The light at the end of the narrow passage was false. Lu Chenzhou squeezed sideways through the final stretch of the viscous pipe. A foul wind rushed in, carrying the smell unique to the city’s fringes—a mixture of dust and car exhaust. It wasn’t an exit; it was a larger junction well. A rusted steel ladder made of rebar extended up the well wall, its top sealed by a heavy cast-iron manhole cover. A few strands of wan light leaked from its edges—streetlights. He switched off his flashlight, pressing his back against the cold concrete wall of the well. His chest heaved violently, each breath tugging at a dull ache beneath his ribs. He pressed his ear against the rough wall, straining to catch sounds from above. No sirens, no dense footsteps, only the occasional dull roar of distant vehicles. The time Qin Wangshu had bought him was likely this much. A timer was counting down. He grabbed the steel ladder. Rust flakes pattered down, filling the spaces between his fingers. As he climbed, the muscles in his arms, shoulders, and back trembled slightly from prolonged crouching and the cold. The manhole cover was heavier than expected. When he pushed it open, the hinges let out a piercing, grating screech, like a muffled thunderclap in the silent pre-dawn street. Lu Chenzhou swiftly crawled out and replaced the cover. He was in a back alley, piled with discarded construction materials and blackened garbage bins. In the distance, the silhouette of the Shen family’s pseudo-antique architectural complex loomed faintly in the thin morning mist, its eaves like the teeth of beasts. Gu Zhixing’s car should be nearby. He brushed off the dried, hardened mud caked on his clothes. It fell away like layers of filthy shell. A slight twitch began at the corner of his left eye. He took a deep breath of the murky air, his lungs stinging, and walked towards the main road. Sure enough, the black sedan slid silently up beside him, its tires crunching over gravel on the road with a fine, crushing sound. The window rolled down. Gu Zhixing sat in the driver’s seat, his gaze behind gold-rimmed glasses calm and unrippled. “Mr. Lu,” he said, his voice like polished metal. “Mr. Shen would like to discuss the… future direction of our cooperation with you.” Lu Chenzhou pulled open the door and sat in the back seat. The leather seat was icy cold. Inside the car lingered the faint scent of sandalwood, belonging to Shen Moqing’s study, already permeating every corner of this vehicle. The smell of a cage. “Thank you, Lawyer Gu,” he said, his voice steady, his gaze fixed on the scenery speeding past outside the window. His fingers unconsciously rubbed a dried fleck of mud on his cuff, crushing it into powder that fell onto the dark fabric of his trousers and vanished. *** The light in Shen Moqing’s study was filtered to a dim obscurity by the heavy velvet curtains. Shen Moqing sat behind his broad rosewood desk. The main lights were off; only a green glass desk lamp cast a soft, warm glow, illuminating precisely his left hand as it rubbed a jade thumb ring. The ring swirled with a deep green under the light. The friction between the jade and his knuckles produced an almost inaudible, subtle rustling sound, forming a strange contrast with the gentle expression on his face. Lu Chenzhou stood in the center of the study. The lingering stench of the pipe, sweat, and rust on him clashed violently with the heavy sandalwood and the scent of old books here. Gu Zhixing retreated noiselessly to the door, like a silent statue, blocking the only exit. His very presence was a form of physical and psychological suppression. “Sit,” Shen Moqing raised a hand, gesturing to a hardwood armchair opposite the desk. His tone was casual, as if bestowing a favor. Lu Chenzhou didn’t move. “Please speak plainly, Mr. Shen. I’m not very clean; I wouldn’t want to soil your chair.” His voice was not loud, but each word was clear. His posture remained ramrod straight, a silent act of defiance. Shen Moqing smiled, the motion of rubbing the ring speeding up slightly. The green light swirled rapidly between his fingers. “Chenzhou,” he sighed, his tone as if lamenting a nephew who had gone astray. “Why go through such trouble, crawling out of that place? Public opinion is a beast. Easy to unleash, hard to rein in. Look, the city is in an uproar now, all saying the Shen family killed the heir and is trying to frame a… former officer sincerely helping with the investigation.” He paused. The "You need me to cooperate in putting on a show." He completed Shen Moqing's sentence, his voice devoid of any ripple, only the cold, hard statement of fact. "Admit that the previous investigation was misled by certain erroneous information, that the direction was off. Then, cooperate with the Shen family's forthcoming 'authoritative conclusion' regarding Shen Yan's cause of death. Use my public admission of error—as an ex-convict, an 'expert' whose mental state may be unstable—to inversely prove the reliability of the Shen family's conclusion. Is that it, Mr. Shen?" Shen Moqing's fingertip, which had been stroking his thumb ring, paused for an instant, the jade freezing. Then it resumed its even rotation. "There's no need to put it so harshly. This is cooperation, a win-win. You get a reprieve, the pressure of public opinion on the old case lessens; the Shen family gets peace, and Yan'er's case can also be concluded sooner, laid to rest. It's good for everyone." He leaned forward slightly, the light illuminating half his face, the other half sinking into shadow. "You are a smart man, Chenzhou. A smart man should know when to advance, and when... to retreat." "An 'authoritative conclusion' lacking substantive evidential support, plus the endorsement of an ex-convict," Lu Chenzhou shook his head slowly, his gaze sweeping over the piles of documents on the desk, his mind rapidly assessing the bottom line behind every word the other spoke and his own bargaining chips. "Mr. Shen, the public are not fools. This combination, I'm afraid, will have the opposite effect, only inviting deeper suspicion. Once suspicion is planted, it's like weeds—you can't burn it all away." He pointed out the most fragile link in the other's plan—credibility. This wasn't a refusal; it was negotiation. The study fell silent for a moment, only the faint scent of sandalwood burning soundlessly, and the slight noise of Gu Zhixing adjusting his glasses by the door, the temple tips rubbing against his temples. Pressure built in the silence. "Then, in your opinion," Shen Moqing's voice grew a few degrees colder, a crack appearing in the gentle facade, "how should we proceed?" "I need time." Lu Chenzhou met his sharpening gaze, neither retreating nor yielding. "Twenty-four hours. I need to see the specific contents of that 'authoritative conclusion' in your hands, assess whether it can withstand the most basic scrutiny. At the same time, I also need to 'consider public acceptance'—after all, if the final conclusion released is full of holes, even if I endorse it, it would only add to the ridicule, offering no benefit to the Shen family's reputation." He paused, letting the reasoning settle in the air. "Twenty-four hours later, I will give Mr. Shen a clear answer." He gave a reason the other could not immediately refuse: it ostensibly considered the Shen family's interests. Moreover, he placed himself in the position of a "technical assessor," not merely someone submitting. This was the operational space he could secure that would least provoke the other party. Shen Moqing stared at him, his gaze like needles soaked in icy water, probing slowly. After a long while, he suddenly smiled again, the coldness melting into the re-emerging gentleness, but there was no mirth in the depths of his eyes. "Fine. Chenzhou is thoughtful. Then, twenty-four hours it is." He turned to Gu Zhixing, his tone returning to its steady cadence. "Zhixing, during these twenty-four hours, you will 'assist' Mr. Lu. Provide him with any materials he needs. Mr. Lu is unfamiliar with the Shen residence; look after him well, don't let him take a wrong turn." "Yes, Mr. Shen." Gu Zhixing gave a slight nod, a flash of light reflecting off his lenses. "Assist." Lu Chenzhou understood. Surveillance. Close, unshakable surveillance. He had secured twenty-four hours, at the cost of an extra pair of constantly scrutinizing, inescapable eyes. Space had been gained, but the bars of the cage had grown denser. "Thank you, Mr. Shen, for your consideration." He gave a slight, restrained bow. "Go on." Shen Moqing waved a hand, redirecting his gaze to the documents spread on the desk, as if what had just transpired were merely an insignificant interlude. "Have a good 'assessment.' I await your 'answer.'" He said the last two words very softly, yet they carried a weighty significance. Lu Chenzhou turned and followed Gu Zhixing out of the study. The heavy wooden door closed behind him with a dull thud, completely cutting off the suffocating sandalwood scent and the scrutinizing gaze. The corridor was He retreated to a pavilion not far away, sat down, and took out his phone. The spot was cunningly chosen—it offered a full view of the entire garden and an unobstructed line of sight to the area where Lu Chenzhou was. Lu Chenzhou leaned back against the tree trunk and slowly sat down, closing his eyes. The sunlight filtered through his eyelids, a scorching red. His left hand rested naturally at his side, his fingertips probing the gaps between the pebbles. They touched something cold and hard, its edge sealed with waterproof tape. Shen Qinghuan’s way of hiding things always carried a desperate, childish air. He peeled off the tape and grasped the object in his palm. The metal casing of an old button phone, cold and hard against his skin. He kept his eyes closed. His right hand rested on his knee, his left hand tucked in the shadow beside him. His thumb fumbled over the buttons. The phone powered on silently. The faint glow of the screen was completely blocked by his body. He typed commands by feel. His heartbeat pounded heavily in his chest, thud, thud, like a second hand counting down. The corner of his eye remained locked on the pavilion. Gu Zhixing’s head was bowed, but was his gaze, behind those lenses, truly fixed on his screen? Uncertain. Every second stretched, taut. The phone vibrated faintly. Connection successful. He pulled up the interface, input the path and one-time password Shen Qinghuan had given him. The Shen family Archives back-end, an encrypted cache space. A progress bar began to crawl. Slow, viscous, like the pulse of a dying man. Ten percent. Twenty. A gray magpie fluttered down onto the grass nearby, tilting its head to look at him. Lu Chenzhou held his breath. Thirty. Fifty. In the pavilion, Gu Zhixing suddenly stood up. Lu Chenzhou’s thumb instantly pressed the lock button, clenching the phone tight in his fist. Cold sweat seeped from his palm. Gu Zhixing merely stretched, looked into the distance, and sat back down. Progress bar: seventy-five. Ninety. Complete. He quickly executed the erase commands. Access logs, cache, temporary files. Then he shoved the phone back into the stone crevice, using the tip of his shoe to nudge a few loose pebbles over to cover the traces. Only after finishing all this did he realize his shirt was soaked through with sweat, clinging coldly to his skin. The data packet was downloaded. Audio clips of arguments. Screenshots of anomalous fund flows. The ammunition was in hand. He stood up, brushed the grass from his trousers, and walked toward the pavilion. “Attorney Gu, let’s head back.” Gu Zhixing put away his phone and stood. His gaze seemed to sweep casually over the ground beneath the ginkgo tree. “Has Mr. Lu sorted out his thoughts?” “They’re more tangled now,” Lu Chenzhou said with a slight twist of his mouth. The two walked back side by side. As they neared the guesthouse building, Gu Zhixing spoke, his tone as flat as reading a system log: “The Archives’ logs recorded an abnormal access early this morning. It triggered a temporary protocol for the encrypted cache zone.” He paused. “The person who designed the protocol was clever. The path was extremely well-hidden.” Lu Chenzhou didn’t break stride. “Attorney Gu is joking. I know nothing about IT. It might be a system glitch, or…” He glanced sideways. “…there really is an expert inside.” Gu Zhixing said nothing more, merely adjusted his glasses again. The lenses reflected the light, swallowing all expression. Back in his room, Lu Chenzhou locked the door. He had obtained the ammunition, but Gu Zhixing’s words were like a thorn, precisely lodged in a joint. The Shen family had already initiated an internal review. Shen Qinghuan’s situation was becoming dangerous. The sting of having exploited her trust now rose sharply, carrying the taste of rust. He leaned against the door and slowly slid down to sit on the floor. From an inner pocket, he took out the old button phone. Its metal shell was cold, pressing hard against his palm. The only light source was the screen of another prepaid phone in his hand, its ghostly blue glow illuminating his tense jawline and eyes focused to the point of obsession. On the screen was a lengthy, already-edited article. The title was cool yet provocative: "The Killer in the Mirror? On Potential Imitative Misleading and Narrative Manipulation in Shen Yan's Case." With surgical precision, the article dissected the key contradictions at the crime scene layer by layer—the deliberate imitation of the corpse's posture, the overly neat and pointed nature of the items left behind, the slight discrepancies in the timeline. He cited fragments provided by "certain internal information sources not convenient to disclose": keywords from a quarrel recording with its source blurred, anomalous timestamps on a few fund flows. The inferences were bold and clear: a third party had deliberately imitated the Shen family's internal conflicts to stage the crime scene, aiming to frame them and intensify their internal strife. The article did not name names, but every punctuation mark pointed toward the hasty conclusion of the case and the possible, unseen hand manipulating public opinion behind it. He proofread it word by word, his thumb sliding across the cold screen, adjusting the sharpness of the phrasing. Too dull, and it wouldn't stir a ripple; too sharp, and it would sever his own retreat prematurely. The public Wi-Fi signal flickered intermittently, its icon flashing weakly at the top of the screen like the pulse of a dying man. He had to seize that fleeting window. Now. The moment the signal bars struggled to fill two bars, he pressed down hard with his thumb on the send button. A clear, slight vibration feedback came from his fingertip. Brief, yet heavy. The article transformed into an invisible stream of data, surging into the still-bustling ocean of the late-night internet. The spark had been cast. Without pause, he immediately powered off the phone, pried open the back cover with a fingernail, took out the cheap SIM card, folded it once, then again, until the plastic emitted a crisp sound of strain. The fragments were tossed into the toilet; he pressed the flush button, and the vortex swallowed them instantly. The phone battery was pried open, and the circuit board was aimed at the hard ceramic edge of the toilet tank lid, smashed down three times with force. Tiny components scattered. All fragments were individually wrapped in crumpled toilet paper, stuffed into the very bottom of the trash bin, covered over with other used tissues, dental floss, and wrappers. A layer of trash, a layer of burial. After completing all this, he slid down to sit with his back against the cold tiled wall, exhaustion like a frigid tide flooding his limbs. His throat ached with dryness, as if rubbed raw by sandpaper. He turned on the tap, cupped a handful of cold water, and splashed it on his face. The water was icy, stinging his skin and making it tighten abruptly. He raised his head, looking at the wet, pale, and calm face in the mirror. There were bloodshot veins in his eyes, but his gaze was cold, like tempered iron. Using his own body as kindling to set the wilderness ablaze. He understood the cost. The stalemate of passive defense had to be broken by himself. The situation had changed. From a prey seeking respite, dodging and weaving within the encirclement, he had become an attacker actively igniting the war, overturning the chessboard. Even though this attack might first scorch himself, and that fragile ally he had just pushed onto the gambling table—Shen Qinghuan. He dried his face and hands, every inch of his skin tingling slightly from tension. Returning to the bedroom, he lay down fully clothed. Outside the window was boundless darkness; the massive silhouette of the Shen residence lay silent and dormant, like a slumbering beast. But beneath this silence, undercurrents had already shifted course, surging toward the point of bursting. *** It seemed he had only just closed his eyes. A sharp, persistent telephone ring tore through his shallow sleep. It wasn't any of the phones he had hidden; it was the vintage rotary phone on the nightstand in the guest room. In the dead silence of the early morning darkness, the ringing was particularly shrill and piercing, like the alarm of a noose suddenly tightening. Lu Chenzhou’s eyes snapped open instantly, his heart thudding heavily in his chest, blood rushing to his limbs. He turned on his side, reached out, picked up the receiver, the cold plastic pressing against his ear. First came the faint hum of the current, a crackling buzz, and then Gu Zhixing’s voice, devoid of discernible temperature and seemingly forever steady, pierced through the static of the line, clear enough to be unsettling: "Mr. Lu, Mr. Shen requests your presence in the study now." The voice on the receiver, devoid of discernible temperature and seemingly forever steady, pierced through the static of the line, clear enough to be unsettling. "There are... some new developments that require discussion." The crackle of static on the line persisted, like a serpent's hiss. Lu Chenzhou could hear his own suddenly accelerated heartbeat, pounding against his eardrums, intertwining with that electric noise. "Now?" he spoke, his voice steady, even appropriately tinged with a hint of hoarseness and weariness from being woken in the dead of night. "Now," Gu Zhixing confirmed, leaving no room for negotiation. Then, he paused for half a second, his tone seeming to incorporate an extremely faint, almost imperceptible, metallic scraping quality. "The ripples of public opinion are spreading faster than anticipated. Mr. Shen is... deeply concerned." The call ended. The busy tone was brief, crisp, final, like a blade being sheathed. Lu Chenzhou set down the receiver, its cold touch lingering on his fingertips. He sat on the edge of the bed, motionless. Outside the window, the darkness remained thick as ink; dawn was still far off. That green-glazed desk lamp in the study was probably lit again, casting its familiar, suffocating amber glow. He took a deep breath. The cold air flooded his lungs, bringing a faint sting that dispelled the last remnants of drowsiness. He stood up, straightened the crumpled shirt on his body, smoothed its hem, and fastened the top button. His movements were unhurried, meticulous, as if performing a ritual. Then, he opened the door and stepped into the dim corridor. Wall sconces cast pools of yellowish light, stretching his shadow and twisting it onto the patterns of the thick Persian carpet. Silently, it moved forward, devouring the soft distance beneath his feet. At the end of the corridor, the study door was slightly ajar. A sliver of light seeped from the crack, falling on the dark parquet floor. It looked like a pale, fresh wound, or like the final stretch one must walk alone before the judgment seat. He had secured public attention, obtained the first chip to stir the situation. But the price was now manifesting, and with such swiftness: the Shen family's countermeasure machinery had already started; the sound of its gears meshing seemed close at hand. That hidden thread connecting him and Shen Qinghuan was likely already under the spotlight. Room for maneuver had vanished completely. A more intense, direct confrontation awaited beyond that slightly open door. He walked to the study door and stopped. No sound came from within, not even breathing. Would Shen Qinghuan's name already be part of Shen Moqing's forthcoming conversation?