The polished marble floor of the top floor of the "Illusory Moon" gallery on Jinhua Road resembled a vast, frozen sheet of ice. The cold light from the ceiling lamps crashed down upon it, shattering into countless fragments and scattering blinding shards of white. The air carried the pungent smell of freshly applied paint, mingled with the expensive, earthy scent of humus from the roots of the potted plants in the corner, like a meticulously maintained cemetery. Lu Chenzhou stood at the doorway, his left hand instinctively pressing against his left shoulder. The wound had torn open again while climbing the fire escape, and the seeping blood had glued the shoulder of his cheap shirt to his skin. Every breath pulled at a dull ache. His right hand was buried in his trench coat pocket, fingertips pressing tightly against the hard edge of a document folder. Cold, unyielding, like a tombstone. Shen Moqing stood with his back to him, before a massive abstract painting. The canvas was covered in large, chaotic splashes of silver-gray and dark red, like shattered mirror fragments or the stubborn stains left after dried blood had been repeatedly wiped away. He wore a perfectly pressed, dark gray Zhongshan suit, his posture ramrod straight, as if he were merely here to appreciate an ordinary art exhibition. "You're here." Shen Moqing did not turn around, his voice as placid as if commenting on the weather. "Seventeen minutes later than agreed. Was the journey... not smooth?" Lu Chenzhou did not answer. He stepped into the room. The sound of his leather shoes on the marble was sharp and solitary, each step crushing a patch of the cold light. His gaze swept the space—aside from the painting, there was only a minimalist black coffee table, two high-backed chairs, and a small liquor cabinet against the wall. No one else. The window was a full-length glass wall; outside, the city's nightscape sparkled like an inverted river of stars, sharply divided from this cold, empty, confrontational space inside. "Jinhua Road," Shen Moqing slowly turned around, a precisely measured, gentle smile of an elder on his face. "Such an interesting place. Priceless land, a blend of old and new. I recall, back when Li Guohua had his accident... it seemed to be near here as well." His left thumb unconsciously rubbed the jade thumb ring. The rhythm was steady, unhurried. Lu Chenzhou walked to the other side of the coffee table, pulled out a chair, and sat down. The movement was slightly stiff due to his shoulder injury, but his posture was stable. He took the manila document folder from inside his trench coat and placed it on the gleaming black surface of the table. The edge of the folder was stained with a dark red blot, already dried, like an old seal. "Mr. Shen has an excellent memory." Lu Chenzhou spoke, his voice like the man himself—steady, dry, devoid of any superfluous inflection. "Li Guohua, Financial Director of 'Kangjian Pharmaceuticals.' On the evening of November 3rd, 1998, he fell to his death at the construction site of the 'Banyan Mansion' on the western section of Jinhua Road. The on-site investigation conclusion: accidental fall. The police station chief responsible for that area's security at the time was Qian Weidong's brother-in-law." The smile on Shen Moqing's face faded slightly. He walked over and sat in the other chair, facing Lu Chenzhou across the table like opponents at a chessboard. "Old news. It's impressive you remember it so clearly. So, Officer Lu, you asked this old man to come 'appreciate' paintings today... to discuss these... unpleasant topics?" "Appreciation requires genuine articles." Lu Chenzhou's fingers rested on the document folder, not opening it. His fingertips could feel the sharp edges of the papers inside. "Looking at too many fakes won't make you an expert." He raised his eyes. His gaze was like two icy probes, stabbing directly at Shen Moqing. "Just like you, Mr. Shen. Having looked for so many years at the 'perfect mirror image' you've crafted yourself... do you ever... feel tired?" The fingertips rubbing the thumb ring imperceptibly paused for a fraction of a second. Immediately, the smile returned to his eyes, but it did not reach their depths. "Mirror image? Officer Lu always speaks so philosophically. However, what a mirror reflects depends on the person standing before it. A former policeman with a grudge and a criminal sentence sees only distortion and darkness." "Then let's look at something that won't distort." Lu Chenzhou opened the document folder. What he pulled out was not one sheet, but several documents, which he laid out one by one on the coffee table. The "In June 1998," Lu Chenzhou's voice struck the silent room, each word landing with solid weight, "Li Guohua, in his personal name, signed a proxy holding agreement with 'Morning Dawn Capital,' a company registered in the British Virgin Islands. The agreement stipulated that Li Guohua would hold on behalf of 'Morning Dawn Capital' a 15% share of the employee stock ownership platform following the restructuring of 'Kangjian Pharmaceuticals.' The actual beneficiary was 'Morning Dawn Capital.' This portion of equity corresponded to the priority supply rights for medicine and equipment in the city's Infectious Disease Hospital's new construction project that year. The expected benefit, estimated at the commodity prices of that time, was no less than eighty million." His finger pointed to the signature and seal at the end of the agreement, the knuckles whitening slightly from the force. "Li Guohua's signature is scrawled, but the notary office's stamp is genuine. The notary office responsible for this agreement back then was 'Zhengxin Notary Office.' Its director was named Qian Weiming—Qian Weidong's younger brother. Qian Weidong has agreed to testify." Shen Moqing lowered his gaze, sweeping it over the agreement. His face showed no expression, not even a flutter of his eyelashes. He merely uttered a soft "Oh," as if hearing some trivial matter utterly unrelated to himself. But his thumb had stopped rubbing the thumb ring, just resting there lightly. "Three months after Li Guohua's death," Lu Chenzhou continued, his pace steady as a pendulum, "this portion of proxy-held equity, through a series of complex offshore operations, was transferred into an account named 'Qingyuan Charity Foundation.' The foundation's honorary chairman was the late, renowned patriotic overseas Chinese, Elder Shen. And the actual controller," he paused for half a second, his gaze locking onto Shen Moqing like a nail driven into wood, "is you, Shen Moqing. According to the foundation's internal charter amendments and photocopied minutes of the board meeting in January 1999, you possess the sole signing authority and final approval for fund allocation." Outside the window, the faint sound of nighttime traffic from Jinhua Road hummed, a distant background noise. The room held only the slight crisp rustle of paper and the nearly stagnant air between the two men. Under the cold light, the lines of Shen Moqing's face seemed to tighten a fraction. Shen Moqing suddenly smiled. Not a cold smile, but one tinged with a hint of helplessness and tolerance, as if facing a stubborn, erring child. He shook his head, reached into the inner pocket of his suit jacket, and also took out a folded sheet of paper, its edges worn and yellowed with age. He placed that paper gently beside the equity agreement. The paper was thinner, more brittle, bearing the pale yellow of deep time. On it were handwritten characters, with a clear red fingerprint at the end, like a drop of dried blood. "Officer Lu," Shen Moqing's voice remained gentle, even carrying a trace of regret, "you've spoken so much of other people's stories, but have you forgotten... your own 'story'?" His finger pointed at the yellowed document, hovering above the fingerprint. "This 'confession' was written in your own hand back then, and the fingerprint was pressed by you yourself. It clearly states your admission of guilt for participating in the planning and indirectly causing Li Guohua's death. Based on this 'confession,' combined with other evidence, the law sentenced you to seven years in prison. This is a judicial conclusion that has already taken effect." He lifted his eyes, his gaze turning sharp and heavy, like two hammers wrapped in velvet. "A 'criminal' in the legal sense, a resentful 'ex-convict,' who, after release from prison, meticulously fabricates stories, forges documents, and frames individuals connected to the original case... Officer Lu, who do you think judges and the public would be more inclined to believe? To believe this old bone of mine, or to believe your... this 'equity agreement' of dubious origin?" The pressure tightened instantly. It was no longer an abstract confrontation but had materialized into these two documents lying side by side on the coffee table. One was new, cold, pointing to profit and murder; the other was old, fragile, yet bearing the legal weight of seven years in prison. The light cut an invisible chasm between them, the air seeming to grow several degrees heavier. The corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye twitched, almost imperceptibly. A faint, fleeting movement like an illusion. His fist clenched under the table, nails digging into the old calluses on his palm, bringing a clear, stinging pain. He needed that pain to suppress the increasingly violent throbbing from his shoulder wound and that icy, churning thing in his chest. "That 'conf He spoke at a measured pace, yet with a scalpel-like precision, the blade scraping right against the bone. "The forensic lab's appraisal report back then only performed routine comparisons for handwriting identity and fingerprint contour matching. They didn't have the equipment, nor were they authorized, to conduct micron-level ink deposit layer analysis or three-dimensional sweat pore modeling. But I do." Shen Moqing's rhythm of rubbing the thumb ring noticeably quickened. The jade against his skin made a faint, grating rustling sound. The mask of geniality on his face finally cracked, ever so slightly. "I've already submitted an application to the provincial procuratorate for a re-appraisal," Lu Chenzhou continued, his gaze never leaving the other man's face. "The application is to conduct a penetrative examination of the time of composition of this 'confession,' the pressure cycle of the writing instrument, and the formation mechanism of the fingerprint impressions, based on new appraisal technologies. Also submitted are records of abnormal fluctuations in the bank accounts of the two officers who were in charge of interrogating me back then, within the three years following the incident. One of them, his son studied abroad in 2011. The school he attended happens to be an overseas partner institution that the Shen Group has been funding for a long time." He leaned forward slightly, the movement pulling at his shoulder wound. The pain brought out fine beads of cold sweat on his temples, but his posture didn't waver in the slightest. His gaze pressed down like a heavy counterweight. "You're right, Mr. Shen. Judges and the public need to choose who to believe. But the basis of their choice isn't which story is more compelling, but... **which side's chain of evidence can be thoroughly disproven on a technical level.** Your story is built on a forged 'confession' and the silence of the dead. My evidence," his finger tapped successively on the equity agreement, the microfilm photograph, the bank statements, each tap on the table surface a soft, solid *tap-tap*, "they interlock, pointing to the living, pointing to profit, pointing to a massive machine that is still operating to this day. Once a machine starts up, it leaves behind lubricant, worn gears, and heat. These things can't be wiped away." Shen Moqing was silent for a few seconds. The genial smile on his face finally vanished completely, like a tide receding, revealing the cold, hard rock beneath. He suddenly stood up, walked to the wine cabinet by the wall, and took out a bottle of amber whiskey and two glass tumblers. Ice cubes were plucked from the ice bucket with tongs and dropped into the glasses with a sharp, clear *clink*, jarring in the silence. He poured two glasses, carried them back, and placed them down. Shen Moqing leaned forward, his lowered voice like a needle dipped in poison, piercing the air slowly and precisely. "The precise transaction details of Qian Weidong's overseas account, the location data of his apartment in Chiang Mai last week, the summary of that private business call I made three years ago... Information like this, the municipal bureau's tech division doesn't have the clearance for it. The proper channels for investigation couldn't obtain it this fast." He paused deliberately, letting each word sink into the quiet. "Tell me, Officer Lu, does your good apprentice, Deputy Captain Qin, know how much... 'unconventional' means you've employed in your 'pursuit of the truth'? Does she know her mentor—this genius who once held logic and procedure as his creed—is now so proficient in 'black ops' too?" He leaned back in his chair, perfectly at ease, observing every minute change on Lu Chenzhou's face as if admiring the spasms of prey struck in a vital spot. The mellow aroma of whiskey diffused between them. The edges of the ice cubes melted, emitting an almost inaudible, faint *hiss*, like a countdown. "If I were to bundle up all the evidence you've presented today, along with the 'special channels' you used to obtain them, and send it all to the Municipal Bureau's Discipline Inspection Commission, to the Provincial Department's Supervision Brigade..." A cold curve lifted the corner of Shen Moqing's mouth. "Guess what? Would Qin Wangshu's career be utterly ruined over 'violating regulations by cooperating with a person with a criminal record and tacitly allowing them to use illegal investigative means'? And you, would you end up back in that familiar place of yours on new charges like 'illegal acquisition of citizens' personal information' and 'illegal use of surveillance technology'?" Lu Chenzhou looked at the glass of whiskey before him. The golden liquid reflected the shattered spots of light from the overhead lamp, and also his own blurred, weary face. A cold weariness seeped from deep within his bones, mingling with the searing pain He lifted his gaze, his eyes regaining their calmness, but beneath that calmness was a flame that had been burning for seven years, now nearly frozen to ice. “But, Shen Moqing, every step I’ve taken, every trace I’ve left, has ultimately pointed to you like a lodestone. To your forged ‘confession,’ your embezzled equity, your covered-up murder, the intricate, deep-rooted network of interests you’ve cultivated for decades.” He leaned forward slightly, each word hammering into the silent air. “Your ‘innocence’ is built upon Li Guohua’s corpse, upon my seven-year wrongful imprisonment, upon countless covered-up truths and silent sacrifices. It’s a fortress built with lies and blood, seemingly solid, but if you pull out the most crucial brick—for example, the motive you personally admitted—the entire fortress will begin to crumble from within.” “The judge and the public may question my methods, but they will see even more clearly what these methods ultimately point to. The truth. You.” A muscle on Shen Moqing’s face twitched almost imperceptibly. His movement of rubbing the thumb ring became rapid, the jade scraping against his knuckle, producing a faint, grating sound. The composure that had always controlled the situation cracked for the first time. Deep within the crack, a vicious glint flashed—the kind only seen in a cornered beast. “Personally admitted?” He sneered, his voice rising with an uncontrollable sharpness. “Lu Chenzhou, do you think this is a TV drama? That I would stand here, in front of you, and admit to those baseless—” “You wouldn’t admit it to me.” A calm, clear, and indisputable female voice came from the doorway. The heavy solid wood door of the reception room was pushed open. Qin Wangshu stood there in a sharply pressed, deep navy-blue police uniform, the four-pointed stars on her epaulets reflecting a cold, hard light under the ceiling lamp. Her expression was solemn, her lips pressed into a tight line. Her gaze swept quickly over Lu Chenzhou—lingering for half a second on the dark red bloodstain spreading across his shoulder, her pupils contracting almost imperceptibly—before it fixed itself, like a nail, firmly onto Shen Moqing’s face. Behind her stood two plainclothes officers, tall and upright, blocking the doorway on either side. The air instantly solidified. Qin Wangshu strode into the room, the fabric of her uniform trousers rustling crisply. In her hand, she held a black hard-shell folder and a small black recording device the size of a matchbox, a red indicator light on its side blinking steadily, like a cold, mechanical heart. She walked directly to the coffee table, her gaze not lingering on any of the documents or wine glasses. With a sharp *snap*, she opened the folder, retrieved a document stamped with a bright red official seal, and placed it directly on the glass surface in front of Shen Moqing. The paper made a crisp sound as it met the cold, smooth surface. “Mr. Shen Moqing,” her voice held no emotional fluctuation, purely official, standard legal language, each syllable measured as if by a ruler, “I am Qin Wangshu, Deputy Head of the Criminal Investigation Division of the Municipal Public Security Bureau. In accordance with Article 82 of the Criminal Procedure Law of the People’s Republic of China, I am now lawfully presenting you with the ‘Warrant for Compulsory Appearance.’” She paused slightly, her gaze piercing, stabbing towards him. “You are suspected of the following crimes: One, the crime of false accusation and framing, by instructing others to forge evidence to falsely implicate Lu Chenzhou in the death of Li Guohua, resulting in his wrongful imprisonment; Two, the crime of duty-related embezzlement, using your position to illegally appropriate massive interests related to the original Municipal Infectious Disease Hospital’s new construction project through methods such as nominee shareholding; Three, being a suspect in the murder of Li Guohua. The relevant chain of evidence is now largely complete, and certain statements you made during the preceding conversation partially corroborate the existing evidence, establishing you as a prime suspect.” She gently placed the black recording device beside the document. The light from the red indicator glared, reflecting in Shen Moqing’s abruptly constricted pupils. “This is a legally activated recording device. The entire conversation, from the moment you mentioned the location of Li Guohua’s death until the present discussion, has been recorded. This recording will be submitted as evidence in accordance with the law.” Shen Moqing froze in place. The color drained from his face at a visible rate, turning ashen gray, as if all vitality had been sucked out of him in an instant. The hand rubbing the thumb ring stopped, now His expression grew impossibly complex—utter disbelief, violent fury at the betrayal, a surge of towering hatred—but in the end, all of it was overlaid by a deeper, colder despair. The world he had meticulously constructed over decades, the rules by which he lived and that refined, cultured mask, were at this moment, by these two young people using the "legal procedures" he was most familiar with and most reliant upon, ruthlessly smashed to pieces. The shards seemed to fly into his eyes, sharp and stinging. Lu Chenzhou had already taken a step back, completely clearing the space before the coffee table. He watched silently as Shen Moqing's composed mask utterly shattered, revealing the pale, aged, fear-and-rage-twisted face beneath. There was none of the anticipated ecstasy in his heart, no vengeful satisfaction. Only an endless, icy exhaustion, like winter seawater, rising past his ankles, climbing his knees, slowly and relentlessly drowning his chest. Seven years. Over twenty-five hundred days and nights. All the struggle, endurance, scheming, the fear of walking on a knife's edge, the guilt toward his sister, the worry for his allies... At this moment, it seemed to have found an outlet. But the wind blowing in through that outlet wasn't relief, but a deeper emptiness and chill. Qin Wangshu gave a slight nod to one of the plainclothes officers. The officer stepped forward, his movements standard, and took a pair of gleaming handcuffs from his belt. The metal reflected a cold, utterly temperatureless light under the lamps, its edges sharp. "Mr. Shen Moqing, please cooperate," Qin Wangshu's voice remained steady, but each word carried the weight of a steel stamp, leaving no room for refusal. Shen Moqing did not resist. It was as if all his strength had been drained from him in an instant; his straight spine hunched, wrinkles forming in the expensive fabric of his suit. He extended his hands. His wrists looked abnormally pale and thin under the light, the blue veins beneath the skin clearly visible. His gaze was fixed dead on Lu Chenzhou. The corner of his mouth suddenly twitched, pulling into an extremely strange, indescribable curve. It wasn't a smile, nor a cry; it was more like some deeply ingrained curse, frozen onto his face. *Click.* The sound of the metal latch engaging with precision was exceptionally clear and cold in the silent room, carrying a sense of finality. It wasn't loud, yet it seemed to strike directly against everyone's spine. Shen Moqing was escorted out by the two plainclothes officers, one on each side. As he passed Lu Chenzhou, his steps paused slightly. In a hoarse, sandpaper-like whisper only the two of them could hear, he forced out the words: "You think... this is over? A broken mirror... every shard... can still reflect a person..." He didn't finish. He was led out of the room. The sound of footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, quickly fading away. The heavy door closed softly, shutting out the outside world, and with it, the war that had just been waged without smoke or fire. Only Lu Chenzhou and Qin Wangshu remained in the room. Along with the cold documents on the coffee table, the untouched wine glasses, the recording indicator light that had flickered and gone dark, and that massive abstract painting depicting fragmentation and chaos. The distorted color blocks in the painting now seemed to carry new meaning. A long silence. Only the constant, temperature-controlled breeze from the central air conditioning vent emitted a faint hum, making the silence feel even deeper. Qin Wangshu moved first. She walked to the coffee table, turned off the recording equipment, carefully placed it in an evidence bag, and sealed it. Then she neatly organized the copy of the *Summons for Detention* and the other documents, aligning their edges. Every one of her movements was standard, efficient, fully compliant with procedural norms, without the slightest excess. Only after completing this did she turn to face Lu Chenzhou. Her gaze fell once more on the already darkened bloodstain on his shoulder. Her brow furrowed almost imperceptibly, but it quickly relaxed, returning to a professional calm. She walked up to him, pulled another thin, still-warm-from-the-printer photocopy from her folder, and handed it to him. "This is the preliminary transcript of the conversation we just recorded," her voice was slightly softer than before, but still carried that dry, official quality. "According to procedure, you need to sign to confirm it." She paused, her eyes avoiding Lu Chenzhou's and turning toward the window and the brilliant yet false river of stars outside. "Also... regarding the technical means by which you obtained some of the evidence, Shen Moqing's accusations, and any related leads he may have already preserved... I will make an objective record in the Lu Chenzhou did not take the document. He didn’t even look at it. His gaze was also directed out the window, toward that vast, false river of stars composed of countless lights. His figure cast a clear, lonely, and incredibly complex reflection on the massive floor-to-ceiling glass. In that reflection was his weary yet erect silhouette, the flowing river of light outside the window, the cold white marble floor of the room, and the...