk gradually deepening outside the window, enveloping this silent, austere mansion, and also enveloping Lu Chenzhou's next step—just taken, and full of unknowns.