The door closed behind him, the sound of the bolt snapping into the latch crisp and final. Lu Chenzhou stood in the center of the guest room of the Shen residence, not moving immediately. The glow of the wall lamp was swallowed whole by the heavy velvet curtains, leaving only faint, blurred shadows at the edges of the carpet. The air carried the mixed scent of old wood and desiccant, and the silence pressed down like a physical entity. He heard his own breathing, and—the faint, almost imperceptible hum of electronic equipment coming vaguely from the next room. Gu Zhixing was just beyond that wall. Listening, or simply waiting. He walked to the window, his fingers touching the heavy plush of the curtain. The texture was coarse, the light-blocking layer impenetrable. He slowly drew it shut, the last sliver of daylight severed, plunging the room into an artificial, absolute darkness. Safety, which also meant imprisonment. The tablet on the nightstand emitted a cold, white light. He sat down, taking the old-fashioned cell phone from his inner pocket. The body of the phone still held a faint coolness from the garden soil and the slight bitter scent of ginkgo leaves. He connected the data cable; an import progress bar crawled slowly across the screen. Three percent, ten percent. He took off his wristwatch, placing it face down on the desk with a soft *click* as the metal band met the wood. A marker, an anchor point for the start of a countdown. Twenty-four hours. The audio file finished loading first. He put on the headphones. Noise flooded in first, like a storm heard through a thick pane of frosted glass. The hiss of static, the distant blur of traffic, and… the sharp sound of shattering porcelain, abruptly piercing the chaos. Then came voices, distorted, garbled, but recognizable as Shen Yan’s weary, habitually ironic tone. "...Father, you always say the family is a great ship." The voice was intermittent, with the heavy sound of pacing in the background. "But what if, from the very beginning, this ship's keel was built from..." The crucial part was drowned out by a burst of sharp, piercing static. Lu Chenzhou hit pause. His fingertip slid across the cold glass screen, magnifying the audio waveform. The frequency of the static was too regular, unlike natural noise. He called up a noise reduction filter, peeling away layer after layer. His eardrums bore the pressure of the increasingly strange sound waves after filtration, a throbbing starting at his temples. He divided his attention, listening intently for any movement outside the door—the hallway carpet absorbed sound well, but if footsteps stopped outside the door, the extremely subtle change in airflow between the door panel and the floor… Nothing. Only silence. He played it again. After the static weakened, the latter half of Shen Yan's sentence barely surfaced: "...was cast from the spine bones of others?" Shen Moqing's response wasn't fully recorded, only a few fragmented words: "...cost... necessary... you're too weak..." Lu Chenzhou's fingertip tapped unconsciously against the edge of the tablet. *Weak*. In Shen Moqing's dictionary, that word was probably synonymous with "uncontrollable." He labeled this segment as "Conflict A," timestamp: seventeen days before Shen Yan's death. The next audio clip was shorter, the background eerily quiet, with only Shen Yan's rapid, suppressed panting, as if he were running or in extreme fear. "...He knows... the account... that name... can't stay..." Immediately followed by a younger woman's voice, choked with tears, cutting him off: "Brother! Calm down! We can..." The sound cut off abruptly, as if forcibly severed. Shen Qinghuan. A slight twitch tugged at the corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye. He closed the audio and opened the screenshot of the fund transaction records provided by Shen Qinghuan. The resolution was very low; the hand taking the picture seemed unsteady, the numbers and account names blurred into a mass of grayish-white specks. He imported it into an image processing software, enhancing the contrast, sharpening the edges. The pixel blocks on the screen began to writhe and reorganize, like a swarm of startled gray moths. He narrowed his eyes, leaning closer to the screen until the tip of his nose almost touched the cold glass. The recipient's name... "Xinrong Trading"? No, the strokes were wrong. He pulled up that dusty list from memory—the aliases and associated accounts of several key witnesses from ten years ago, under that "Witness Protection Program." The feel of the paper, the smell of the ink, and the dull thud of the archive room's iron cabinet closing when it was finally taken back by superiors citing "insufficient clearance." "Wang Dehai... alias Not a coincidence. The stroke structure, the obscurity of the characters used, that naming habit that deliberately imitated an ordinary trading company yet felt awkward... One week before Shen Yan's death, a sum of five hundred thousand yuan, passed through layers of nested shell companies, was ultimately remitted into an account named "Hairong Investment." And "Hairong" was precisely one of the aliases used by "Wang Dehai," the key witness who had accused him of accepting "political donations" during his protection program. That man had "accidentally" emigrated just three months after the verdict, vanishing without a trace. His throat felt dry. He swallowed, the sound abnormally loud in the absolute quiet of the room. A piercing chill shot up the back of his neck, spreading down his spine. Was this a key? Or another, deeper trap? Why would Shen Yan have had a financial transaction with this person? Was it Shen Moqing's arrangement, or had Shen Yan himself discovered something and tried to buy silence or cooperation? What did that female voice mean by "cannot be left"? The account itself, or the person behind it? Questions like ice picks, one after another, drove into the cracks of his thoughts. He felt a cold, familiar impulse—to smash everything, along with this tablet, this room, this suffocating silence. Unconsciously, his fingernails dug into his palm. The pain brought a sliver of twisted clarity. He quickly took a screenshot of this crucial segment, marked the audio point, and along with a preliminary timeline analysis, encrypted and compressed it all into a fingernail-sized micro storage device. The device's casing was ordinary black plastic, utterly unremarkable. After finishing this, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes. The afterimage of the screen light burned on his retinas, pulsing painfully. The internal line phone suddenly exploded with sound. The ring was sharp, tearing through the silence. Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes, looked at the old-fashioned rotary dial phone for two seconds, then reached out and picked up the receiver. "Mr. Lu, how was your rest?" Gu Zhixing's voice came through the line, gentle, clear, watertight. "Mr. Shen reminds you that time is precious. Also, Officer Qin Wangshu has arrived and hopes to speak with you. I'll be waiting for you in the reception room." "Good. By the way," Gu Zhixing paused briefly, his tone still steady, "Deputy Captain Qin Wangshu is visiting. There are some procedural matters she needs to communicate with you. Mr. Shen requests you come to the reception room on the west side of the first floor now." Qin Wangshu. The name was like a stone dropped into stagnant water, sending ripples spreading silently. Lu Chenzhou tightened his grip on the receiver, the plastic casing emitting a faint creak. "Now?" "Yes. Mr. Shen is also present." Gu Zhixing added, then hung up. The monotonous dial tone buzzed. Lu Chenzhou slowly replaced the receiver. He stood up, tucked the fingernail-sized micro storage device into the inner side of his sock, and secured it firmly with medical tape. He exited all programs on the tablet, shut it down. The screen went completely dark. He pushed it deep into the bedside table drawer, loosely covering it with a few books. He adjusted his shirt collar, smoothing non-existent wrinkles, then took a deep breath and opened the door. The hallway lights were dim and yellowish. Gu Zhixing was already waiting outside the door, his gaze behind gold-rimmed glasses calm and unreadable, as if he had merely happened to pass by. "Mr. Lu, this way, please." He stepped aside to lead the way, his leather shoes making no sound on the thick carpet. The door to the reception room was open. Shen Moqing sat in the main seat on a rosewood round-backed chair, idly turning a celadon teacup in his hand. The jade thumb ring on his thumb glimmered under the overhead light with a warm, almost sinister green glow. He rubbed the ring slowly, over and over. Gu Zhixing moved silently to stand just behind and to his side, like an elegant, silent shadow. Qin Wangshu stood by the window, her back to the door, looking out at the meticulously manicured garden. She wore a sharply pressed uniform. The silver four-pointed star badges on her shoulder straps were polished to a bright shine, reflecting cold points of light. Hearing the footsteps, she turned around. Her face held no expression. Professional. Cold. Like a polished metal mask. Only the corners of her mouth were pressed tighter than usual, betraying a hint of tautness. "Chenzhou, you're here. Sit." Shen Moqing raised a hand, gesturing toward a single-seat sofa to the side. The sofa was leather, deep brown, still cool and The edge of the paper was sharp, making a faint rustling sound as it sliced through the air, like a blade scraping across skin. Lu Chenzhou did not take it immediately. His gaze swept quickly over the document header and several bolded dates and locations—abandoned safe house, near the Archives, the textile factory in the north of the city... The records were astonishingly detailed, precise down to the hour. This level of accuracy was beyond what routine surveillance could cover. He lifted his eyes, first looking at Shen Moqing. "My cooperation with Mr. Shen's investigation followed the necessary procedures. Every single one of my movements has been known to both Mr. Shen and Attorney Gu." He paused, his tone carrying a perfectly measured, restrained hint of confusion. "Shouldn't the contents of Captain Qin's report here first be cross-checked with Mr. Shen regarding the schedule? After all, I am currently considered Mr. Shen's 'guest.'" Shen Moqing smiled, setting down the teacup. The lid met the rim with a clear, crisp clink. "Captain Wangshu is merely doing her duty. Being meticulous is a good thing." The movement of his thumb rubbing the ring accelerated slightly, the green light swirling at his fingertip. "Chenzhou, since the police have made a request, we should ensure our materials are even more solid and beyond reproach, don't you agree?" The words were directed at Lu Chenzhou, but his eyes watched Qin Wangshu with a paternalistic, tolerant scrutiny that held a cold weight beneath. Qin Wangshu's jawline tightened. She did not respond to Shen Moqing. Instead, she retrieved the document and pulled a black pen from her bag, placing it directly on the glass coffee table in front of Lu Chenzhou. The pen body tapped against the glass with a soft 'click.' "Sign, or state your reason for refusal. This is procedure." Her voice was colder now. Lu Chenzhou picked up the pen. The barrel was cold, the chill of the metal seeping into his fingertips. He wrote his name in the signature field—strokes neat, forceful, each line as if carved into the paper. Then he set down the pen and pushed the document back to the center of the coffee table. Qin Wangshu snatched up the document and pen, almost stuffing them back into her briefcase. The sound of the zipper closing was short and sharp. "My apologies for the disturbance, Mr. Shen. I'll take my leave." She turned and walked out, the hem of her uniform cutting through the air, stirring a tiny current. "Take care, Captain Wangshu," Shen Moqing said gently, his gaze signaling Gu Zhixing. Gu Zhixing gave a slight nod and followed her out, his steps light. It seemed like a polite escort, but also like ensuring she truly left every inch of the estate grounds. The reception room was left with only the two of them. Shen Moqing picked up his teacup and took a deliberate sip, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Young people, full of fire," he said, as if to himself, yet also to Lu Chenzhou. His voice was unusually clear in the empty room. "But that's fine. Having the police watching only proves all our operations can withstand scrutiny. Don't you think so, Chenzhou?" "Mr. Shen is thorough in his considerations," Lu Chenzhou replied, his voice steady. "How are the materials coming along?" Shen Moqing asked, his gaze settling on Lu Chenzhou's face as if weighing the quality and heft of an object. "In the process of being organized. Some details require cross-verification to avoid errors in the conclusions, which might otherwise hinder Mr. Shen's affairs." Lu Chenzhou's reply was flawless, every word landing within a safe zone. Shen Moqing nodded, said nothing more, and simply continued rubbing his ring. The silence in the room settled once again, mingling with the scent of leather, aged tea, and an intangible yet viscous pressure that weighed on the skin. A few minutes later, Gu Zhixing returned, giving a slight bow to Shen Moqing. "Captain Qin has left the estate grounds." "Hmm." Shen Moqing set down the teacup, stood up, and straightened his cuffs. "Chenzhou, return to your work. Time," he paused, giving Lu Chenzhou a meaningful look, "waits for no one." Accompanied by Gu Zhixing, he left the reception room, his footsteps fading down the corridor. Lu Chenzhou sat quietly on the sofa for a few more seconds before slowly rising. He walked out of the reception room and down the corridor paved with thick, dark red carpet. The afternoon sun slanted in through the tall window at the end, pale and feeble, casting rhombus-shaped light patterns, sliced by the window panes, onto the floor. In the air was the constant, low hum "Master." Qin Wangshu spoke, her voice pressed extremely low, hoarse, carrying the last shred of forced composure, yet the tail end trembled uncontrollably. "Who are you really helping? Or who are you harming?" She took a step forward. The air between them suddenly tightened, like a bowstring drawn to its limit. "How many times will the things Shen Qinghuan gave you last you? How many more times will it be enough to sell yourself, and her, back into that pit?!" A faint scent of soap pods drifted from her. It was the familiar scent belonging to that disciple who had just joined the police force, whose eyes still held light. At this moment, the scent only made his heart grow cold, as if slowly being cut open by shards of ice. Lu Chenzhou did not retreat. His back pressed against the metal stair railing, the cold sensation seeping through his shirt. His hands were in his trouser pockets, his posture even appearing relaxed. He watched as the last struggling light in her eyes completely extinguished, sinking into an unfathomably cold, deep pool. Then he spoke, his voice flat as a frozen lake surface. "Captain Qin." He used this address. "Does your report mention Shen Qinghuan's name?" Qin Wangshu seemed slapped in the face by these words, her pupils constricting sharply. She stared at him, her lips trembling slightly as if wanting to say something, but in the end, only a short, almost scoffing breath was forced through her clenched teeth. The sound was full of self-mockery and despair. She no longer looked at him, turned abruptly, and pushed open the fire exit door. The sound of her footsteps was hurried, heavy, quickly swallowed by the dimness of the stairwell, eventually disappearing. Lu Chenzhou stood in place for a moment, until the sound completely dissipated. He slowly straightened up, adjusted his cuffs, and turned towards the guest room. His back was straight, his steps steady, as if that brief yet fatal confrontation had never happened. Only his hands in his trouser pockets, fingertips icy cold, trembled slightly. Returning to the guest room, he locked the door from the inside. He walked straight into the bathroom and turned on the faucet. Hot water gushed out, washing over his stiff fingers. At first, there was only a numb, stinging pain, then warmth gradually seeped in, spreading from his fingertips to his palms, then to his tense wrist bones. Leaning on the cold marble countertop, he lowered his head, watching the rising steam, and let out a long, silent exhale. There was no time left. He turned off the water, dried his hands with a towel. His fingers regained their dexterity, but the chill in his chest did not disperse. He walked back to the room, retrieved the silver laptop "provided" by Gu Zhixing from the drawer, and pressed the power button. The fan emitted a faint hum. Then he crouched down, looked up, and inspected the exhaust vent cover on the bathroom ceiling. The cover was a common plastic grille, its edges coated with a thin layer of dust. Using his fingernail, he pried gently upward from one side. The grille loosened, releasing the musty smell specific to accumulated dust. The inside of the duct was metal, deep enough, and dry enough. He returned to the computer and began "producing" the "cooperation materials" Shen Moqing wanted. A seemingly rigorous, yet meticulously falsified preliminary analysis report on the Shen Yan case. He retained the real timeline contradictions—the seventy-two-hour gap in Shen Yan's whereabouts before his death, the last abnormal transfer to "Hairong Investment." But in the section tracking the source of funds, he blurred the specific paths, attributing several key transactions to "third-party channels pending verification." The report depicted Shen Yan as a group heir whose behavior became erratic due to excessive inheritance pressure, possibly entangled in unclear financial disputes. The conclusion pointed towards "a high possibility of external forces imitating the crime, requiring further investigation"—perfectly catering to Shen Moqing's intention to divert suspicion outward, and also securing for himself the vague pretext and space of "further investigation." Simultaneously, in another hidden partition locked with triple passwords, he quickly typed out the real clue analysis: Shen Yan's connection node with "Hairong Investment" went beyond fund flows. In the recorded argument, the word "price" in the phrase "the backbone must be hard for the price to be paid" was the same word as "they paid the price" screamed by the missing witness before his death in his own case file from ten years ago. The unfinished "We can..." from Shen Qinghuan, followed by the cut-off syllable, showed an extremely short, lip-and-tooth sound contour similar to "deal" on the audio spectrum. He linked these fragments with He encrypted the genuine analysis, recompressed it with the original evidence package from the micro storage device, and applied the ultimate encryption using the one-time dynamic password algorithm based on the principle of physical entropy increase that Fang Mu had taught him. The algorithm's key was a combination of the current temperature of the device in his sock, its remaining battery level, and the current time down to the millisecond—impossible to replicate, impossible to backtrack. Then, he removed the ventilation duct grille. Wrapping the micro device in three layers of waterproof sealing bags, he firmly wedged it behind a metal bracket deep inside the duct. He reset the grille, carefully smoothing the accumulated dust at the edges with his fingertips, restoring it to its original state. Having completed this, he returned to the computer and printed out the false report. The laser printer emitted a low hum. The paper slid out, warm, carrying the chemical scent of ink. He placed it into the dark gray folder prepared by Gu Zhixing. A knock on the door sounded at just the right moment. Not too light, not too heavy. Three knocks. The rhythm was precise. Lu Chenzhou opened the door. Gu Zhixing stood outside, his gaze first falling on the folder in Lu Chenzhou's hand before lifting to look at his face. "Mr. Lu, are the materials ready?" "Preliminary report," Lu Chenzhou handed it over. Gu Zhixing accepted it but did not immediately open it. He smiled, his gaze behind the gold-rimmed glasses sweeping over the room as if casually—gliding over the black-screened laptop, the bed made with neat, wrinkle-free sheets, finally lingering for half a second on the closed bathroom door. "Mr. Shen wishes to review the outline first tonight. You've worked hard." His voice remained gentle as ever. "Is the guest room comfortable? If you need anything, please don't hesitate to ask." "It's fine. Nothing needed," Lu Chenzhou replied. Gu Zhixing nodded, turning to leave, but then seemed to remember something, looking back. His gaze held a professional, dissecting kind of scrutiny. "Mr. Lu," his voice lowered a fraction, yet became even clearer, "sometimes, leaving too many backups can actually make them easier to lose. Don't you agree?" Having said this, he did not linger. Holding the folder, he walked steadily away, disappearing around the corner of the hallway. His footsteps were quickly absorbed by the thick carpet, soundless. Lu Chenzhou closed the door, his back leaning against the cold wooden panel. Gu Zhixing's final words were like a fine needle, piercing precisely into the gap of the fragile defensive structure he had just built up. Too many backups? He thought of the device in his sock, the secret deep in the duct, the hidden partition on the computer. No, Gu Zhixing couldn't know the specific locations. But the warning itself was clear enough—I've seen your little maneuvers. At the very least, I've seen the traces. The false report was handed over. The core evidence was temporarily hidden. Qin Wangshu's official warning hung like a sword of Damocles over his head, and the last vestiges of personal trust between them had been utterly buried, leaving no trace, in that icy stare at the end of the hallway. Shen Moqing was waiting, waiting for a "result of cooperation" he could use. And Gu Zhixing, this elegant yet alert hound, suspicion already aroused, was silently tightening the encirclement. The twenty-four-hour countdown was still ticking away. But the passage of time no longer brought urgency; instead, it brought a deeper, colder isolation. He had won a moment's respite, yet had personally buried the fuse for the next storm beneath his own feet. Would Shen Moqing believe that report? Or was this seemingly compromising "cooperative material" itself the entrance to another trap laid by the old fox, quietly waiting for him, this desperate prisoner, to step into it, step by step, and become the final, perfect, silent scapegoat?