Gu Zhixing’s footsteps faded away at the end of the corridor, like a stone dropped into a deep well, too stingy to even give an echo. Lu Chenzhou stood in the center of the guest room, unmoving. A sliver of gray-white light seeped through the gap in the curtains; dawn had not yet fully broken. In his ears lingered the faint hum of the detection equipment, and his skin still clung to the needle-point pressure left by the sudden inspection moments ago. He slowly exhaled a breath, which condensed into a small, fleeting puff of white mist in the chilly air. The nail of his left thumb unconsciously picked at a long-healed scar on the pad of his index finger. The rough edge of the scab scraped against his fingernail, bringing a subtle yet distinct sensation. An old habit. When under pressure, his body always reacted before his mind did. He walked to the window and lifted a corner of the heavy curtain. The coarse velvet edge rubbed against the back of his hand, raising a fine rash of goosebumps. In the courtyard below, that black sedan was still parked, its roof antenna faintly visible in the thin morning mist. Not a police car, but the windows were tinted dark, making it impossible to see inside. The engine was still running, exhaust trailing a faint white plume in the cold air, like a noose ready to tighten at any moment. It had been less than three hours since "Carrier Pigeon" went dark. Barely three and a half hours since the evidence fragments were sent out—if that weak, jammed signal had actually managed to get through. He turned and walked to the old five-drawer dresser in the corner of the room. The slide rail of the bottom drawer was slightly stuck, emitting a harsh metallic screech as he pulled it open, jarringly loud in the silent room. He crouched down, knees pressing against the cold floorboards, and his fingers probed into the narrow gap between the bottom of the drawer and the dresser frame, feeling around. His fingertips touched a thin layer of velvet, and beneath it, a hard, slightly curved plastic casing. He pulled it out. It was a palm-sized old radio, its casing badly worn, revealing the original gray-white plastic at the corners. The antenna was broken, only half its length remained. Modified by Fang Mu, it could only receive wireless signals on a specific frequency band, and only when placed near a window. Last night, when Gu Zhixing confiscated all electronic devices, he had hidden it here in advance—stuffed into a shallow, hand-carved groove beneath the drawer's bottom panel, covered with a thin velvet pad. But this was his only current channel for obtaining outside information. He walked back to the window, pulled the curtain open a bit wider, and pressed the radio against the glass. The cold of the glass penetrated the radio's casing, instantly seeping into his palm, freezing his knuckles stiff. He put on the headphones—a pair of ordinary-looking white wired earbuds, but Fang Mu had embedded a signal amplifier into the cable. The rubber ear tips pressed into his ear canals, bringing a slight pressure. The hiss of static immediately flooded his ears, like a swarm of agitated insects, densely gnawing at his eardrums. He tuned the frequency, his fingers slowly turning the cold plastic knob, the movement so light it was almost silent. The tuning scale on the old radio had long since blurred, relying entirely on memory and the feel of resistance points under his fingertips. A faint, intermittent human voice struggled out from the noise of static, as if coming from underwater. "...repeating... early morning hours... network anomaly... suspected... fabricated evidence..." His spine instantly stiffened like a plank of wood, every muscle tensing, yet he forced himself to remain absolutely still. The heavy fabric of the curtain rubbed against his cheek and ear, the coarse warp and weft threads pricking his skin, bringing a continuous, minute irritation. He crouched in the corner by the window, knees pressed against the wall, dust and wood splinters from the cracks in the old floorboards working their way under the nails of the hand bracing him on the ground, bringing wave after wave of fine, unignorable stings. All his senses contracted, focused on his left ear, plugged by the earbud. His right ear captured any unusual sounds inside and outside the room—were there still footsteps in the distant corridor? Had the engine sound downstairs changed? The voice in the headphones grew a bit clearer; it was a male announcer with precise, standard pronunciation, but the signal was unstable, sentences chopped into fragments, punctuated by crackling bursts of noise: "...Shen Group... former advisor Lu... suspected of using... technological means... fabricating... so-called evidence... disrupting social... order..." His jawline tightened rigidly, "This station's reporter... has contacted... Mr. Shen Moqing, Chairman of the Shenshi Group... Mr. Shen stated... that he is deeply saddened... by anyone attempting to use... the tragedy of his deceased eldest son, Shen Yan... for malicious hype... and strongly condemns... this despicable act... of fabricating evidence... and inciting public opinion... for personal gain..." Even distorted by radio transmission, even mixed with harsh static, Lu Chenzhou instantly recognized that tone—gentle, refined, yet carrying an undeniable air of authority. Every pause, every stressed syllable, exuded a meticulously designed rhythm. "I understand... the pain of losing a loved one." Shen Moqing's voice echoed in the earphones, its pace measured, its diction elegant, even carrying a faint sigh in the background. "But precisely because of that... we should respect the facts... respect the law all the more. Regarding Shen Yan's case... the police have been investigating with full effort all along. Any attempt to use fabricated 'evidence'... to mislead the public and interfere with judicial fairness... is a secondary injury to the deceased... and a serious dereliction of responsibility to society." He paused briefly; a faint rustle of papers could be heard in the background, as if to underscore the solemnity of his statement. "As for that Mr. Lu..." A hint of perfectly measured weariness and magnanimity entered Shen Moqing's voice, its pitch lowering slightly. "I... once had brief cooperation with him. Regarding his past misfortunes... I express sympathy. But personal grievances... cannot serve as a reason to trample the bottom line of the law. I believe... the relevant departments will handle this matter... properly and in accordance with the law." The word "fabricator" was like an ice pick, slipping lightly into his eardrum before exploding into a spreading numbness of cold inside his skull. Lu Chenzhou's fingers unconsciously tightened. The cheap plastic casing of the radio emitted a faint, strained creak under the pressure in his palm. The corner of his left eye began to twitch. Once. Twice. The muscle spasms were uncontrollable, tugging at the skin of half his face. He lifted his other hand, pressing the pad of his thumb hard against the twitching corner of his eye. The pressure made his knuckle turn white from lack of blood. The pain barely suppressed the maddening pulsation. "It is reported... that the cyber police department has intervened... to track the sources of the related false information... The Criminal Investigation Division of the Municipal Public Security Bureau... also stated it will launch an investigation into this matter... appealing to the general public... not to believe rumors, not to spread rumors... to trust the... authoritative official announcements..." Lu Chenzhou slowly opened his eyes. Outside the window, the sky had brightened further, the gray-white turning into a stark, pallid white. The outline of the black sedan became clearer, a thin layer of frost even crystallizing on its roof. The people inside that car were probably listening to the same broadcast. Or perhaps they didn't need to listen; they were part of this "authoritative announcement," the extended tentacles awaiting orders. Suddenly, the hissing static cut off. The world plunged into a silence that was too sharp, too piercing, ringing in the ears. A buzzing filled his head—the aftershock of overstimulated hearing, as if countless fine needles were vibrating gently inside. He removed the headphones. The rubber earbuds made a soft *pop* as they left his ear canals. The cord dangled down, swaying slightly in the cold air, brushing the back of his hand. That faint signal had actually gotten out. The evidence fragment—even if only thirty-four percent—had truly ignited public opinion. Shen Moqing's reaction speed was alarmingly fast. No, not fast. Pre-prepared. That righteous condemnation, those labels—"fabrication," "incitement," "personal grievance"—that backing of "relevant departments" and "authoritative announcements"... This was no hasty, impromptu script. It was a complete, multi-layered countermeasure plan, activated the moment his signal went out. And he, Lu Chenzhou, the moment he threw out the evidence, had automatically stepped onto the stage the other side had built, taking on the role of the "obsessive avenger," the "despicable fabricator." The spotlight was on him. The label was already affixed. His back pressed against the cold glass of the window. His forehead gently knocked against the hard wooden window frame. The icy sensation brought a momentary, fleeting clarity to his chaotic thoughts. The morning fog was dispersing. The shapes in the courtyard gradually emerged from the gray-white haze, gaining definition. The driver's side door of the black sedan opened. A man in a black leather jacket got out. He fished a cigarette case from his pocket, tapped one out, and lit The crisp snap of the lighter opening and closing was faint, almost non-existent, muffled by the glass and distance. The man took a drag, slowly exhaling a plume of greyish smoke, then looked up, his gaze seemingly sweeping idly towards the direction of the guest room windows. Lu Chenzhou immediately drew back half a step, sinking deeper into the shadow of the curtains. Through the glass and the gradually brightening dawn light, he was sure the other man couldn’t see him clearly. Yet, he could feel that gaze. Appraising, surveilling, carrying a professional indifference, as if confirming a coordinate, a fixed point requiring ongoing observation. He moved away from the window, walking back to the center of the room. The radio in his hand still held the chill of the glass; the plastic casing was damp with a slick sheen of sweat from his palm. He sat on the edge of the bed, the mattress emitting a faint creak. He began to take it apart—his movements were practiced, nearly instinctive, his fingertips unerringly finding the clasps on the casing. Battery, circuit board, miniature signal amplifier… one by one, the cold components were separated and laid out on the off-white bedsheet, making the metal solder points and green circuit boards appear starkly incongruous. His fingers moved over these components, touching their hard edges, the slightly raised solder joints, and the wear marks left by prolonged use. The fire, he had indeed lit. But the blaze had spun completely out of control, and the first wave of the backdraft had swept precisely towards him. Shen Moqing’s counterattack wasn’t a simple denial; it was systematic, multi-dimensional annihilation. Media characterization, police filing a case, next there would likely be "industry experts" stepping forward to "debunk the rumors," "insiders" revealing his "unstable mental state," "former colleagues" lamenting how he had "gone astray"... Within twenty-four hours, "Lu Chenzhou fabricates evidence" would transform from an allegation awaiting verification into a "fact" solidified through repeated assertion. Once a label is affixed by authority, what’s needed to tear it off is no longer just the truth. By then, the evidence in his hands—even if every single frame was genuine—would, due to its "questionable" source and the provider’s "tainted motives," completely lose its weight on the judicial scales. In judicial procedure, the legality, relevance, and authenticity of evidence are all indispensable. Now, before "authenticity" could even be examined, "legality" and "relevance" had already been splattered with mud. And the ones splattering the mud were precisely those most qualified to define what is "legal" and what is "relevant." He needed living water. A fulcrum. A living person who could prove the evidence source was real, prove those audio and document fragments weren’t fabricated out of thin air by him. A living person Shen Moqing couldn’t easily control, couldn’t completely silence with money or power. That deaf-mute cleaning lady, Wu Ma, who appeared punctually at four in the morning to collect the coded paper ball from his wastebasket. She might have seen something. Before Shen Yan’s death, the anomalies within the Shen residence, those subtle, unnoticed movements, those trivialities whispered among the servants but never mentioned to the masters… She might know. She was a similarly silent, overlooked cog within the Shen residence’s precise, silent machine. But sometimes, it’s the cog that gets jammed in the most critical position. Lu Chenzhou began reassembling the disassembled parts. His movements remained steady, but the speed was slightly slower than during disassembly; each press, each snap carried a heavier sense of finality. As each component was pressed back into place, it emitted a soft, decisive click. In his mind, he rapidly sorted through the timeline: Wu Ma started cleaning the west wing every day at 4 a.m. Yesterday afternoon, he discovered the wastebasket had been emptied, the paper ball gone. Early this morning, Gu Zhixing led a surprise inspection, the target clear, aimed directly at communication devices… Was she still at the Shen residence? Or had she already been “protected”? Shen Moqing’s words on the broadcast about “ensuring witness safety and preventing exploitation” now sounded far from mere formalities. The radio assembly was complete, its casing tightly sealed. He tucked it back into the hidden compartment beneath the bottom of the chest of drawers, smoothing the velvet padding with his fingertips to cover all traces before pushing the drawer shut. The rusted rails still emitted a grating screech, jarringly loud in the morning silence. He walked to the bathroom and turned on the tap. Cold water gushed out, slamming into the ceramic basin and splashing up a spray of fine, icy droplets. Leaning over, he cupped his hands, scooped up a handful of water, and dashed it fiercely against his face. A piercing chill instantly penetrated his skin, forcing an involuntary, violent shiver that momentarily stole his breath. He lifted his head, water droplets tracing the tense line of his jaw before falling onto the edge of the basin. In the mirror, his face was as pale as paper, with heavy shadows beneath his eyes, but those eyes were alert—so alert they were nearly cold, reflecting the stark white light of the overhead lamp. The first round: he had seemingly thrown a bomb, only to blast himself squarely into the enemy’s crosshairs. What came next was a more brutal, more fundamental battle for survival. He had to find Wu Ma, before Shen Moqing and the police truly moved to control her. He had to make her talk, or at least confirm her safety, turning her into a nail the other side couldn’t easily pull out. Before the label of “forger” was irrevocably welded onto him by public opinion and procedure, he had to find that living key capable of prying it off. And that key was likely being held by the very people who wanted him silenced forever. He dried his face and hands with a towel, the rough fibers scraping against his skin, providing a sharp, grounding sensation. He walked back to the window. The black sedan was slowly backing up, its tires crunching softly over the damp ground, preparing to leave. Its taillights carved two blurred red trails through the lingering morning mist, like some slowly spreading, ominous portent. The gray-white daylight now flooded the room completely, illuminating every suspended, slowly dancing dust particle in the air, and illuminating the path beneath his feet—a path that had just become visible yet seemed instantly narrow, its walls silently closing in on either side. He needed a new pretext, one that would allow him to move reasonably within the Shen residence, to approach the servants’ quarters and the logistical archives. A pretext that Gu Zhixing couldn’t easily dismiss. It was possible. The case file materials for Shen Yan’s case—those details requiring verification, especially the logistical records, staff schedules, internal communication logs from back then… There would always be aspects that needed “consulting the original documents to perfect the report.” A consultant’s duty was to strive for accuracy. But some information didn’t necessarily have to be asked for. Some contact didn’t necessarily require words. A glance, a gesture, a deliberately left note—for a deaf-mute person, these might contain more substance than an ambiguous verbal reply. Lu Chenzhou turned and walked toward the wardrobe. He took out a neatly pressed, light gray shirt from inside, the fabric cool and smooth. The corridor was permeated with Shen Yan's distinctive scent—expensive sandalwood, aged incense, and a faint, elusive hint of disinfectant, blending into a cold, sterile cleanliness. Qin Wangshu, representing the police, had officially filed a case, listing him as a dangerous person. The lighting was warm yellow, falling upon the dark carpet, soft enough to swallow all footsteps. Lu Chenzhou's feet sank into it as if stepping into some docile trap. His steps were steady, his direction clear—heading west, toward the old-style archive room that stored decades of Shen family records. His heart beat slowly and heavily in his chest, each thump seeming to measure distance. Three steps... Before everyone could turn her into another "accident," he had to grasp that fragile thread that might just turn everything around. At the end of the corridor, Gu Zhixing's figure appeared around the corner. He wore a well-tailored dark gray suit, his gaze behind gold-rimmed glasses calm and unrippled, as if he had long anticipated Lu Chenzhou would appear at this time, in this direction. "Mr. Lu," Gu Zhixing began, his tone as steady and polite as ever, like polished jade, "So early?" "Couldn't sleep," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice betraying no fluctuation. His throat felt somewhat dry; he could feel a slight friction when he swallowed. "Remembered a few details in the case file that needed verification. Going to the archives to check." "Duty calls," Gu Zhixing said, slightly turning to gesture the way, a stretch of snow-white shirt cuff visible at his sleeve, impeccably pressed without a single wrinkle. "Please." The two walked side by side down the western corridor. Their footsteps were swallowed by the carpet, leaving only the faint rustle of fabric rubbing—wool suit brushing against cotton trousers, producing an almost inaudible whisper. Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass window at the corridor's end, casting mottled light and shadow on the floor, red and blue interwoven like congealed blood and bruising. Lu Chenzhou's gaze was fixed ahead, but his pupils scanned with minimal movement the closed doors on either side, the antique paintings on the walls, the bronze vase placed at the corner. His mind raced like a precision machine pushed to overload, filtering every inch of visual information, calculating every possible risk, searching for that nearly nonexistent gap hidden beneath layers of surveillance and hostility. And his heart beat heavily in his chest, thump, thump. He could feel the faint roar of blood rushing to his eardrums. The waxed floor of the corridor reflected the cold white light of the ceiling lamps, like a frozen river. Lu Chenzhou walked ahead, Gu Zhixing half a step behind. Their footsteps created a staggered echo in the empty hallway—one steady, one light. The western archive room was in the deepest part of the Shen residence, requiring passage through three corridors and two turns. The windows along the way were all covered by heavy dark green velvet curtains, with only a few wall sconces casting dim yellow light, stretching, distorting, and casting their shadows onto the walls. "Mr. Lu seems quite familiar with the layout of the archive room?" Gu Zhixing suddenly spoke, his voice particularly clear in the silence. "Not familiar," Lu Chenzhou replied without breaking stride, his soles pressing slight indentations into the carpet. "Saw the location marked on the floor plan yesterday afternoon while checking the renovation records for Shen Yan's study." He turned his head slightly, his gaze calmly settling on Gu Zhixing's face, catching the subtle changes in the other's pupils behind his lenses. "It was renovated once in 2009. The contractor was 'Jinding Decoration.' At that time, all electrical circuits and wiring were replaced, including the independent power supply system for the study's hidden compartment." He paused, letting each word land clearly. "Mr. Gu, on the night of Shen Yan's incident, was the surveillance footage from the study's hidden compartment backed up to the central server? Or was that system physically isolated from the start?" Gu Zhixing was silent for two seconds. In the corridor, only the rustle of fabric remained. Then he spoke, his voice still steady. "I'm not too clear on the technical details." He said, "But if there were backups, the police should have already retrieved them." "So there are none." Lu Chenzhou turned his head back, his gaze returning to the dim end of the corridor ahead. The muscles in the back of his neck tensed slightly. "Or there were, but they were deleted." Just then, footsteps came from around the corner ahead. Hurried. The tread of three people—two heavy, one light and quick. Lu Chenzhou's pupils contracted almost imperceptibly. He maintained his original pace, his fingers unconsciously rubbing an old thumbtack he had picked up from the guest room inside his pants pocket. The rough texture of the rust pricked his fingertip, bringing a sharp sense of clarity. Three people emerged from around the corner. Two unfamiliar security guards in dark gray uniforms, broad-shouldered, their steps uniform, flanking a thin, small woman on either side. Aunt Wu kept her head down, her hands clutching the faded blue hem of her work uniform in front of her. Her steps were tiny, almost being half-pushed forward. The cheap soap smell on her body, mixed with the expensive sandalwood incense permeating the corridor, vanished in an instant, yet it pierced through this meticulously maintained calm like a needle. Lu Chenzhou's gaze looked naturally ahead, as if he were merely watching the path. But his peripheral vision had already locked onto Aunt Wu's hand hanging at her side—that hand was half-covered by her sleeve, fingers curled, the knuckles turning bluish-white from the force. The distance shortened. Five meters. Three meters. Aunt Wu looked up. Just for a moment. Her eyes swept over Lu Chenzhou's face, then quickly lowered again. But in that glance, Lu Chenzhou saw fear. Not ordinary fear, but a suffocating sense of being choked, of even a scream being stifled, overflowing from her trembling eyelids and constricted pupils. At the same time, Aunt Wu's hanging hand moved. Her index finger bent, the tip quickly tapping the outside of her thigh once—in the simple sign language circulated among the Shen household servants, this gesture meant "danger." Immediately after, her middle and ring fingers pressed together, curled slightly towards her palm—"don't look for." The movement was as fast as an illusion. Then her hand hung back down again, clutching the hem of her clothes, her knuckles even whiter. The two security guards seemed unaware. Their eyes swept alertly over Lu Chenzhou and Gu Zhixing, their steps not pausing, their shoulders almost brushing past Lu Chenzhou's arm. The friction of fabric made a brief "swish" sound. Lu Chenzhou did not look back. His heartbeat pulsed heavily and slowly in his chest, each beat like a count—one second, two seconds. A slight twitch started at the corner of his left eye. He closed his eyes for half a second. When he opened them again, they had already regained their calm. But the muscles in his arm inside his sleeve tightened, blood rushed to his fingertips, bringing a faint, tingling numbness. "That just now was..." Gu Zhixing's voice came from behind, steady, but with a touch of appropriately placed inquiry. "Aunt Wu," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice so steady it felt strange even to himself. "The deaf-mute cleaner. She empties the wastebasket in my room every day." "Oh." Gu Zhixing paused briefly, his footsteps catching up again. "She seems to have been transferred elsewhere. Old Master Shen said that with so many people and eyes in the mansion lately, some of the old staff need to... lie low for a while." Lu Chenzhou did not respond. His gaze fell on the heavy solid wood door at the far end of the corridor ahead. The paint was mottled, revealing the dark wood grain beneath. The doorknob was brass, already oxidized and blackened, like a patch of dried bloodstain. Gu Zhixing took a string of keys from his pocket. The metal clinked with a crisp "ding-dang" sound. He selected one and inserted it into the lock. When he turned it, the lock cylinder made a dry "click," like the friction of some old, aged bone. The door opened. A smell of aged paper and dust mixed together rushed out, irritating the throat and making it itch. Lu Chenzhou held his breath, stepped inside. His shoe sole landed on the dusty wooden floor, emitting a light "creak." The room was large, but dark. Tall rows of filing shelves stood almost touching the ceiling, like silent tombstones. The shelves were piled high with dossiers, ledgers, and folders, some wrapped in kraft paper bags, others exposing yellowed pages with curled, frayed edges. The only light source was an old fluorescent lamp on the ceiling. The ends of the tube had blackened, casting a dim, murky light accompanied by a faint, constant buzzing, like the wing-beats of some dying insect. "What do you need to find? I can help you." Gu Zhixing stood at the doorway, not fully entering. His figure was silhouetted against the light from the corridor outside. "Logistics records from 2005 to 2010." Lu Chenzhou walked toward the nearest row of shelves, his fingers brushing past the spines of the dossiers. The dust was thick, feeling slick to the touch, like the skin of something long dead. It clung to his fingertips, leaving grayish-white traces. "Especially personnel schedules, procurement records, internal directories, things like that." "Possibly relevant." Lu Chenzhou pulled out a volume titled "Logistics Supplies Register (2005-2008)" and opened it. The paper was brittle, almost crumbling. A strong smell of mildew mixed with dust rushed into his nostrils, stinging his eyes. Suppressing the urge to cough, his eyes quickly scanned the page. "Three months before Shen Yan's death, the Shen residence changed its security system supplier. The access card permission distribution records for the new system should be in these logistics files." He wasn't really reading the content—those scribbled handwritten numbers and codes were already memorized. He was looking for something else. The edges of the paper, the seams, torn remnants, any corner where traces might remain. Gu Zhixing walked in. His footsteps were exceptionally clear in the silent archive room, each step producing a creaking echo. He walked to another row of shelves, casually pulled out a ledger, and flipped through it. But Lu Chenzhou could feel that at least seventy percent of the man's gaze was fixed on his back, like two cold needles. Lu Chenzhou put the register back and pulled out another volume: "Internal Directory (2009 Revision)." This one was thicker, the binding thread already loose. As he opened it, several pages nearly fell out. He pressed them down with his hand, his fingertips feeling the dry, fragile texture of the paper. Then his gaze fell on one of the pages. It was a handwritten supplementary sheet, clipped behind the printed page with a paperclip. The handwriting was messy, as if hastily noted— ``` Wu Xiuying (Auntie Wu) - West Wing Servants' Room 307 - Internal Extension 5407 (Crossed out, side note: Transferred, line deactivated) ``` Lu Chenzhou memorized this number. His fingers unconsciously rubbed the edge of the page, his nail lightly scratching over the two characters "transferred," leaving an almost invisible white mark. Then he turned to the next page, his movements as natural as if he were merely browsing, even the rustling sound of turning the page perfectly controlled. "Not yet." Lu Chenzhou closed the ledger, returned it to the shelf, and rubbed his palm against his trousers to wipe off the dust. "The records from the system changeover period don't seem to be here. They might have been archived separately." "No need." Lu Chenzhou walked toward the next row of shelves. The soles of his shoes kicked up a small cloud of dust that danced in the dim yellow light beam. "I'll look a bit more myself." He moved slowly among the shelves, his fingers brushing past volume after volume. Dust swirled in the gloomy light, like tiny ghosts. His heart beat heavily in his chest, each thump clearly audible—not from nervousness, but from calculation. He was calculating time, calculating distance, calculating the frequency of Gu Zhixing's gaze shifting away. His ears captured every tiny sound from behind: the rustle of pages, footsteps, even the rhythm of breathing. On the bottom level of the third row of shelves, there was a stack of old documents tied with hemp rope, looking like discarded drafts, covered in a thick layer of dust. Lu Chenzhou crouched down, his knees emitting a slight crack. He untied the knot; the rough hemp rope scraped against his fingertips, leaving a burning sensation. Inside were several yellowed draft duty rosters, dated 2011. The handwriting was crooked, some parts smudged with ink, others marked with red crosses. He flipped through them quickly; the fragile rustling of the paper was especially piercing in the silence. In the corner of the third sheet, he saw Auntie Wu's name again. But this time, below the number, there was an extra line of small characters, written in pencil, almost worn away, requiring him to tilt the Greenhouse Switchboard, extension 312. That was the routing rule for the Shen residence's old-style internal phone system—dial the greenhouse switchboard number first, then ask the operator to connect to extension 312. This kind of system had been obsolete for at least five years, but the lines might still exist. Lu Chenzhou held his breath for half a second. His gaze swept quickly toward his back—Gu Zhixing was just three meters away, facing away from him, flipping through another ledger, his shoulders slightly hunched. He had only a few seconds. Lu Chenzhou's fingers pinched the edge of the draft duty roster. The paper was brittle; the slightest force would make a sound. Holding his breath, he used a fingernail to crease a shallow fold at the corner of the paper, then, following the fold, tore off a tiny piece containing that line of characters with excruciating slowness. *Sss—* The sound was faint, but in the silent archives room, it still rang out like a shriek. Gu Zhixing turned around. "The paper's too brittle. It tore a bit," Lu Chenzhou said, raising the entire duty roster in his hand and pointing to the irregular gap in the corner. His expression was calm, even carrying a trace of apology. "My apologies. I'll put it back." Gu Zhixing's gaze lingered on his face for two seconds, then fell on the gap. The lenses of his glasses reflected the dim yellow light, obscuring his eyes. "It's fine," he said, his voice steady. "It's just a draft anyway." Lu Chenzhou slipped the small torn piece of paper into his sleeve. The paper's edge scraped against his skin, a little itchy, a little stinging, like a thin blade. He retied the bundle of files. The hemp rope bit into his palm. As he stood up, his knee made another soft *crack*. Just then, Gu Zhixing's phone rang. The ringtone was the default piano piece. In the empty archives room, it seemed especially piercing, each note hammering against the eardrum. Gu Zhixing pulled out his phone. The black casing reflected a cold light. He glanced at the screen, his brows furrowing almost imperceptibly, two fine lines appearing between them. "I need to take this," he said, turning and walking toward the door. He didn't go out, but stopped in the doorway, half his body still inside the archives room. Lu Chenzhou pretended to take an interest in an atlas on a nearby shelf, pulled it out, and opened it. It was an old city map. The paper had yellowed, the edges already frayed, feeling like dry bark to the touch. He stared at the crisscrossing streets on it, but his ears were straining to catch every sound from the doorway—every breath, every pause. Gu Zhixing's voice was very low, but the archives room was too quiet; fragments still reached him. "...Old Zhou's side... handled cleanly..." "...accident... drunk, lost footing... case closed..." Every word was like an ice pick, one after another piercing his eardrum. *Old Zhou. Handled cleanly. Accident. Case closed.* A face flashed rapidly through Lu Chenzhou's mind—Forensic Doctor Zhou, the medical examiner in his case back then who provided the supporting opinion of "mental instability." Took the money, signed the paper, then disappeared for ten years. That face now floated in the dim yellow light, the corners of his mouth still carrying that perfunctory, professional smile. The map paper made a soft *creeeak* under his fingertips. Lu Chenzhou realized he was gripping it too hard. His knuckles had gone white, his fingernails digging into the paper surface. He relaxed his grip slightly, but his back molars clenched tight. A dull ache spread from the roots of his teeth all the way to his temples, as if a wire was tightening inside his skull. The call ended. After a brief silence, footsteps sounded again. "Mr. Lu," Gu Zhixing's voice returned to that courteous, even tone, as if nothing had happened. "There's some news I think you should know."