The cold light from the television screen lay like a thin layer of ice over Lu Chenzhou's face. He sat in a single armchair in Shen Yan's guest room, his spine straight. His left hand rested on his knee, the index and middle fingers unconsciously tapping lightly in alternation. His right hand hung at his side, fingertips cold. The room was filled with the distinctive, slightly bitter scent of old camphorwood furniture, mixed with the overly dry, hot air blown out by the central air conditioning. Breathing it in felt like swallowing a handful of fine sand. On the screen, Shen Moqing was smiling at the camera. That smile, magnified by the high-definition camera and then broadcast through the distorted speakers of this old television, had a strange sense of fragmentation. His voice was warm, magnetic, each word's ending rounded and fitting. But the eyes in the image—even within the pixelated grid—remained as cold as a deep winter well. "I deeply sympathize with Mr. Lu Chenzhou's circumstances." Shen Moqing leaned forward slightly. This action made his face appear closer in the frame, more oppressive. The jade thumb ring on his left hand emitted a gentle green sheen under the studio's strong lights. As he spoke, his thumb was slowly, rhythmically rubbing the inside of the ring. "But law and truth have never been swayed by emotion." He paused, his gaze shifting to the interviewer off-camera, then back again, as if weighing his words. "We have noted that some of Mr. Lu's actions after his release—including his... unique interpretations of certain evidence in the Zhao Mingcheng case—have already raised concerns among relevant professionals." The corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye twitched slightly. Very slightly. So slight that only he could feel that minute muscle pull, like an extremely fine needle quickly pricking beneath the skin. The fingers resting on his knee stopped moving, their tips pressing against the fabric of his trousers, leaving a shallow indentation. "Especially," Shen Moqing's voice lowered a bit, adopting a hypocritical, almost pained tone, "he seems recently fixated on collecting some... unverified materials, even attempting to use these materials to influence normal investigative procedures." The shot cut to a close-up. Shen Moqing's face filled the entire screen, every wrinkle clearly visible. He furrowed his brow slightly, the expression like that of a helpless elder looking at a misguided junior. "As one who personally experienced that case years ago, I more than anyone hope the truth comes to light," he said. "But the truth must be built upon solid evidence and lawful procedures, not... personal conjecture, or even..." He paused. The pause was long, long enough for the audience in front of their televisions to hold their breath. The background noise from the studio vanished completely, leaving only the faint hum of electricity. Then, Shen Moqing slowly lifted his eyes, looking directly into the camera. "...or even a kind of paranoid projection resulting from psychological trauma." In the room, Lu Chenzhou's breathing rhythm did not change. But his fist clenched at his side. Nails dug into his palm, pressing out four crescent-moon-shaped white marks, which then slowly flushed red, turning into deep grooves. The skin of his palm transmitted a clear, stinging pain, like an anchor point, pinning him to reality. Shen Moqing on the television continued. "We call upon the relevant departments, for the sake of social stability, and for Mr. Lu's own health..." He rubbed the thumb ring again, this time a bit faster. "...it is necessary to conduct... a prudent evaluation. After all, if a person who was once imprisoned for a serious crime shows signs of endangering society again after release, it is not only a personal tragedy, but a responsibility for our entire society." The background image switched. It was no longer the solid-colored backdrop of the studio, but a series of rapidly flashing images, like screenshots from surveillance footage. A blurry corridor, several swaying human figures, then—the image froze on a close-up of a door. It was a thick solid wood door, the handle brass, already somewhat oxidized and darkened. Above the door panel hung a small, gold-stamped nameplate. **[Yan Studio]** Lu Chenzhou's pupils contracted. Shen Yan's study. The image lasted less than two seconds before cutting back to Shen Moqing's face. But it was enough. Lu Chenzhou's brain revved up like a machine suddenly operating at full speed, every gear meshing into a cold chain of logic—Shen Moqing repeatedly emphasized "forged evidence," "interference with investigation," "mental issues" during the interview, yet the background footage deliberately flashed Shen Yan's study. This was no mistake. It was design. He was laying the groundwork. P He did not smile. That was merely a movement of muscles, like a faint ripple stirred by the wind on the surface of stagnant water, vanishing in an instant. He released his clenched fist; four deep nail marks remained on his palm, with traces of blood seeping from the edges. He raised his hand, slowly wiping those marks with the pad of his thumb. The motion was very light, as if brushing dust off a piece of precision equipment. On the television, the exclusive interview was drawing to a close. Shen Moqing was wrapping up with a conclusion full of "social responsibility," his tone having regained its steadiness and magnanimity, as if those earlier implications and accusations had never existed. Background music began to play—the kind of solemn, slightly mournful piano piece often used in news programs. Lu Chenzhou turned off the TV. The remote control made a soft *click* when pressed. The screen instantly went black, the cold light that had been cast over his face vanished. The room was left with only the thin, afternoon sunlight filtering through the gaps in the heavy curtains. The light sliced diagonally across the carpet, illuminating the countless tiny specks of dust floating in the air. He stood up. His knees were somewhat stiff from sitting too long. He walked to the window. He didn't pull open the curtains, just stood by the gap, peering outside with one eye. The front courtyard of the Shen residence was quiet. Two bodyguards in black suits stood by the fountain pool, their backs turned towards the guest wing, but their positions blocked all paths leading to the main gate. Further away, the wrought-iron gate was tightly shut. The tree-lined avenue outside the gate was empty. House arrest. The term slid into his stomach like a piece of ice. Not physical chains, but a more ingenious cage—cutting off communication, monitoring movements, then tightening the noose of public opinion bit by bit, until he was thoroughly molded into a lunatic: "mentally unstable," "prone to violence," "attempting to frame his benefactor." By then, police intervention, forced medical treatment—everything would proceed logically. He turned and walked back to the sofa, fishing out the backup phone from between the sofa cushions. Power on. The screen lit up; the signal bar was empty, marked only by a red 'X'. He opened the encrypted messaging app and tried to send a pre-set message—just three words: "Confirmed." He pressed send. The progress bar moved slowly, then stuck at sixty percent, finally popping up a red alert box: **[Sending failed. Please check network connection.]** He tried three times. All three failed. The phone's signal was being jammed, and it was a professional-grade, powerful interference covering the entire frequency band. Shen Moqing had spared no expense this time. Lu Chenzhou stuffed the phone back into its hiding place. His fingers brushed against another hard object beneath the sofa cushion—the portable DNA analyzer, and tucked inside it, the photo of the test report showing a 99.7% match rate. Shen Yan's biological evidence. Ironclad proof. But now, this ironclad proof was trapped in his hands, like a grenade with its pin pulled but unable to be thrown. He needed a way out. A way to get the evidence out. A way to tear a hole in the meticulously woven net of public opinion Shen Moqing had cast. The brief, flashing shot of the study in the TV interview replayed repeatedly in his mind—Shen Moqing hinting at the "forger of evidence," yet the background was Shen Yan's domain. This was a flaw, but also an opportunity. What if the public began to doubt—who was really forging the evidence? Lu Chenzhou, or someone inside the Shen family? What if... the spearhead could be turned back? Lu Chenzhou walked to the old-fashioned rotary dial phone in the corner of the room. Its black plastic body, the handset's grip worn shiny. He picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. A long dial tone came through, then—a *click*, the static of a transfer, and finally a steady idle tone. The line was live. But it was definitely being monitored. Every button pressed, every word spoken, would be recorded, analyzed, and dissected. He needed a language, a language that could slip through the monitoring net. He remembered a number. Many years ago, when Qin Wangshu was still his apprentice, they had agreed on a set of emergency contact protocols. Among them was a number—an almost abandoned internal line extension at the Municipal Bureau. The receiver could only be an auxiliary police officer on duty in the duty room. Relaying messages would take time, but it was advantageous for its secrecy and the difficulty of immediately linking it back to Qin Wangshu himself. He still remembered that number. His finger hovered over the dial. The metal dial was cold, its edges rough He sat in the armchair in Shen Yan’s guest room, his back straight, left hand resting on his knee, index and middle fingers unconsciously tapping lightly in alternation. The cold light from the television screen lay over his face like a thin layer of ice. Shen Yanqing’s voice flowed from the speakers, processed with noise reduction and reverb, carrying a deliberately crafted, compassionate magnetism. “I deeply sympathize with Mr. Lu Chenzhou’s plight.” Shen Yanqing leaned slightly forward on camera, his hands folded on the dark walnut desk. The jade thumb ring glowed softly under the studio spotlights. He rubbed the ring slowly, steadily. “But law and truth cannot be swayed by emotion.” He paused, his gaze fixed directly on the camera as if he could see every viewer through the screen. “We have noted that some of his actions after his release, including his… unique interpretation of certain evidence in the Zhao Mingcheng case, have raised concerns among professionals.” The corner of Lu Chenzhou’s left eye twitched slightly. He stared at the screen, his pupils reflecting the scrolling news ticker at the bottom. The words slithered across like venomous snakes: “Former Criminal Investigation Expert’s Mental State Raises Concerns,” “Shen Family Calls for Prudent Assessment,” “Police May Reopen Investigation.” “We urge the relevant authorities,” Shen Yanqing’s voice suddenly sharpened, yet softened skillfully at the tail end into a sigh of helplessness, “for the sake of social stability, and for Mr. Lu’s own health, to conduct… a prudent assessment.” The shot cut to the studio background. It was a book wall decorated with a Chinese-style antique display shelf, holding imitation porcelain and thread-bound books. But as the camera swept past the right edge—for only about three-tenths of a second—Lu Chenzhou saw it. A corner of Shen Yan’s study. That rosewood curio cabinet, the empty spot on the third level to the left. Last night when he infiltrated, a green jade pixiu statue had been placed there. Now it was empty. Lu Chenzhou’s fingers stopped moving. On the television, Shen Yanqing continued, “What is especially distressing is that some individuals are attempting to disrupt the normal investigation process of the Zhao Mingcheng case by forging evidence and spreading false information. This is not only disrespectful to the deceased but also a blatant trampling of judicial dignity.” Forging evidence. Lu Chenzhou’s breathing became extremely light in that instant. The stagnant air in the guest room suddenly sharpened with the scent of mothballs, piercing his nostrils. He’s not talking about me. He’s talking about Shen Yan. This thought pierced Lu Chenzhou’s skull like an ice pick. The image Shen Yanqing was crafting on camera was not simply that of a victim’s family member. He was laying groundwork—groundwork for everything that might follow. If Shen Yan’s crimes were exposed, or if Shen Yan died “accidentally,” then today’s words would become the perfect foreshadowing: See, I said it long ago, someone was forging evidence. And that “someone” could be Lu Chenzhou. Could also be Shen Yan. Could even be both him and Shen Yan, dealt with together. The corner of Lu Chenzhou’s mouth lifted into an extremely faint curve. Cold, devoid of warmth. He reached out, picked up the remote control from the coffee table, and turned off the television. The moment the screen went dark, the room plunged into a deeper silence. Only the distant buzzing of the electric hedge trimmer from Shen Yan’s gardener pruning the shrubs outside the window remained, like some insect in its death throes. He needed to counterattack. Now. Lu Chenzhou rose from the armchair and walked to the window. He pulled open a gap in the heavy velvet curtains. Sunlight stabbed through, cutting a glaring patch of light on the dark carpet. Down in the courtyard below, he saw two bodyguards in black suits standing in the shadow of the colonnade, their backs to the guest room, but their postures taut, ready to turn and sprint at any moment. House arrest had been escalated. He let the curtain fall and turned to the bedside table. The old rotary dial telephone lay there quietly, its dark red plastic body worn where the paint on the number dial had rubbed off. He had checked last night—the line was connected, but it was definitely being monitored. Every outgoing call on Shen Yan’s internal system would be routed through the switchboard. And the switchboard was under the butler’s control. Lu Chenzhou’s fingers hovered over the receiver for three seconds. Then he picked it up. The receiver was cold, its plastic shell greasy to the touch from age. He pressed it to his ear and began dialing with his other hand. The dial turned with a Lu Chenzhou's Adam's apple bobbed. He could hear his own heartbeat pounding against his eardrums, steady in rhythm, but each beat felt as heavy as tamping earth. "Hello?" A woman's voice came through the receiver. Crisp, decisive, carrying a professional detachment. It was Qin Wangshu. Lu Chenzhou's left hand clenched unconsciously, fingernails digging into his palm. He spoke, his pace even, but each word seemed squeezed out from between his teeth: "Guest room service complaint." Silence on the other end for two seconds. "State the matter." Qin Wangshu's voice grew colder. "The room's air conditioning is malfunctioning," Lu Chenzhou stared at the sliver of light seeping through the curtain gap, "temperature is out of control. Requires emergency repair. Additionally, I found a previous guest's... personal belongings in the bedside table. Suspected contraband drugs." He paused, hearing an extremely faint sound of breathing through the receiver, and the distant, indistinct static of police radio dispatch signals. Qin Wangshu was at the police station. "The items have been photographed," he continued, lowering his voice further, "the test report shows a high degree of match with biological traces from a recent crime scene. Match rate exceeds ninety-nine point seven percent." Another silence on the other end. Longer this time. Lu Chenzhou could imagine Qin Wangshu's expression at this moment—brows furrowed, the inside of her lower lip lightly bitten by her teeth. She was thinking, weighing, judging whether he was setting another trap. "The property owner is currently claiming in the media," he added the final line, "that I fabricated the evidence." "...Address." Qin Wangshu finally spoke, no emotion detectable in her voice, "I'll send it to the old mailbox." "I need an exit." "Don't expect me to protect you." The call ended. The busy signal beeped dully. Lu Chenzhou slowly lowered the receiver, the plastic shell pulling away from his ear with a faint, cool friction. He stood there, listening as the busy signal gradually faded, until it disappeared completely. The guest room fell back into silence. But something was different now. The wariness and detachment in Qin Wangshu's final words from the other end of the line were like a fine needle, pricking a spot somewhere in his chest. Not deep, but clear enough. He walked back to the bedside, reached under the pillow, and pulled out that roll of micro videotape. The master tape of the "Confession." A black plastic shell, a yellowed label pasted on the side, with a date and serial number written in fountain pen. Handwriting from ten years ago, his own handwriting. But those words weren't his—they were what they forced into his mouth in the interrogation room, after repeatedly breaking his ribs, threatening his sister's medical expenses, and finally shoving the lines at him, making him read them into the camera. Lu Chenzhou's thumb rubbed the edge of the label. What if he revealed the existence of this master tape now, hinting that Shen Yan had long held and possibly abused his "confession" materials? Public opinion would reverse in an instant. Shen Yanqing's carefully constructed persona of "concern for mental health" would crumble. The public would realize that this family not only framed a man, but also made a specimen of his disgrace and kept it for ten years. But the cost would be that he had to tear open his deepest wound with his own hands. Those forced, distorted "confessions" would once again be exposed in broad daylight. The media would analyze his expression frame by frame, psychologists would interpret his body language, and onlookers would relish the tale of how a genius was destroyed. And Qin Wangshu... how would she see him? Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. The edges of the videotape casing pressed sharply against the skin of his palm. He remembered how he felt when he saw it last night in the hidden compartment of Shen Yan's study—not anger, not sorrow, but a cold, almost numb confirmation. *See, this is how they treated you. Turned you into a tool, put you away in a drawer after use, and took you out to dust off when needed.* He opened his eyes. With his left hand, he picked up the portable tester from the bedside table—the small device that last night confirmed the match with Shen Yan's DNA. The screen was still lit, the last test record showing: "Sample A match rate with scene traces: 99.73%." He pressed a few buttons, brought up the camera function, and aimed it at the screen. *Click.* A faint simulated shutter sound. The tester's built-in camera captured a photo of the match report. Lu Chenzhou stared at the image on the screen. Clear, indisputable. This was ironclad evidence that could directly nail to tear open his own old scars and expose Shen Yan's crime from ten years ago; or to expose his current illegal actions and let Shen Yan's crime come to light? Lu Chenzhou's thumb unconsciously rubbed the edge of the detector. The plastic casing, held for a long time, had already absorbed the warmth from his palm. He remembered Qin Wangshu's tone on the phone just now—cold, businesslike, but at least, she had promised to send the address. She hadn't completely severed contact yet. If he threw out the videotape now, stirring up that muddy mess from ten years ago, what would Qin Wangshu think? Would she think he was using a sympathy ploy, or using self-sacrifice to win pity? Or worse—would she think he really was mentally unstable, capable of using his own shame as a weapon. Lu Chenzhou's lips tightened. He put down the detector, picked up the videotape, and walked to the old-fashioned cast-iron radiator in the corner of the guest room. There was an inconspicuous gap on the side of the radiator, which he had discovered while inspecting the room yesterday. He shoved the videotape inside, pushed it in until the black plastic casing completely disappeared into the shadows. Then he turned, walked back to the bed, and picked up the detector. His fingers operated the buttons. Pulled up the photo he had just taken, connected it to the backup phone—that old device hidden in his sock, equipped with a portable signal booster. The screen lit up, the signal icon frantically flickering between "No Service" and "One Bar." Shen Yan's jamming was strong. He needed an opportunity. Footsteps came from outside the window. Not the steady, deliberately light steps of a bodyguard, but the slightly hurried sound of leather shoes stepping on a gravel path. Approaching from afar, stopping right outside the guest room door. Lu Chenzhou quickly shoved the detector back under the pillow, pocketed the backup phone. He walked to the sofa and sat down, picked up the remote, and turned the TV back on. The news had moved on, now broadcasting morning traffic conditions. But the scrolling ticker at the bottom of the screen continued: 「The Shen Family Calls for Prudent Evaluation of Former Criminal Investigation Expert's Mental State.」 A knock sounded at the door. Three knocks, evenly spaced, with trained restraint. "Mr. Lu?" The butler's voice came through the thick solid wood door, gentle but unyielding, "Mr. Shen Yan is concerned about whether you saw the morning news. Would you like me to prepare breakfast for you?" Lu Chenzhou stared at the TV screen. The shifting light played across his face. He spoke, his voice as calm as stagnant water: "I saw it. Thank Mr. Shen Yan for his concern." "Then breakfast..." "No need." He paused, then added, "Also, could you bring me some paper and a pen? I need to organize some... thoughts." Silence outside the door for two seconds. "Very well, Mr. Lu. Ma San will bring them for you." Footsteps receded. Lu Chenzhou leaned back against the sofa backrest and closed his eyes. In the darkness, he heard his own heartbeat, heard the fading buzz of hedge trimmers outside the window, heard the faint airflow from the guest room air conditioning vent. And from under the pillow, the last, almost inaudible electronic beep as the detector's screen turned off. *Beep.* Like the first soft sound of a countdown. The light from outside the window cut in diagonally, casting a sharp dividing line on the dark carpet. Lu Chenzhou stood at the edge of that band of light, half in brightness, half in shadow. His left hand held the receiver of that old-fashioned telephone, the knuckles of his fingers slightly whitened from the grip. His right hand hung at his side, fingers pinching the thermal paper photo torn from the portable detector—a 99.7% match rate, the black numbers on the white paper like some kind of verdict. He needed to send it out. But Shen Yan's guest room was like a precise cage. The signal jammer hummed somewhere inside the wall, the sound so low it was almost inaudible, yet it soaked every corner like a cold mist. The signal bars on the backup phone were empty, the red cross glaring. He needed a window. A crack. A faint sound of footsteps came from the doorway, then stopped. The butler hadn't left yet, probably standing just three steps outside the door. His breathing was deliberately light, but the sound of his leather soles rubbing against the carpet didn't escape Lu Chenzhou's ears. The surveillance had escalated, from long-distance watch to close-quarter monitoring. Lu Chenzhou's gaze swept across the room. The single armchair, the low table, the television, the nightstand. On the His body had already moved, like a shadow compressed then released, crossing to the window in two strides. The moment his left hand pushed open the window latch, his right hand had already pulled the backup phone from his trouser pocket. On the back of the phone was a thin, cicada-wing silver metal patch—the signal booster Fang Mu had given him, with a battery life of only forty-five seconds. The window was pushed open a palm's width. The early autumn wind rushed in, carrying the trimmed-grass scent from the courtyard. The phone extended outside. The screen lit up, and the interface of the encrypted transmission software popped up. Lu Chenzhou's thumb swiftly swiped, selected the thermal paper photo, and attached a brief text explanation: 「Shen Yan's DNA matches crime scene traces of 'Mirror Murderer' 99.7%. Evidence source: Shen Yan internal testing. Sender: Anonymous whistleblower, holds more clues from Shen Yan internal files.」 Destination: a pre-set, seven-layer-bounced peripheral media email address. Su Muyu wouldn't receive it directly, but her informant would. The progress bar began to slide. 1%……15%……30%…… The butler's voice came from the doorway, separated by the door panel, carrying deliberate concern: "Mr. Lu? Are you alright? Do you need assistance?" Lu Chenzhou didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the progress bar. The silver edge of the signal booster began to heat up, burning hot against his fingertip. The forty-five-second countdown ticked away in his mind. 60%……75%…… "Mr. Lu?" The butler's voice drew closer, a key turned halfway in the lock. 90%……95%…… Send successful. Lu Chenzhou yanked his hand back. The moment the window closed, he stuffed the phone back into his trouser pocket, tore off the signal booster, and clenched it in his palm. The residual heat of the metal patch seared his skin, leaving a brief, stinging red mark. The door opened. The butler stood in the doorway, his suit crisp, a trained smile on his face. His gaze first fell on the broken glass and water stains on the floor, then lifted to look at Lu Chenzhou. "Shall I have someone come clean this up?" "No need." Lu Chenzhou walked back to the center of the room, bent down, and picked up a few larger glass shards, his movements as natural as if he'd merely knocked over a glass by accident. "I'll handle it myself." The butler didn't move, his eyes slowly sweeping the room once before finally resting on Lu Chenzhou's right hand hanging at his side. That hand was steady, but there was a fresh, small scratch on the knuckle—probably from picking up the glass. "Master Shen is very concerned about you," the butler said, his tone mild as if discussing the weather. "He specifically instructed that you rest well, and not... overexert yourself." Lu Chenzhou straightened up, tossed the glass shards into the trash bin. "Please thank Master Shen for me." The butler nodded, retreated, and closed the door again. The sound of the bolt engaging was clear. Lu Chenzhou stood where he was, listening to the footsteps outside gradually fade but not disappear completely—they stopped at the corridor corner. The surveillance had shifted from overt to covert, but it was still there. He walked back to the low table and picked up the old-fashioned telephone. The receiver was cold, the plastic casing had fine scratches. He pressed an internal line number—not the switchboard, but a short code requiring three transfers—a backup line inside Shen Yan, leading directly to a certain middle-management office. It was something he had observed a few days ago, an administrative supervisor who liked to use this line for personal calls during his lunch break. The call connected. "Hello?" It was a middle-aged man's voice, tinged with impatience at being disturbed. Lu Chenzhou lowered his voice, speaking quickly and indistinctly, imitating a certain local accent: "Director Wang? It's Old Li from logistics. About that... that reimbursement form you mentioned last time, finance is blocking it, says the signature's wrong. Are you free now? Can I bring it over for you to re-sign?" The other party paused for two seconds. "You have the wrong—" Lu Chenzhou cut him off, his voice more urgent: "Ah, Director Wang, just five minutes, won't interrupt your break! I'm right downstairs from your office, just open the door, I'll run over!" Silence on the other end for a moment. Lu Chenzhou could imagine the other's expression—confused, annoyed, but perhaps also a trace of guilt. After all, using an internal line for personal calls and reimbursing private expenses wasn't exactly honorable. "Wait," the other finally said Lu Chenzhou gripped the receiver, his fingertip pressing against the glass scratch. The faint sting kept him alert. He counted the beats of the waiting tone, one, two, three… "State your business." Qin Wangshu's voice came through the receiver, cold, dry, like a frost-covered iron railing on a winter morning. There was the faint background noise of a police radio and the rustle of papers being turned—she was in her office, or perhaps a car. Lu Chenzhou let out a breath, which turned into a faint white noise in the receiver. "Target confirmed. Shen Yan. Biological evidence, ninety-nine point seven percent match. I just sent it via the old channel." Silence on the other end. Through the radio static, a vague dispatch instruction: "...Xijiao intersection, accident handling…" "And then?" Qin Wangshu finally spoke, her voice devoid of surprise, only a tense caution. "I'm under house arrest. Shen Yanqing said on TV that I'm mentally unstable, forging evidence." Lu Chenzhou spoke rapidly, each word fired out like a bullet. "He wants to put me back inside. Or worse." "So you need an exit." "I need a place to breathe. In ten minutes, Shen Yan will know the evidence has been leaked. By then, this house will become a real cage." Qin Wangshu fell silent again for a few seconds. Lu Chenzhou could hear her breathing, very light, but the rhythm had changed—she was thinking, weighing things. The radio static suddenly cut in with a clear male voice: "Captain Qin, Deputy Chief Zhao is looking for you, says it's urgent—" "Make him wait." Qin Wangshu interrupted the voice, then spoke into the receiver, "I'll send the address to the old mailbox. But Lu Chenzhou, listen clearly—" Her voice dropped even lower, each word seeming squeezed out from between her teeth. "I'm only responsible for giving you an address. Once you're in, whether you live or die is not my concern. If the things you released are later proven to be forged, or if they cause even greater chaos, I'll be the first to cuff you and bring you back. Don't expect me to protect you. Don't expect me to believe you. There's no trust between us, only a transaction. Do you understand?" The corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye twitched slightly. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, his gaze was utterly calm. "Understood." "And," Qin Wangshu's voice carried a trace of exhaustion, so faint it was almost imperceptible, "the email address you used… Su Muyu's people have already intercepted it. There's starting to be movement online now. The headline is sensational: 'Heir's DNA Matches Serial Murder Scene.'" She paused. "You've lit the fire. But who the fire will burn, nobody knows." The call ended. The busy tone beeped. Lu Chenzhou set down the receiver, his palm slick with sweat. He walked to the window and lifted a corner of the curtain. Everything in the courtyard seemed normal: the gardener trimming the shrubs, the fountain's water flowing gently. But near the main building in the distance, several figures in black suits were striding quickly across the lawn, heading toward the guest building. Their pace was fast. He retreated to the center of the room, took out the backup phone from his trouser pocket, powered it off, removed the SIM card, and snapped it in half. He stuffed the card slot and the phone body separately into the gap in the sofa cushion and under the shredded paper at the bottom of the trash bin. After doing all this, he went to the door and pressed his ear against the panel. The corridor was quiet. But it was a tense quiet, like the stillness of a bowstring pulled to its limit. He heard the faint *ding* of an elevator arriving in the far distance, so light, yet piercingly clear in this dead silence. Then, footsteps. More than one person. The sound of leather soles striking the marble floor grew from afar, the rhythm urgent, carrying an undeniable sense of pressure. The footsteps paused at the corridor's corner, as if someone whispered something, then continued advancing toward him. Finally, they stopped right outside his door. Lu Chenzhou took a step back, away from the door. His eyes swept the room—the windows were locked, this was the only door, the fire escape sign was at the far end of the corridor behind the door. The sound of a key turning in the lock echoed again. This time, it wasn't a tentative half-turn, but a full rotation. The bolt clicked open. The door was pushed open. Shen Yan stood in the doorway, his face pale as paper, yet the rims of his eyes were unnaturally red. Behind him stood four bodyguards in black suits, burly Shen Yan stood in the doorway, flanked by two bodyguards in black suits, like two silent walls. He had changed into a dark gray cashmere loungewear, the collar loose, but his hair was combed meticulously. That sharp, cold cologne scent rushed into the room ahead of him, mingling with a faint odor of disinfectant, like some carefully prepared stage prop. Lu Chenzhou did not rise. He sat in the single armchair, his left hand resting on his knee, his index and middle fingers unconsciously alternating in a light tap—a peculiar habit of his when thinking. The moment he saw Shen Yan, those two fingers stopped. "Mr. Lu." Shen Yan spoke, his voice very soft, carrying a deliberately suppressed hoarseness. "I heard you just... dropped a cup?" Lu Chenzhou looked up. Under Shen Yan's eyes were two faint dark circles, but deep within his pupils burned something scalding. It wasn't anger; it was more like steam boiling over from fear. "My hand slipped," Lu Chenzhou said. Shen Yan laughed. The laugh was short, as if something had choked it off. "Hand slipped," he repeated the phrase, slowly walking into the room. His black soft-soled shoes made no sound on the carpet. The two bodyguards remained outside the door, but the door was left open. Light from the hallway slanted in, stretching their shadows long, all the way to Lu Chenzhou's feet. "What my father just said on TV, did you hear it?" Shen Yan stopped in front of the coffee table, leaned forward, his hands braced on the glass surface. This posture made him look like an animal preparing to pounce, but the tense line of his shoulders betrayed stiffness. "He said some people are trying to disrupt the investigation of Zhao Mingcheng's case with fabricated evidence." Lu Chenzhou's gaze fell on Shen Yan's left thumb—there was no jade thumb ring there, only a very faint, almost invisible scar. Shen Yanqing's habit; Shen Yan had not inherited it. But some things didn't need heredity. "I heard," Lu Chenzhou said. "Who do you think he's talking about?" Shen Yan's voice dropped even lower, almost becoming a whisper. The air in the room grew thick. From outside the window came the sound of distant street traffic, buzzing like a swarm of insects trapped in a glass jar. Lu Chenzhou could smell the sweat seeping through beneath Shen Yan's cologne, sour, carrying the sharp scent of adrenaline. He remained silent for three seconds. Then he spoke, his pace measured, each word as if measured with a ruler: "He's talking about someone who fabricated evidence. Someone who tried to use false biological traces to drag an innocent person into a murder case, create chaos, and cover up the real killer." Shen Yan's breath hitched. "Do you think that person is me?" Lu Chenzhou asked. "Isn't it?" Shen Yan straightened up, his fingers tapping on the glass tabletop, the rhythm erratic. "You got out of prison, nursing a grudge. You approached Shen Yan, ostensibly to investigate the case, but actually to seek revenge. You snuck into my study, stole my personal belongings, and then—then you fabricated that so-called 'evidence.' DNA? Ha." He let out a short laugh. "How hard is it to forge a matching report with today's technology? You know better than anyone, Officer Lu. You're the expert." Lu Chenzhou looked at him. The corner of his left eye began to twitch slightly, very subtly, but uncontrollably. His hand on his knee tightened, nails digging into his palm. The pain was a clear anchor point. "The raw data stream from the testing instrument has encrypted timestamps," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice flat. "Environmental parameters during sample collection, instrument serial numbers, operator biometric records—all uploaded in real-time to a third-party cloud. That's not a photo, Shen Yan. That's an entire chain of evidence. You can tell the media I forged it, but any qualified forensic institution retrieving the original data will get the same result." He paused, letting the weight of those words sink in. "The uniqueness of biological evidence—your father should have taught you that." Shen Yan's face paled. Not just pale, but a color close to ashen, spreading from beneath his cheekbones. He opened his mouth but made no sound. From the hallway came the faint rustle of fabric as the bodyguards adjusted their stance. "So," Lu Chenzhou continued, leaning forward slightly—a posture of applying pressure. "When your father talks about the 'evidence fabricator' on TV, is he pointing at me—" He paused. "Or at you?" Shen Yan's pupils abruptly contracted. "Has he already written the script?" Lu Chenzhou's voice grew even softer, as if sharing a secret. "Pack His voice rose sharply, cracking. After uttering those three words, he bit down hard on his lower lip, teeth sinking into the flesh. But it was already too late. Lu Chenzhou caught that moment—what flashed in Shen Yan's eyes wasn't anger, but something more primal: the shock and fear of betrayal. Like a rabbit frozen in headlights, rigid and unmoving. "He can't?" Lu Chenzhou repeated, a note of perfectly measured curiosity tingeing his tone. "Why can't he? Those things, weren't they all done with his tacit approval?" "Without his nod, how could I have gotten your—" Shen Yan choked off. The words stuck in his throat. His eyes widened as he stared at Lu Chenzhou, as if suddenly realizing he stood on the edge of a cliff, and the ground beneath his feet had already begun to crumble. Cold sweat seeped from his temples, glinting with fine, fragmented light in the slanted rays of the hallway. Lu Chenzhou's heart slammed hard against his ribcage. Got it. Even if only half a sentence, it was enough. Shen Yan had admitted it himself—"gotten." Gotten what? The confession from back then? The interrogation footage? Or something else, something only Shen Yan's inner circle knew about, something that could nail Lu Chenzhou dead to rights? He maintained a calm expression, but the rhythm of his breathing changed. Very slight, but Shen Yan noticed. This man, who had inherited his father's powers of observation, was terrifyingly sharp in certain respects. "Got what?" Lu Chenzhou asked, his voice still steady. Shen Yan took a step back. His heel hit the edge of the coffee table with a d