The wind at the mouth of the alley carried the smell of rust. Lu Chenzhou slid along the wall, his right shoulder scraping against the rough concrete surface, sending debris into his collar. Thirty meters ahead, the man in black turned into a narrow alley—a freight passage for the old textile mill, the walls less than one point two meters apart. He quickened his pace. The confined space was a natural firepower inhibitor. The turning radius for short-barreled weapons required at least zero point eight seconds, enough time to close in. The sound of footsteps suddenly stopped. A metal cylinder rolled out from the corner of the wall. "Decoy," he judged in a low voice, his body already rolling to the left. The flashbang detonated, its white light piercing through his eyelids. Eyes closed, he relied on hearing to locate—footsteps to the right, the other party was retreating. But the route was wrong. This alley was a dead end, terminating at the factory's rear wall. Unless there was an underground passage. The sharp, bitter smell of ammonium nitrate flooded his nostrils. Not a flashbang. It was the fuse for a secondary detonation. He sprang up and lunged to the right. The man in black was activating a wrist-mounted infrared cutting device, its blue light flickering like a serpent's tongue in the dark alley. Lu Chenzhou's left hand clamped onto the other's wrist, twisting it outward—the technique was too familiar, the pressure point two fingers below the Adam's apple, the force precisely calibrated to keep the subject conscious on the brink of suffocation. The muffled crack of dislocated joints was swallowed by the explosion. The infrared emitter flew from the man's grip, bounced twice, and went dark. "Who gave you the retreat route?" he pressed his voice low, his knee driving into the back of the other man's right knee. The man in black grunted and collapsed. His right hand groped towards his waist—there was another device. Lu Chenzhou was faster, pinning the elbow joint and wrenching the entire arm behind the man's back. His knuckles registered an unusual texture: rough particles adhered to the inside of the sleeve. Coal cinders. And— His thumb rubbed the fragments. Dry, slightly astringent, a faint slickness on his fingertip. Kaolin clay. Kaolin clay mixed with coal cinders. North of the city. Only the backfilled soil around the abandoned water supply station north of the city had this composition ratio—that industrial area had used cheap ceramic waste for foundational landfill back in the day. "You—" the man in black struggled to utter half a word. Lu Chenzhou tightened the chokehold. Compressed carotid artery, the sound cut off in the throat. His own Adam's apple had once borne a similar bruise; ten years on, that scar still itched on overcast days. "Fine if you don't speak," he said evenly. "The dirt on your boot soles already has." The other man's body stiffened. Not from pain, but fear. The location of their base was exposed. In the next second, his chest heaved violently. Self-destruct protocol—a subcutaneous micro-transmitter in the neck, automatically sending a location signal and detonating remaining devices if the heart rate fell below a threshold. Lu Chenzhou's pupils constricted slightly. He released his grip and retreated, simultaneously grabbing the man's right leg and dragging it outward in a flip. The boot sole scraped an arc on the concrete floor, sending fragments flying. He saw it clearly now—the grayish-white mud clots embedded in the tread pattern of the boot, the same origin as the particles crushed on his fingertip. A muffled thud. Smoke filled the alleyway, the bitter smell of ammonium nitrate choking his lungs. Covering his mouth and nose, he snatched up a piece of the detached boot sole from the ground and turned, diving into a side-wall drainage outlet. The footsteps of pursuers rang out behind him, but he was no longer in that alley. The drainage pipe outlet connected to the textile mill's underground water channel. Damp air, heavy with the smell of mold, rushed at him. He crouched at the pipe junction, examining the dirt on the fragment in his hand by the faint glow of a distant streetlight. Grayish-white, dry, fine coal cinders. Kaolin clay content at least thirty percent. He stuffed the fragment into an inner pocket. A tearing, dull pain shot through his right arm—the old injury had split open during the roll. The smell of blood mingled with rust and ammonium nitrate, fermenting in the cramped pipe. He bit his lower lip, making no sound. His knuckles clenched, fingernails digging into his palms. The abandoned water supply station north of the city stood at the edge At the end of the pipe was a basement maintenance hatch. Peering down through the grate—a dim emergency light illuminated a concrete floor and several rows of metal shelves. Supplies were neatly stacked: stab-proof vests, communication equipment, printing consumables for forging documents. Gu Zhixing's sweeper outpost. Confirmed. He unscrewed the hatch bolts and landed silently. "Any anomalies?" Qin Wangshu's voice came through the earpiece. "None so far." He walked toward the innermost shelf, his fingers brushing over the labels on cardboard boxes. North City Logistics Transfer, South City Secondhand Market, East City Warehouse—each address was either under Gu Zhixing's name or associated properties. Then he saw the chair. Not a complete one. Only the backrest and the right armrest, propped vertically in a corner against the wall. The leather surface was cracked and blackened, and four restraint rings were welded onto the metal frame. Wrist rings. Ankle rings. A neck ring. A neck ring. His breath hitched for a moment. The corner of his left eye twitched slightly. Ten years ago. In that windowless interrogation room, the same kind of neck ring had locked around his throat. Tightened, released, then tightened again. During each brief release, that voice would say—*sign it and the pain will stop.* "Lu Chenzhou?" Qin Wangshu's voice in the earpiece grew urgent. "Are you still there?" He opened his mouth. The sound caught in his throat. His fingers trembled uncontrollably. He clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm. "...Here." One word. Enough. He forced himself to walk toward the chair. The inside of the neck ring showed wear marks—not old ones. Fine, pale skin flakes were embedded in the cracks along the leather edge, belonging to a recent occupant. This chair had been used recently. He crouched to examine the chair legs. There were drag marks on the ground, extending from the shelving area to the corner of the wall. Following the marks to the base of the wall—a loose floor tile. He lifted it. Underneath was a waterproof sealed bag. Inside the bag was a ledger. Handwritten number on the cover: 97-Jian-4. His heartbeat accelerated sharply. This was exactly the tag number that had disappeared from the evidence vault. The light tube above flickered. *Bzzz—* A relay clicked. The backup power restarted. An infrared scanning grid shot down from the ceiling, red laser lines covering the entire basement. A steel gate slammed down from the passage entrance with a crash, sealing the exit. "Lu Chenzhou!" Qin Wangshu's voice came from outside the gate. "You're trapped!" He didn't reply. His left hand stuffed the ledger into the inner layer against his skin, his right hand pushing off the chair back to stand up. The neck ring was right beside his face, the sour smell of rotting leather drilling into his nostrils, overlapping with the scent of that interrogation room ten years ago. He closed his eyes. Three seconds. When he opened them again, his gaze had regained its cold hardness. "I'm fine." His voice was unnervingly calm for someone trapped. "Find the backup power distribution box. The gate has a manual release." He turned his back to the chair, not letting Qin Wangshu—not letting anyone—see the bloody imprints on his clenched palms. The fluorescent light tubes in the abandoned clinic flickered twice, buzzing. Lu Chenzhou leaned against the rust-stained instrument table, a curved needle held in his left hand, his right sleeve torn to the shoulder seam—the wound stretching from his elbow crease to his forearm was oozing blood, its edges curled like a dried, cracked riverbed. The moment the alcohol swab pressed against it, his jaw tightened sharply. Qin Wangshu stood three paces away, clutching the bottle of iodine tincture, her gaze not fixed on the wound. She was staring at his face. "You paused for four seconds at the water supply station." Her voice was flat. "After the gate fell, you stared at that chair—for four seconds." Lu Chenzhou didn't look up. The curved needle passed through flesh, a slight resistance transmitting to his fingertips. "Confirming evidence." "Your gun hand was trembling." The needle tip veered half a millimeter. He stopped, pulled the curved needle out, and repositioned it. The muscle at the corner of his left eye twitched. Qin Wangshu took a step forward, her palm pressing down on his hand holding the needle. Warm. Her fingers bore the thin calluses from years of holding a gun, pressing against his knuckles, trembling faintly. "Jingyuan." She used his courtesy name, her voice low. "That chair—you've seen it before." Not a question. Outside the clinic, a stray cat stepped Qin Wangshu did not let go. Her palm pressed against the back of his hand, her body temperature seeping through the skin, carrying a tremor so faint it was almost imperceptible. "You never said." "Saying it wouldn't have changed anything." He lifted his gaze, sharp for an instant before quickly dimming again. "The injury report from back then—'no obvious external trauma found.' Strangulation leaves no marks. That's why it was chosen." Silence rose between them. The fluorescent light flickered again, stretching and shrinking their shadows on the wall. Qin Wangshu slowly released his hand. She picked up the curved needle from the instrument tray, wiped it with an alcohol swab, and handed it back to him. "Keep stitching," she said. "I'll hold it for you." Her fingers pressed firmly against the skin on either side of the wound on his right arm. Steady. No unnecessary words, no sympathetic glances—only a professional, almost rough tenderness. Lu Chenzhou took the needle and drove it back through the flesh. This time, it didn't veer off course. By the third stitch, his breathing rhythm changed—from shallow and rapid to long and deep, like a string pulled to its limit finally loosening by half an inch. "That ledger," Qin Wangshu spoke, her fingers still steady against his arm. "How are you planning to handle it?" Lu Chenzhou bit through the suture thread. The taste of blood spread across his tongue. He didn't answer immediately. Instead, he placed the curved needle on the instrument tray and watched her hands wrap the gauze—one loop, another loop, her fingertips brushing past the faint, almost invisible old scar on the inside of his wrist. "Ten years ago, I didn't speak up for you." She tucked the tail end of the gauze into the layers, her movements as crisp as holstering a gun. She stood up. The fluorescent light sliced her profile into halves of light and shadow. "This time—" She didn't finish. But Lu Chenzhou understood. He leaned back against the wall and closed his eyes. The stinging pain in his right arm was still there, but the thing that had been clogging his chest for ten years seemed to have cracked open a seam, letting in a sliver of thin air. The ledger was still in the inner pocket against his chest, its rough paper corner pressing against his rib. They both knew that thing couldn't go through official channels—and they both knew what not going through official channels meant. The light flickered again. Lu Chenzhou's left hand finally stopped trembling. The ledger's rough pages pressed against his ribs, each breath stealing a little body heat. Lu Chenzhou zipped the inner pocket all the way up. The hard corner under the fabric dug into his flesh, like a splinter wedged into the bone. Qin Wangshu's phone vibrated. The buzzing sound bounced twice on the metal surface of the abandoned clinic's cabinet, sharp as nails on a chalkboard. The screen lit up—"Zhao Tieshan." Both of them froze. "Answer it," Lu Chenzhou said. Qin Wangshu bit the inside of her lower lip, her thumb pressing the answer button. "Captain Zhao." The voice from the receiver leaked out, full of vigor but suppressing anger. "On-site evidence inventory, report it now. My system shows three item numbers logged from the water supply station basement. Cross-check them." Her gaze swept over Lu Chenzhou's chest. The ledger. The serial number on the interrogation chair part. And the bolt cutter she herself had dragged out from under the gate. Three items. "Received," she said, her voice steady. "I'm sorting it out now. I'll get back to you in five minutes." "Report now," Zhao Tieshan's tone brooked no argument. "Item by item. First item, number Z-0471. What is it?" Lu Chenzhou's left hand unconsciously tapped twice in the air—a habit of Fang Mu's, one he never used himself. He did it now. Two fingers hovered above his knee, as if silently tapping on an invisible keyboard. Z-0471 was the bolt cutter. "Z-0471, one bolt cutter, blade shows signs of use," Qin Wangshu said. "Second item, Z-0472." The interrogation chair part. She had seen the number herself. Lu Chenzhou's fingers stopped. His gaze turned into something sharp, cutting straight at her. Not a request, not a plea—a wager. He had thrown the choice into her hands, along with himself. "Z-0472," Qin Wangshu paused for half a second. "Fragment of a leather restraint strap, already sealed." Silence on the other end for two seconds. "Number confirmed. Third item, Z-0473." The ledger. She could feel the ledger "Also," Zhao Tieshan's tone suddenly deepened, "Wangshu, the last footage from the water supply station surveillance before the power cut, the timestamp is 21:14. What time did you arrive at the scene?" Qin Wangshu's breath froze. 21:14. She had arrived at 21:37. A twenty-three minute gap—enough time for someone to crawl under the sluice gate, retrieve the item, and leave through the side door. "21:37," she replied, her voice devoid of any fluctuation. "Hmm." Zhao Tieshan fell silent again. That "hmm" was drawn out extremely long, its tail end scraping against the receiver like sandpaper rubbing the back of her neck. "Wrap up early." The call ended. The clinic fell quiet once more. The rain outside was still falling, the rhythm of droplets striking the tin roof as dense as a heartbeat. Qin Wangshu slowly exhaled. Her hand was still resting on the phone, the screen's faint glow illuminating her pale fingertips. "He knows," Lu Chenzhou said. "Knows what?" "The time gap." He leaned against the wall, his right arm hanging at his side, his voice as placid as if discussing the weather. "Twenty-three minutes. He'll pull the communication logs, cross-check your arrival time with the cell tower data. Zhao Tieshan isn't the type to overlook a discrepancy." "Then why did you let me—" "Because three items becoming two is just a clerical oversight." Lu Chenzhou's gaze fell on her hand, clenched around the insurance strap. "Two items becoming none is a lost piece of evidence." Qin Wangshu bit the inside of her lower lip, the taste of blood spreading on her tongue. She released her grip; her palm was slick with sweat. "This ledger," her voice dropped very low, "what can it give you?" "Gu Zhixing's safe house usage records," he said. "Payment accounts, entry and exit times, and—who went there between March 4th and 7th." Three days of blankness. Enough to destroy the originals, enough to forge replacements. Also enough for the real culprit to leave an indelible trace at some point. She stared into his eyes. Those eyes were as cold as a river's surface in deep winter, with undercurrents surging beneath the ice. "You're betting I'll help you." "I'm betting you need the truth." The sound of rain filled every gap. Qin Wangshu stood up, slipping her phone into her coat pocket. "I'll write the corrected report," she said. "But the ledger—you only have forty-eight hours." Lu Chenzhou did not nod. His left hand began to move again—fingers splaying, then clenching, as if measuring some invisible distance. Outside the window, a black sedan stopped at the mouth of the alley opposite the clinic. The engine was still running. The windows were tinted dark, obscuring the occupants. But the screen of the communicator on the dashboard was lit up. It displayed: IP Address Accessed — North City Abandoned Water Supply Station Security Backend. Timestamp: 21:15.