Lu Chenzhou’s fingers brushed against the doorframe in the darkness. The concrete had peeled away, exposing rusted rebar inside. His fingertips registered a coarse texture, along with the scent of old dust mixed with damp moisture—like some forgotten wound, slowly festering in an unseen corner. He paused at the doorway, not immediately entering. The ghastly white light of an emergency lamp leaked through the door crack, cutting a slender, bright line across the corridor floor. At the other end of that line stood Qin Wangshu. She stood with her back to the door, under the room’s sole light source. The deep blue of her police-issue jacket appeared almost black in the stark white light, the shoulder seams pulled taut. She didn’t turn, but Lu Chenzhou knew she had heard. She could always hear—ten years ago on the training ground, she could discern the most minute variations in the rhythm of his footsteps from thirty meters away. “The door’s unlocked,” Qin Wangshu said. Her voice was flat, as if reading an inconsequential field report. Lu Chenzhou pushed the door open. Dust danced wildly in the light. The room was small, once used by the city bureau as a safe house for important witnesses in its early days, later abandoned. Large patches of wall plaster had fallen away, revealing the gray concrete beneath. A metal table, two chairs, a pile of empty cardboard boxes in the corner. The only light came from an emergency lamp hanging from the ceiling, its bulb emitting a faint electric hum, like the dying flutter of an insect’s wings. Qin Wangshu finally turned around. Her right hand hung at her side, not holding a gun, but Lu Chenzhou saw a subtle bulge pushing against the hem of her jacket—the gun was at the small of her back, ready to be drawn in just 0.7 seconds. He had calculated that number himself, many years ago, on the firing range, timing her personally. “Professor Lu,” Qin Wangshu said. The address hadn’t changed, but the tone had. It was no longer the distantly respectful tone a student used for a teacher, but a cold, business-like one. As if addressing a case file number. Lu Chenzhou did not approach. He stopped three paces from the table. This distance was enough for him to see her expression clearly, and enough for him to react—or choose not to react—if she drew her gun. “You’re early,” he said. “I’m used to arriving ahead of time.” Qin Wangshu’s gaze fell on his face, as if scanning a passport photo. “You’re eleven minutes late.” “Had a tail on the road.” “Shake it off?” “For now.” The corner of Qin Wangshu’s mouth twitched, not quite a smile. “For now. Good choice of word.” She took half a step forward, moving into a brighter patch of light. The lamp cast heavy shadows under her eye sockets and cheekbones, making her appear thinner and harder than he remembered. “Let’s not waste time. What do you want? What can you offer?” Lu Chenzhou pulled a phone from his inner jacket pocket. His movements were slow, ensuring every joint’s motion was within her line of sight. He placed the phone on the metal table, screen facing up, emitting a dim glow. He retreated to his original position. The table’s surface was covered in dust; placing the phone stirred up a small cloud. “A recording,” he said. “What Shen Yan said when he lost control. The background is the antique-style mantel clock in the Shen family hall, chiming on the hour. You can listen.” Qin Wangshu did not move. “And this.” Lu Chenzhou took a folded piece of paper from another pocket, unfolded it, and placed it beside the phone. It was a printed photo of a test report, its edges already worn. “East China Judicial Appraisal Center, case number 2018-0473. You can check it, but don’t use your official access.” Qin Wangshu finally moved. She walked to the table but did not touch the phone or the paper. She looked down, her gaze lingering on the report number for a few seconds before lifting her eyes. “You taught well, Professor Lu,” she said, her voice carrying a near-sarcastic calmness. “Even using counter-surveillance tactics on your student. What does this prove? That Shen Yan is a madman? Or that you manipulated him?” “It proves Shen Moqing’s tacit approval.” “Approval of what?” “Approval of everything Shen Yan has done.” Lu Chenzhou’s speech was level, each word measured as if by a ruler. “Including that political assassination years ago, including forging my "There's half a sentence on the recording." Lu Chenzhou said, "Shen Yan said, 'Father knows,' and then the signal cut off. But the chimes match, and the time matches as well—at exactly nine o'clock that night, I saw that clock in the main hall of the Shen residence." "Half a sentence." Qin Wangshu repeated the phrase, as if chewing on its hardness. "A half-sentence, ambiguous recording, and the code of a publicly accessible test report. Professor Lu, is that what you're offering in exchange for my 'temporary shelter'?" She finally smiled, the curve at the corner of her mouth cold. "Do you think I'm stupid, or do you think I'm crazy?" The left corner of Lu Chenzhou's eye twitched slightly. He controlled it, but Qin Wangshu saw it. She was all too familiar with that micro-expression—ten years ago, every time he encountered a stubborn suspect in the interrogation room, the left corner of his eye would twitch like that. It was a physiological reaction when his mental gears were spinning at high speed, trying to piece together a complete picture from a pile of fragments. "I don't need you to believe it." Lu Chenzhou said, his voice even lower. "I only need you to verify it. Use your informal channels to check who signed the original report for this code, where the report went after submission, and why two pages of critical data were missing from the final archived version." He paused, letting each word sink in. "After you check, then decide whether to continue this transaction." Qin Wangshu stared at him. Time crawled slowly through the dust and the hum of electricity. The emergency light seemed even paler, casting the shadows of the two onto the mottled wall, stretching them long, their edges blurred, like two ghosts ready to dissolve at any moment. "What do you want?" she finally asked. "Twenty-four hours." Lu Chenzhou said. "A place that won't be discovered by Shen Moqing's eyes or by police patrols. And—" He took a deep breath; the smell of dust in the air seeped into his nostrils, carrying the sour tang of long-standing decay. "Information about the 'umbrella.' The names of the people behind Shen Yan, how their interests are tied to Shen Moqing, any clues you can provide." Qin Wangshu's right hand finally moved. She reached toward her waist, but what she pulled out wasn't a gun—it was a palm-sized tablet. The screen lit up, casting a cold white light on her face, making her skin look like plaster. She tapped the keyboard rapidly; the clicking sound echoed crisply in the empty room, like some kind of countdown. Lu Chenzhou stood where he was, not urging her on. He watched her. He watched her tense jawline, the slight contraction of her cheek muscles when she bit the inside of her lower lip, the look in her eyes—a mix of vigilance, exhaustion, and something deeper. He had seen that something ten years ago, when she first independently led a team to handle a murder scene but had the evidence forcibly transferred by her superiors. She had once believed in certain things. She still believed now, just in a different way. The tablet emitted a soft "beep." Qin Wangshu's fingers stopped, her gaze quickly scanning the screen. A few seconds later, she looked up. "The code is real." she said, her tone unchanged. "The original signatory of the report was Zhou Zhengping. The two pages missing upon archiving: one was an electron microscope photo of fiber composition, the other was detailed parameters of a probability matching model." She paused. "Teacher Zhou's final report before retirement." Lu Chenzhou felt something sink in his chest. Not surprise, but confirmation. Like a puzzle piece groping in the dark finally finding its place, clicking into position, fitting perfectly. "Where is the report now?" he asked. "Don't know." Qin Wangshu turned off the screen; the cold light vanished, her face receding back into shadow. "Archive records show it was destroyed, but the signatory field on the destruction approval form is blank." She slowly returned the tablet to her pocket, as if stalling for time. "Professor Lu, the chips you've offered are only enough to buy one name." "Who?" "Li Guohua." The moment the name was spoken, the air in the room seemed to freeze for an instant. Lu Chenzhou had heard this name before. Many years ago, in the news, in internal bulletins, in Zhou Zhengping's drunken, vague complaints. A retired deputy secretary of the Political and Legal Affairs Committee, his disciples and old associates spread throughout the political and legal system, who had spearheaded several far-reaching policy revisions—one of which was a guiding opinion on urban land transfer evaluations. "What's his connection to Shen Mo "Binjiang New District, Plot B07." Her voice was soft, as if recounting a dream that shouldn't be remembered. "Ten years ago, the assessed value was 350 million. The Shen Group acquired it for 120 million. The transfer procedure was completely 'compliant,' because the assessment was based on that new set of standards Li Guohua spearheaded the revision of." She paused, her breathing distinct in the silence. "On the blank margin of the last page of Teacher Zhou's destroyed report, he wrote a comment in pencil. The characters were tiny, almost missed." "What comment?" "'Procedure compliant, but value assessment questionable. Recommend review.'" Qin Wangshu recited it word by word, as if reading a eulogy. "Just that one line. After that, the report disappeared." Lu Chenzhou felt his fingertips go cold. It wasn't fear, but something colder—a chill from finally seeing the outline of the enemy. Li Guohua. Land. The price difference between 350 million and 120 million. Zhou Zhengping's erased comment. All these fragments began to spin, collide, and piece together in his mind, gradually forming the outline of a vast, albeit blurry, network. A protective umbrella. Not a person, but a system. A system woven from rules, procedures, and policy documents, legal and compliant, a system that devoured everything. "Do you have evidence?" he asked. Qin Wangshu smiled. This time it was a real smile, but it held no warmth. "Evidence? Teacher Lu, you know better than I do, things like this never leave evidence. Li Guohua revised the policies in the last year of his term, publicly solicited opinions, held three expert review meetings, all processes have meeting minutes. The Shen Group won the land auction three months after the policy took effect, public bidding, five companies participated, Shen's bid was the highest." She shook her head. "Everything is transparent. So transparent you can't find any crack to lodge an accusation." "But you know." "I know because Teacher Zhou told me." Qin Wangshu said, her voice suddenly weary. "The night before he retired, he called me to his office and gave me a kraft paper envelope. There were no documents inside, just a note. It said, 'B07, Li, 350, 120, remember these numbers.' He didn't explain anything, only said that if he ever had an 'accident,' I should give this note to someone 'still trustworthy.'" She lifted her eyes, her gaze piercing through the dim light, fixing on Lu Chenzhou's face. "I investigated later, for two whole years. But I couldn't prove anything. Just like you can't prove that confession was forged—some things, once swallowed by the system, are never spat back out." The corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye twitched again. This time he didn't control it. He let that subtle spasm last for two seconds, like a silent confirmation. Then he took a step forward, moving into the brighter light. Dust stirred under his feet, swirling slowly in the beam. "Twenty-four hours," he said. "And an address." Qin Wangshu took a key from her pocket. An old brass key, tied to a faded... Qin Wangshu's fingertip hovered half an inch above the tablet screen, the cold light reflecting on her tense jawline. "Patrol team." Her lips barely moved, the whisper sharp and short. "Non-routine. Just received an anonymous tip about 'suspicious activity' in this area. Leading the team is Zhao Tieshan." Lu Chenzhou's heart contracted violently. Not fear, something sharper—like an ice pick stabbing out from his chest with cold precision. Zhao Tieshan. Qin Wangshu's direct superior. The man who always had "follow regulations" on his lips but chose to "obey the larger picture" at every critical juncture. Him leading the team meant this "patrol" order came from a high level. High enough to bypass Qin Wangshu. High enough to let Shen Moqing's hand reach unimpeded into the police system. "Back door." Qin Wangshu was already moving, her actions clean, like defusing a bomb. She strode to the other end of the room, pushed aside a corner piled with expired archive boxes—behind it was a low iron door, its handle rusty, edges stained with dried grease. "Out through here, back alley drainage pipe, leads to the old freight yard two blocks over." She glanced back at Lu Chenzhou, her eyes like tempered steel. "There are rats inside. Maybe rats raised by the Shen family. Judge for yourself." Lu Chenzhou grabbed the key and phone, folded the printed report on Binjiang New District Plot B07 twice, and stuffed it into his inside pocket. The paper edge pressed against his ribs. Qin Wangshu stood in the center of the room, her back to him, facing the window boarded up with planks. The emergency light bulb emitted a faint electrical hum, casting swaying shadows on her profile. Her right hand rested on the gun handle at her waist, her shoulder line taut like a fully drawn bow, holding back an unspent force. "If..." Lu Chenzhou started, his voice catching in his throat like sandpaper grating, "if I find the connection between Li Guohua and that incident from back then, with solid evidence, would you look at it?" Qin Wangshu did not turn around. She raised her left hand and adjusted the communicator behind her ear, the movement slow, as if delaying some inevitable moment. Her knuckles turned white. Then she spoke, her voice as light as a sigh, yet carrying the weight of a blade: "Live until that day first." Lu Chenzhou pushed open the iron door. The hinges let out a dry, piercing shriek. A wave of foul air rushed out, mingling with the smells of rust, sludge, and a sweet, cloying stench of something decaying—like a heavy punch to the face. Behind the door was a narrow passageway, the walls stained with watermarks, with a faint light at the far end—the back alley. He squeezed through sideways and pulled the door shut behind him. The moment the iron door closed, he heard knocking from the direction of the safe house's main entrance. Heavy. Rhythmic. Three knocks in a set, carrying the unmistakable, official tone. Then came Zhao Tieshan’s booming, formulaic voice, piercing through the door panel: "Anyone there? Municipal Public Security Bureau patrol inspection. Please open the door for cooperation." *** The back alley was narrower than expected. Two mottled high walls squeezed out a passage less than a meter wide. The ground was piled with rotting garbage bags, shattered beer bottles, and unidentifiable black slime, all glistening with an oily sheen under the dim light. The cloying, rotten stench in the air was thick and inescapable, mixed with the pungent smells of urine and rust. Every breath felt like swallowing mud. Lu Chenzhou held his breath, moving along the base of the wall, his canvas bag scraping against the damp, slick surface. His eyes had adjusted to the dark. At the far end of the alley, a faint yellow glow from a streetlight seeped in, barely outlining the surroundings: at the base of the left wall, a circular iron grate about sixty centimeters in diameter, embedded in a concrete platform, its surface covered with thick grease and dark green moss. A drainage pipe outlet. He crouched down, his fingers hooking onto the edge of the grate. The rust was icy cold and biting; the rough edges immediately cut his fingertips, sending a faint but sharp sting. He pulled hard. The grate shifted an inch, emitting a dull metallic grinding sound. A stronger stench surged out from the gap. It was a mixture of sewage, decaying organic matter, and some kind of chemical agent—warm, damp, and foul, worming its way into his nostrils like a living thing. Lu Chenzhou’s stomach churned, his throat tightening. He didn’t stop. Taking a deep breath of the putrid air, he exerted force with both hands and pulled the grate completely open. A pitch-black entrance. Nothing could be seen inside, only an unfathomable darkness and that continuous, warm, damp stench. The inner wall of the pipe faintly reflected a sliver of light—slick, unidentifiable slime, like the digestive tract of some large creature. Voices sounded in the distance. Muffled, the words unclear, but distinguishable as men’s voices, their tone forceful. And footsteps—the crunch of leather shoes on gravel—approaching in this direction. More than one pair. Lu Chenzhou didn’t hesitate. He lay flat on the ground, first shoving his canvas bag into the pipe. The bottom of the bag scraped against the slime with a wet, slithering sound. Then he crawled in himself. The inner wall of the pipe was cold and slick, instantly soaking through his jacket and pants. The fabric clung to his skin, the chill biting. The slime stuck to his exposed wrists like the tentacles of some living thing—cold and slippery. He curled his body, hooked his foot on the iron grate outside, and pulled it back with force. The moment the grate closed, the last sliver of light vanished. Complete darkness. And complete silence—no, not silence. There was a sound deep within the pipe. A faint, rustling sound, coming from the far end of the darkness, like countless tiny claws scraping against the metal inner wall, dense and persistent. Rats. Or something else. Lu Chenzhou stayed where he was, “Looked at it. The grate’s rusted shut, no signs of anyone tampering with it.” The flashlight beam lingered on the grate for a few seconds. Lu Chenzhou could see the light spot moving across the rust, could hear the dull thud of knuckles lightly tapping against metal. *Thump. Thump. Thump.* He held his breath, suppressing even his heartbeat to its lowest ebb. Inside his chest, only a cold, slow sense of suffocation remained. “Let’s check ahead,” came Zhao Tieshan’s voice. “Captain Qin’s still inside. Don’t keep her waiting.” The footsteps gradually receded. The crunch of boot soles grinding over gravel grew fainter, finally disappearing at the mouth of the alley. Lu Chenzhou waited another full minute. Time stretched in the darkness, each second feeling as if it had been soaked in cold slime. Only when the sounds from outside had vanished completely, when even the faint hum of an engine from the distant alley mouth could no longer be heard, did he begin to move. He opened the waist pouch, felt inside, and pulled out the small flashlight—Qin Wangshu had prepared even this. He pressed the switch. A weak but concentrated beam of white light pierced the darkness, illuminating a short stretch of pipe ahead. The pipe was a bit more spacious than he’d imagined, but its height was limited; he could only crawl forward on his stomach. The inner walls were coated with a layer of dark brown, gelatinous sediment. The flashlight beam shone on it, reflecting a greasy, sickly sheen. The air was so foul it seemed almost to congeal into a solid mass. Every breath felt like swallowing mud; that cloying, rotting stench clung to the back of his tongue, impossible to shake off. He began to crawl. His movements were slow. His elbows and knees pressed against the cold metal interior, quickly becoming sore from the pressure. His soaked clothes clung to his skin, continuously sapping his body heat. The chill seeped from his limbs toward his core. But he didn’t feel the cold—his attention was entirely focused on his ears, scanning every faint sound like a radar. Listening for any lingering movement outside. Listening for the distance of those rustling sounds deep within the pipe. Listening to the rhythm of his own heartbeat, to see if it was steady enough to conceal his tracks. After crawling about ten meters, the pipe bent sharply downward. The slope was steep, the inner walls even slicker. The sediment glistened with a wet, black sheen under the flashlight beam. Lu Chenzhou shone the light downward. Below lay a deeper darkness, from which he could faintly hear the sound of water—not the rushing sound of sewage flow, but something slower, more viscous. A steady *drip-drip-drip*, unnervingly regular. He took a deep breath and began to slide down. The moment his body lost control, a familiar panic seized his throat—like ten years ago, in that interrogation room, when they had pushed the confession statement toward him. That feeling of the whole world falling away, of the floor suddenly giving way beneath his feet. But this time, he grabbed hold of something. A protruding weld seam on the pipe’s inner wall, its rough metal edge. His fingers dug in desperately. Fingernails cracked. Blood mixed with rust and slime, sending a sharp, burning sting. His slide stopped. He hung there, panting, his chest heaving violently. The flashlight beam trembled, illuminating a patch of inky black water below. The water wasn’t deep, perhaps only ankle-high, but its color was like melted asphalt. Its surface was covered with a thick layer of grease and unidentified flocculent matter, slowly writhing under the flashlight’s glow. The dripping sound came from there—from some crack in the pipe’s ceiling above, filthy water dripped down, one drop at a time, striking the water’s surface and creating tiny ripples. At the center of those ripples, something moved. Slender, grayish-white shadows darted underwater, moving swiftly, parting the greasy surface. More than one. Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes, letting the darkness swallow his vision. When he opened them again, only cold resolve remained in their depths. He let go. His body plunged into the water. The icy, bone-chilling sewage instantly submerged his calves. The cold stabbed into his bones like needles. That foul stench became more concrete—the smell of rotting meat, excrement, the sour tang of chemical solvents, all mixed together like an invisible hand choking his windpipe. He clenched his teeth until his gums ached, forcing himself to stand upright, and began wading through the water. The bottom was thick mud. Each step felt as if countless slippery hands were pulling at him. His boots sank in, and when he pulled The pipe on the right was narrower, its inner walls coated with a thick layer of black sediment, like solidified asphalt. It looked like no one had passed through for a long time. But the air flow was more noticeable here—there was a draft. Though it carried a putrid stench, it also held the unmistakable, albeit faint, scent of fresh air. He chose the right. The narrow passage was harder to navigate. He had to turn sideways, almost pressing against the inner wall to get through. The sediment rubbed off on his clothes, leaving large, dirty stains, like some kind of filthy brand.