The plastic bag dug into the bones of his fingers, emitting a faint, rustling sound. Lu Chenzhou stopped walking. A black Audi A8 slid to a stop beside him like a shadow, utterly silent. Its tires rolled over the damp pavement, the friction sound almost swallowed by the evening breeze. The window lowered. The first thing to drift out was a mix of scents—expensive leather tanning agents, a light cologne, and the residual metallic chill of the city night, filtered by the car’s air conditioning circulation system. He saw the person inside. Gu Zhixing. Shen Yanqing’s legal counsel, the Shen Yan Group’s “cleaner.” That face was an exact match for the photo in Lu Chenzhou’s memory archives: gold-rimmed glasses, meticulously groomed sideburns, lips pressed into a line devoid of any curve. Like a carefully polished statue of the law. “Mr. Lu,” Gu Zhixing spoke. His voice was steady, each word measured as if with calipers. “A moment of your time.” Lu Chenzhou’s fingers tightened on the plastic bag handle. The plastic film stretched taut, the indentations deepening. He didn’t move, his gaze shifting from Gu Zhixing’s face to the back seat—empty. The passenger seat was also empty. Only the figure in the driver’s seat, whose posture was as standard as an illustration from an etiquette manual. “I don’t know you,” Lu Chenzhou said. His tone was even, as if stating an inconsequential fact. A very slight curve tugged at the corner of Gu Zhixing’s mouth. It wasn’t quite a smile. “Understandable. But I know you. Lu Chenzhou, styled Jingyuan. Thirty-five years old. Former head of the Technical Division of the Municipal Bureau’s Criminal Investigation Brigade. Imprisoned for ten years on charges of political murder in the ‘Spark Case,’ released on completion of sentence yesterday at 3:17 PM.” He paused, his fingertip lightly tapping the wooden steering wheel. “After your release, you went to the ‘Ankang’ clinic in the west of the city for a follow-up on your stomach condition and were prescribed Omeprazole. Then you took Metro Line 2, transferred to a bus at People’s Square Station, and arrived at the apartment you are currently renting. Monthly rent eight hundred, deposit for one month, pay three months in advance. Just now, you bought two red bean paste buns and a bottle of mineral water from the convenience store downstairs. Total spent: nine yuan and fifty cents.” The wind seemed to steal his breath. Lu Chenzhou stood rooted to the spot, a block of ice pressing down on his chest. Not fear—fear was too extravagant a luxury. It was something colder, a naked chill of being scanned from head to toe by a precision instrument. The surveillance network of the Shen Yan Group was no rumor. It was a spider’s web woven long ago, and he, this insect just crawled out of its cage, had landed right in the center of it from the very first second. Gu Zhixing picked up a manila folder from the passenger seat, less than a centimeter thick. He extended it out the window. “Look at this,” he said. “Then we can talk.” The folder hung in the air. Lu Chenzhou didn’t take it. His gaze fell on the edge of the paper bag—a line of small print was stamped there: “Municipal First Detention Center · Case File Materials Copy.” The characters were printed, but the paper was yellowed, the edges slightly curled from repeated handling. A forgery, but a flawless one. “What is this.” Lu Chenzhou repeated the key term. “Case file materials.” “Some supplementary evidence regarding your ‘Spark Case’ from back then.” Gu Zhixing’s tone didn’t change, as if explaining a point of law. “Materials that, due to… procedural oversights, were not filed in time. It includes transaction records for several overseas accounts, and supplementary testimony transcripts from two key witnesses.” He pushed it forward slightly. “Copies, of course. The originals are in a more secure location.” Lu Chenzhou took the folder. It felt cold. The characteristic smooth surface of photocopy paper gleamed a chilly white under the dim yellow streetlight. He opened it to the first page. It was a bank statement. A printed form, the header bearing the logo of an overseas bank. The timestamp showed a date ten years ago—right around the time of the “Spark Case.” Several transfer entries were prominently circled with red highlighter: the payee name field clearly printed the pinyin for “Lu Chenzhou.” The amounts were not small, fifty thousand US dollars per transaction. The remarks column contained blurred English words, but one was specially marked with red But it was forged too well. So well that if this "supplementary evidence" had truly appeared in court back then, his sentence would likely have been far more than ten years. So well that now—a man just released from prison, with a criminal record, zero social credit—he had absolutely no public avenue to refute it. Who would believe the denial of a "political murderer"? Especially when the "evidence" was so "conclusive." Lu Chenzhou raised his eyes. Gu Zhixing was looking at him. Behind the lenses, his gaze was calm and unrippled, as if observing an opponent about to agree to the terms of a deal. "These things," Lu Chenzhou began, his voice steadier than he expected, "where did they come from?" "That's not important, Mr. Lu," Gu Zhixing said. "What's important is that they exist now. And," he lightly pushed his glasses, "according to current law, if a released inmate is found to have undisclosed crimes from their sentence period, or if significant supplementary evidence emerges regarding the basis of their original judgment... it's possible to restart judicial proceedings. You should understand this better than I do." Understand. Of course he understood. Re-incarceration. Supplementary investigation. Perhaps another ten years. Or worse—some "accident" happening in the detention center, and then everything "settled." The plastic bag was still cutting into his hand. The soft texture of the bread came through the plastic, absurdly glaring. Just moments ago, he had been calculating this month's food expenses, thinking about how to find a job that didn't check criminal records. Freedom. He thought he at least had that. Now he knew he didn't. Freedom was never something automatically granted upon release from prison. It was a chain temporarily put away by those in power, ready at any moment to be replaced with a more refined form and slipped back on. "What do you want." Lu Chenzhou said. Not a question. A confirmation. Gu Zhixing's fingers tapped on the wooden tray, the rhythm even. "Young Master Shen Yan is dead. The family needs to ascertain the cause of death." He paused. "But this matter... is somewhat complicated. The police are investigating, but there are certain perspectives the police might not have. Or, perhaps, are not convenient for them to have." "So." "So, Mr. Shen wishes to hire a consultant. An expert with a unique professional background, who also... understands the exigencies of the situation." Gu Zhixing looked at him, the lenses reflecting the shattered light of the street lamp. "To intervene in a private capacity, provide some technical analysis. Not public, not interfering with the normal police investigation. Just auxiliary." Lu Chenzhou was silent. Across the street, a resident returning late was unlocking the unit door with a key. The *click* of the lock turning was especially clear in the silence. So close, yet so far. That was the life of a normal person. Carrying groceries home, worrying about tomorrow's work, complaining about rising prices—but not worrying about being taken away in the middle of the night, not worrying about forged case files from a decade ago suddenly reviving, not worrying about... "What if I say no." Lu Chenzhou said. Gu Zhixing didn't answer immediately. He reached out, took another piece of paper from the storage compartment beside the dashboard. Not a photocopy, but a color photograph. He placed it face up on the wooden tray above the folder, holding it across the car window. On the photo was a woman. Lin Wei. His ex-wife. Carrying a canvas grocery basket, entering the unit door of an old residential complex. Her head was slightly lowered, her profile somewhat blurred in the afternoon sunlight, but Lu Chenzhou could recognize her walking posture—shoulders habitually drawn in, as if avoiding something. The lower right corner of the photo had a timestamp: this afternoon, 15:42. Right when he was at the clinic for his stomach check-up. The location was the residential complex where her current husband lived, which he had secretly noted. "Ms. Lin's life is very peaceful now." Gu Zhixing's voice was like he was reading an asset assessment report. "Her husband works in a state-owned enterprise, stable income. They are planning to have a child." He paused. "Some troubles are best not to involve unrelated people. Don't you agree, Mr. Lu?" The glossy surface of the photo reflected the street lamp's light, stinging Lu Chenzhou's eyes. He stared at the blurred profile in the photo. Ten years. When he signed that false confession in exchange for her sister's surgery fees, Lin Wei's hand shook as she signed the divorce papers. She said she couldn't hold on anymore. She said she was sorry. He said it was okay. That was their last conversation. He thought she could at least be safe. Now he knew she wasn't. Safety "Assist in analyzing the scene and related evidence of Master Shen Yan's death. Provide independent technical opinions," Gu Zhixing said. "Of course, there will be some... necessary restrictions and communication procedures. We can discuss the details elsewhere." He glanced at the apartment building. "This isn't a convenient place." Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes. He picked up the photo, stuffed it back into the folder. Then closed the folder, holding it in his hand. The edge of the paper dug into his palm. "Where to," he said. "Somewhere quiet." Gu Zhixing reached out and pushed open the passenger door. The interior light came on, illuminating the fine grain of the leather seats. "Please." The open door gaped like a waiting mouth. Lu Chenzhou stood for two seconds. Then bent down and got in. The sound of the door closing was muffled and heavy, cutting off all noise from the outside street. The scent of leather and cologne instantly enveloped him, thick enough to suffocate. Gu Zhixing pressed the central lock; a soft *click* came from all the doors—locked shut. The engine started, almost noiseless. The car glided smoothly away from the curb, merging into the sparse nighttime traffic. Lu Chenzhou looked out the window at the street scenery flying past. The light from the street lamps connected into a flowing dotted line on the glass. He still held the folder in his hand, along with the plastic bag containing bread and mineral water. The cheap plastic rubbed against the expensive leather seat, making a faint rustling sound. "We need to sign a simple agreement," Gu Zhixing said, eyes on the road, hands steady on the steering wheel. "To clarify the rights and obligations of both parties. A confidentiality agreement, of course. For our mutual... safety." Lu Chenzhou did not reply. He looked into the rearview mirror. In the mirror, the apartment building he rented was rapidly shrinking, disappearing into the night and the buildings beyond. Like a dream he had just escaped, only to fall back into. His own face was reflected in the car window glass. Pale, with sunken eye sockets, the left corner of his eye still twitching slightly. He lifted his hand, unconsciously starting to dismantle the plastic packaging on the mineral water bottle. His fingernails dug into the film at the seal, peeling it off bit by bit, rolling it up, then smoothing it out. The movements were mechanical, repetitive. The car drove on. Towards another set of shackles. The tea room door closed silently behind him. The cool air from the air conditioner instantly enveloped his whole body, like plunging underwater. The room held only a single low-hanging paper lantern, its light dim and yellow, barely illuminating an old elm tea table and two official's hat chairs. The walls were dark gray sound-absorbing material, no windows. The air held the mellow aroma of aged pu'er, the clean bitterness of sandalwood, and something fainter, like disinfectant. Gu Zhixing was already seated in the host's position, using tweezers to lift the lid of a purple clay teapot, observing the unfurling of the tea leaves inside. His movements were deliberate and unhurried. "Sit," he said without looking up. Lu Chenzhou didn't move. He stood by the door, his gaze sweeping the space—about ten square meters. Besides the tea table and chairs, there was a built-in mini fridge in the corner, and a deep gray cashmere coat hung on the coat rack by the door. No surveillance cameras, at least none visible. The sound-absorbing material made the place unnervingly quiet; he could hear the faint rush of his own blood in his ears. "Don't worry, this is very private," Gu Zhixing said, gently replacing the teapot lid with a crisp *ting*. "Shen Yan occasionally needed some... undisturbed conversations. Sit, Mr. Lu. Standing won't solve anything." Lu Chenzhou pulled out a chair and sat down. The chair was heavy, the wood hard. He didn't lean back fully, maintaining a posture ready to rise at any moment. Gu Zhixing finally looked up at him. The gaze behind the gold-rimmed glasses was as steady as two deep pools of water. He pushed forward a white porcelain teacup; the tea inside was a clear red. "Have some tea first. You look like you need it." Lu Chenzhou didn't touch the teacup. "State the terms directly." "Very well." Gu Zhixing set down the tweezers, took a kraft paper file folder from the briefcase beside him, and placed it on the table. The folder was thin, its edges worn, as if opened repeatedly. He didn't push it over immediately. Instead, he folded his hands on top of it, leaning forward slightly. "Before discussing terms, I'd like to confirm one thing "You need not answer. Your silence itself is the answer." Gu Zhixing continued, his tone as if stating legal provisions. "But the answer in the legal sense is another matter. You signed a confession, went through the full judicial process, and served your sentence. Within the existing system, your case is closed. Any attempt to 'reopen' it would be seen as a challenge to the finality of the judiciary and could even constitute new criminal risks." He paused, observing Lu Chenzhou's expression. There was no expression on Lu Chenzhou's face. Only the light in his eyes was cold, like a frozen lake on a winter night. "I understand how you feel," Gu Zhixing said, the words coming from his mouth devoid of any emotion. "But the reality is, if you want to start over with a 'clean slate,' it's almost impossible. Society has its labels, the system has its records. Every step you take after your release will be watched. Finding a job, renting an apartment, even taking the high-speed train—once your identity information is scanned, the system will always bring up that red flag." He gently patted the file folder. "But Shen Yan can offer a... relatively dignified way out." Lu Chenzhou finally spoke, his voice hoarse: "A way out?" "Cooperation," Gu Zhixing said. "In a manner beneficial to both parties." He untied the cotton string of the file folder, pulled out a few sheets of paper, and spread them on the tea table. The first page was a copy of a bank statement from a certain month ten years ago, with several amounts circled in red highlighter. The second page was a fragment of a witness statement transcript, the witness's signature scrawled, with key statements underlined. The third page was a photograph. In the photo was a woman, around forty years old, carrying a canvas grocery basket, just entering the doorway of an old residential building. Her face was slightly turned, the afternoon sunlight catching the fine lines at the corners of her eyes. It was Lin Wei. Lu Chenzhou's breath caught. His gaze was fixed on the photograph. In the lower right corner of the photo was a digital timestamp: this afternoon, 3:27 PM. The shooting location was the residential complex where Lin Wei lived after remarrying, about seven kilometers from here. "Ms. Lin is living a very peaceful life now." Gu Zhixing's voice came from across the table, steady, precise. "Her husband is a middle school teacher, her son just started junior high. She seems to have moved past the shadows of the past." Lu Chenzhou's fist clenched under the table. His nails dug into his palm, sending sharp, stinging pain. He stared at Lin Wei's profile in the photo—she did indeed look peaceful, even with a tired sort of relaxation. She was the person he had once sworn to protect, yet ultimately pushed away with his own hands. "You're monitoring her," he said, each word seeming squeezed from between his teeth. "Shen Yan has a responsibility to understand all background information related to 'cooperators,'" Gu Zhixing corrected. "This isn't monitoring; it's necessary risk assessment. After all, if Mr. Lu decides not to cooperate, certain... unstable factors may need to be managed in advance." He paused, gently pushing the photo towards Lu Chenzhou. "Ms. Lin's current life is fragile. An anonymous tip, a few old photos, some rumors... would be enough to destroy it. You should understand better than anyone how sometimes public opinion can be crueler than the law." Lu Chenzhou looked up. His eyes were red, not the red of tears, but bloodshot, suppressed to the extreme. He looked at Gu Zhixing, at that impassive, elite face, at the unfathomable eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses. "What do you want me to do?" he asked, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. Gu Zhixing seemed to exhale slightly—an extremely subtle, almost imperceptible relaxation. He took out the final document from the file folder: two A4 pages, titled "Special Advisory Service Agreement (Draft)." "Regarding the death of Young Master Shen Yan, there are some questionable points." He pushed the draft towards Lu Chenzhou. "The police's current conclusion is an accident, but within the family, there are different views. Mr. Shen hopes to conduct an independent investigation, not through official channels, to avoid unnecessary... public opinion fluctuations." Lu Chenzhou quickly scanned the draft clauses. Title, definitions of parties, service content, duration, remuneration, confidentiality terms. The wording was precise, the logic tight, appearing to be a completely formal business contract. Except for the service content clause: "Party B (Lu Chenzhou) shall act as a criminal investigation advisor to conduct an independent investigation and analysis of the Shen Yan death incident and submit an investigation report and professional opinions to Party A "I don't need money," Lu Chenzhou interrupted him. Gu Zhixing paused, adjusting his glasses again. "I understand. But this contract will give you a legitimate identity, allowing you to re-engage with the case, access information, and even come into contact... with certain people you've always wanted to reach." He spoke meaningfully, "Under the title of 'Shen Yan's Consultant,' many doors will open for you." Lu Chenzhou's fingertip traced the words "Shen Yan Death Incident" on the draft. The paper was cold and smooth. "What if I don't sign?" he asked, already knowing the answer. Gu Zhixing was silent for a few seconds. He picked up his teacup, took a light sip, and set it down again. The bottom of the cup clicked crisply against the saucer. "Then, tomorrow at nine in the morning, the Municipal Procuratorate's Office for the Investigation of Dereliction of Duty and Infringement will receive an anonymous tip, along with copies of these 'evidences' from your file bag." His voice remained steady, but his pace quickened slightly. "The tip would concern a former police officer suspected of fabricating evidence, accepting bribes, and using his position to interfere with justice in a political murder case from ten years ago. Although it happened a long time ago, the possibility of reopening the case for investigation... cannot be said to be nonexistent." He paused, letting each word sink in. "At the same time, the school where Ms. Lin's husband works will also receive some materials regarding her past marital status. The content may involve the criminal record of her ex-husband, and whether she knowingly shielded or even participated in certain activities. Background checks for educators' families have always been strict." The slightly astringent aroma of tea hung in the air. Lu Chenzhou felt his throat tighten, as if gripped by an invisible hand. "Of course," Gu Zhixing continued, his tone regaining its usual composure, "if it comes to that, it would be unseemly for everyone. Old Mr. Shen has always admired your talent, Mr. Lu. He believes that some things... only you can accomplish." Admired. Talent. Lu Chenzhou wanted to laugh, but the corner of his mouth wouldn't move. He looked at the items on the table: the forged bank statements, the altered testimony, Lin Wei's photo, and this exquisite contract. Four locks, shackling his limbs. He was silent for a long time. In the sealed tea room, only the faint hum from the air vent and his own increasingly heavy heartbeat could be heard. Then, he reached out and picked up the pen Gu Zhixing had placed on the table beforehand. The pen barrel was cold metal, heavy. He didn't look at the contract terms again. He went directly to the last page, the signature line for Party B. Gu Zhixing had already signed as the representative of Party A, the handwriting neat and sharp: Gu Zhixing. Lu Chenzhou gripped the pen. The tip hovered slightly above the paper, trembling faintly. Many things flashed through his mind: the yellowed walls of the prison, his own signature on his sister's surgery consent form, Lin Wei's reddened eyes during the divorce, and that false confession he had written with his own hands, which had buried his own ten years. The images were chaotic, the sounds noisy. Finally, all of it collapsed into a single cold point— Sign it, and you can re-engage with the case. Sign it, and you'll have a chance to find the truth. Sign it, and at least Lin Wei's current life won't be shattered. Sign it, and you are Shen Yan's dog. The pen tip descended. The ink seeped into the paper with an extremely faint rustling sound. He wrote the character "Lu," his wrist stiff; then "Chen," the strokes somewhat crooked; finally "Zhou," the last vertical stroke drawn out long, the pen tip tearing the paper, leaving a tiny crack. He stopped writing, looking at the name. Three characters lay on the paper like three scars. Gu Zhixing let out a soft sigh—this time it was audible. He reached out, picked up the signed draft, examined the signature carefully, nodded, and returned the document to the file bag. "Pleasure working with you, Consultant Lu," he said, his tone devoid of pleasure, only the sense of a task completed. "Tomorrow at nine in the morning, someone will pick you up and take you to the temporary office. The on-site investigation report, copies of the police case files, and preliminary background information on relevant personnel will all be prepared. If you need anything, you can contact me directly." He stood up, straightening his suit jacket. "I'll see you out." Lu Chenzhou didn't move. He was still staring at the photo of Lin Wei on the table He stood up, his legs somewhat numb. The chair shifted backward, scraping out a short, sharp noise on the wooden floor. Gu Zhixing had already reached the door and pulled it open for him. Outside was a narrow, dimly lit corridor leading to who-knows-where. "Please," Gu Zhixing said, stepping aside. Lu Chenzhou paused for a moment as he walked past him. He turned his head and looked at Gu Zhixing. Their gazes met briefly in the gloom. "The preliminary on-site investigation report," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice hoarse but exceptionally steady. "When can I have it?" Gu Zhixing seemed to hesitate slightly. A flicker of assessment passed behind his glasses before his expression returned to normal. "Tomorrow morning," he said. "It will be delivered to your temporary office." Lu Chenzhou nodded without another word and stepped into the corridor. The door closed softly behind him, cutting off the light and scent of the tearoom. The corridor was long, flanked by dark wood-paneled walls. The thick carpet underfoot absorbed all sound of footsteps. He walked forward alone, the photo in his pocket pressing against his thigh, the cold sensation from the pen's touch still lingering on his fingertips. At the end of the corridor was a heavy solid wood door. He pushed it open. Outside was the front hall of the tearoom, brightly lit. A waitress in a cheongsam was wiping the counter. Seeing him emerge, she bowed slightly without speaking. He crossed the hall, pushed open the glass door, and stepped into the night. The evening wind met his face, carrying the murky scent unique to city nights. Traffic on the street was sparse; streetlights cast pools of dim yellow light on the ground. He stood by the roadside and looked back at the tearoom. Its sign was small, black with gold characters: "Tranquil Heart Studio." The facade was plain, utterly inconspicuous. Then he turned and began walking slowly along the sidewalk. His steps felt somewhat unsteady, as if he were treading on cotton. The photo in his pocket swayed gently with his stride, each rub a reminder of the name he had just signed. He walked to a bus stop and sat down on a bench. The light from the stop's illuminated sign box was a harsh, glaring white. He fished the folded photo from his pocket and unfolded it. Lin Wei's profile looked soft under the streetlight. The fine lines at the corners of her eyes were the marks of time, and also a debt he owed. He looked at it for a long time, until his eyes ached. Then, he refolded the photo and stuffed it back into the deepest part of his pocket. He raised his head and gazed into the heavy darkness at the end of the street. His lips moved silently. Only a shape, no sound. The two words were: "Shen Yan." The bus stop bench was cold. The night wind crept into his collar. He sat motionless, his back ramrod straight, like a steel bar bent and sprung back into shape. In the distance came the engine sound of the last bus, growing closer. The beam of its headlights cut through the darkness as it slowly pulled up to the stop. The door hissed open. Lu Chenzhou stood up, patted non-existent dust from his trousers, and boarded the bus. He dropped coins into the fare box and took a seat by the window in the back. The bus was empty except for the driver and himself. The bus started and drove into the night. The street scenes outside the window flowed backward, lights sparse. He leaned against the glass and closed his eyes. The crescent-shaped marks left by his fingernails in his palm began to ache faintly. --- The tearoom door closed silently behind him. Gu Zhixing led Lu Chenzhou along a narrow, long corridor laid with dark carpet. The air smelled of new wood mixed with a kind of sandalwood-scented cleaner. There were no windows in the walls, only widely spaced sconces casting warm yellow but insufficiently bright halos of light. Lu Chenzhou's footsteps were very light, almost completely absorbed by the carpet. His gaze swept over the walls on either side—no decorative paintings, no fire safety signs, not even room numbers. Only at intervals of about five meters would a slightly protruding, circular device appear on the wall, its color almost matching the wallpaper. He recognized that kind of thing: a wide-angle camera with infrared night vision. Very high-end. They stopped before a heavy solid wood door. Gu Zhixing did not knock. He directly grasped the brass doorknob and pressed it down. The door hinge turned without making any sound. The interior was brighter than the corridor, but the lighting was still carefully controlled. A low-hanging paper lamp suspended above the square table illuminated an area of roughly one square meter of the tabletop; the surrounding light rapidly faded, sinking into the Lu Chenzhou remained standing. His gaze fell upon the desk—a deep brown leather folder was already placed there, next to a black Montblanc pen, its cap unscrewed, the nib pointing outward. Beside the folder, there was also a white porcelain teacup, from the rim of which a faint wisp of steam rose. The color of the tea, under the light, took on an amber-like quality. "Longjing," Gu Zhixing said. He had already sat down, his hands folded on the edge of the desk. "Pre-Ming Dynasty harvest. The temperature should be just right." The left corner of Lu Chenzhou's eye twitched slightly. The movement was extremely subtle, like being pricked by a needle tip. He pulled out the chair and sat down. The chair back was high, almost pressing against his shoulder blades, giving a feeling of being both enveloped and restricted. He did not touch the teacup. Gu Zhixing opened the leather folder. He didn't speak immediately but gently pushed the bridge of his gold-rimmed glasses with his index finger, adjusting the focus. Then, he withdrew two sheets of paper from the folder and placed them side by side on the desktop in front of Lu Chenzhou. The first was the complete version of the "blemish" evidence he had seen earlier under the streetlight. More than just bank statements and fragments of testimony, there were also several copies of "situation statements" stamped with official seals, signed by a now-disbanded special task force that had participated in investigating his case back then. The handwriting, seals, and format were all impeccable. To forge something to this degree required more than just technical skill. The second was a color photograph. The photo was taken clearly, so clear that one could even see the water droplets on the celery leaves in Lin Wei's vegetable basket. She wore a light gray knitted cardigan, her hair loosely tied at the back, and was looking down, entering numbers on the keypad of the apartment building's security lock. The shooting angle was from an oblique rear distance of about ten meters. In the lower right corner of the photo was a date and time stamp: this afternoon, 4:17 PM. The residential complex where her current husband lived, Lu Chenzhou knew, had security that wasn't exactly tight, but it wasn't a place just anyone could casually enter and take pictures either. His fist clenched under the table. Nails dug into his palm, leaving several crescent-shaped indentations, a dull ache throbbing. "Ms. Lin has been looking quite well recently," Gu Zhixing's voice sounded steadily, as if stating an unimportant objective fact. "Her husband's building materials company just secured an order last month for guardrails for a municipal green belt. The project isn't large, but the payment is stable. Their daughter... she should be called Duoduo, right? She's supposed to start elementary school this September. The school district is quite good." Lu Chenzhou's throat tightened. He swallowed, feeling as if he were gulping down coarse sand. The faintly bitter aroma of the gradually cooling tea drifted into his nostrils, mingling with the barely perceptible scent of sandalwood in the room, causing a slight churning in his stomach. "What do you want," he said. His voice was hoarser than he had expected, but still steady. "It's not 'what we want,' Mr. Lu," Gu Zhixing corrected him, his tone carrying the particular insistence on precise wording typical of a lawyer. "It's 'what kind of cooperation we can achieve.'" He paused, his fingertip gently tapping the "blemish" evidence. "This material, and the procedural attention it might provoke... is currently in a controlled, sealed state. Ms. Lin and her family are also currently enjoying a peaceful, undisturbed life. There is no necessary connection between these two things. But you know, there are always some subtle... balances between matters." "Balance," Lu Chenzhou repeated the word. Under pressure, he would subconsciously repeat key nouns. It was a form of confirmation, a form of delay, buying his brain an extra fraction of a second of calculation time through inertia. "Yes," Gu Zhixing gave a slight nod. "And maintaining this balance requires the joint effort of both parties, and a clear... contract." He took out a third document from the folder. This time it wasn't a copy, but a formal printed text, the paper stiff, the title reading "Special Consultant Service Agreement." There weren't many clauses, only three pages. Gu Zhixing pushed the document in front of Lu Chenzhou, then gently nudged the Montblanc pen half an inch forward. The pen barrel gleamed with a cold black luster under the light, the metal parts cool to the touch. "There are some technical doubts regarding the cause of Young Master Shen Yan's death," Gu Zhixing began to explain, his tone as if delivering a legal opinion. "The Lu Chenzhou's gaze fell on the first clause of the agreement: "Party A (the Shen Yan family) entrusts Party B (Lu Chenzhou) to provide independent investigation analysis and advisory services regarding Shen Yan's death..." He quickly scanned the subsequent clauses: confidentiality obligations, regular reporting, coordination through the "liaison officer" (Gu Zhixing) assigned by Party A, the scope of investigation requiring confirmation from Party A, no unauthorized contact with third parties unrelated to the investigation... Each clause tightened the reins, each one drawing boundaries. Finally, the compensation clause. The figure was substantial, enough to immediately lift him, just released from prison and possessing nothing, out of his current predicament. But after that clause, there was a parenthesis: (includes consideration for information sealing and maintaining the peace of related personnel). Not remuneration. It was hush money, protection money, the rent for shackles. "What if I refuse," Lu Chenzhou said. He didn't look up, still staring at the agreement. Gu Zhixing was silent for a few seconds. In the room, there was only the almost imperceptible, faint hum from the paper lamp's transformer. Then, he sighed softly. The sigh held no regret, only the understanding of someone who "knew you would ask that." "Legally speaking, once that material enters the relevant process, you will face at least five to seven more years of renewed investigation and litigation. Of course, the final outcome depends on the determination of evidence." His speech was measured, his word choice precise. "And regarding Mrs. Lin... we cannot guarantee that some 'coincidental' events won't occur. For instance, her husband's company suddenly losing all its orders. Or, some rumors about her past marriage conveniently appearing in her daughter's school parent group chat. Or perhaps, certain individuals with prior records just happening to appear frequently near her home." Gu Zhixing paused, picked up his own cup of tea that had already gone cold, and took a small sip. His Adam's apple bobbed; the sound of swallowing was abnormally clear in the silence. "Mr. Lu, I understand how you must feel," he said, setting down the teacup. The ceramic base made a soft "tock" sound against the wooden tabletop. "But please understand our position as well. Young Master Shen Yan's death is an unacceptable loss for the family. We need the truth. And you need a respectable way out, one that can avoid the worst possible scenarios. This agreement," his fingertip tapped the few pages again, "is, under the current circumstances, the only solution that can satisfy both points." He leaned forward slightly. The light from the paper lamp reflected off his glasses, creating two cold, bright highlights. "Sign it, and you can at least operate within the rules, using the methods you excel at. Don't sign..." Gu Zhixing shook his head, leaving the sentence unfinished. But the unspoken words hung in the air like cold, heavy lumps of iron. Lu Chenzhou looked at the pen. Its tip gleamed coldly. He remembered those endless nights in prison. He remembered his younger sister Lu Chenxing's pale, thin face before her surgery. He remembered the look in Lin Wei's eyes the last time she saw him—no hatred, only a void after something had been utterly extinguished. He remembered the order, evidence, and logic he once firmly believed in, how they had crumbled like sandcastles before a higher power. Then, he remembered Shen Moqing. The person who, ten years ago, had manipulated everything from the shadows and pushed him into the abyss. Now, that person's son was dead, and he was being forced to find the truth for that person's family. Absurdity flooded his chest like a cold tide. His fingers reached for the pen. The metal barrel felt icy; the cold shot from his fingertips to his arm in an instant, raising a fine layer of goosebumps. He grasped the pen, steadily. It didn't tremble. He didn't even look at the clauses again. It was unnecessary. All paths had their price clearly marked, and this one was currently the only one he could afford—and had to afford. The pen tip touched the signature line. The ink was deep blue, full, rich. He wrote the first character: "Lu." The tip scratched across the paper fibers, producing a faint "shushing" sound, amplified in the extremely quiet room. A symbolic, heavy resistance came from his wrist, as if what lay beneath the pen wasn't paper, but something more substantial. "Chen." The second stroke. "Zhou." For the final vertical stroke, he pressed slightly harder. The pen tip made a soft "tch" sound, tearing through the surface layer of the paper, leaving a tiny breach. The ink bled slightly at that breach, like a drop of congealed, dark blood. He stopped, released his fingers. The pen "This is a copy of the agreement. Please keep it." Gu Zhixing said, his voice still steady. "The key and access card are for your temporary office on the seventeenth floor of the Shen Yan Group building. Tomorrow morning at nine, the preliminary investigation report from the scene of young master Shen Yan's death, along with photos of the relevant physical evidence, will be delivered there. I am your point of contact. Please communicate with me at any time regarding any progress or needs." He stood up, smoothing the front of his suit jacket. The gesture was meticulous. "I look forward to your professional performance, Consultant Lu." After speaking, he gave a slight nod, turned, and walked toward the door. Lu Chenzhou did not move. He sat in the high-backed chair, watching Gu Zhixing's back disappear beyond the doorway, listening as that heavy solid wood door closed once more without a sound. The room was left with only him, the cup of longjing tea on the table that had long gone cold, and that copy of the agreement symbolizing humiliation and shackles. Slowly, he raised his hand and pressed it against his left eye. The skin beneath his fingertips was trembling uncontrollably, in minute spasms. Once. Twice. A long time later, he released his hand. His gaze fell on the tiny breach the pen tip had torn in the agreement. Then, he lifted his head and looked at the empty doorway. In a hoarse yet exceptionally steady voice, he spoke a sentence to the air: "For the scene investigation report, I want the original photos. Not filtered ones." The sound echoed in the sealed room, quickly absorbed by the silence. No one answered. But Lu Chenzhou knew the words would be heard. This wasn't resistance, nor was it even bargaining. It was an affirmation—confirming that at least one end of this tightrope he was forced to walk was still held in his own hand. Confirming that even as a prisoner, he still retained the instinct of a criminal investigator to scrutinize evidence. He picked up the cold access card. Its edge was sharp, almost cutting to the touch. Tomorrow morning, nine o'clock. Shen Yan Group building. Seventeenth floor. His freedom, seven hours after his release, had officially ended. And his war, the moment he signed that name, had begun anew in another form. The first question was already pressing: How exactly did Shen Yan die? Why would that pampered, privileged scion of a wealthy family meet such a bizarre end? And Shen Moqing, the person he hated most, who had gone to such lengths to force him into this investigation—was it truly to uncover the truth, or to conceal something? Lu Chenzhou clenched the access card tightly in his palm. The sharp edge pressed against his skin, delivering a clear, sharp pain. This pain reminded him: He was still alive. He could still think. He could still calculate. Then, the game had begun. On his enemy's chessboard, using the pieces his enemy had given him, to play a dangerous game where he must solve the puzzle yet cannot truly touch its core. And in the shadow of this game lay his only path to clearing his own name. He slowly exhaled a breath. It condensed into a brief, white mist in the cold air. The tea was completely cold.