Gu Zhixing’s voice came from the entrance of the records room, steady, icy. Lu Chenzhou’s fingers were still pressed on the atlas, his fingertips pressing down on the dense cluster of streets in the city’s west district. He raised his head, his gaze shifting away from the four small characters for “Yuelai Inn.” The dull ache in his back molars hadn’t dissipated, like a wire slowly tightening inside his skull. He released his hand, leaving a few shallow creases on the paper’s edge. “There’s news I have to tell you.” Gu Zhixing walked in, his eyes behind the gold-rimmed glasses showing no ripple. He adjusted the frames, his movements precise, like calibrating an instrument. “Forensic Examiner Zhou—the one from your case back then, who provided supplementary expert opinions. He had an accident last night.” Lu Chenzhou’s breathing sank. His heartbeat slowed, dropping to that heavy rhythm before combat. “Drunken misstep, fell down his own staircase.” Gu Zhixing paused. “He’s gone. The police closed it as an accident.” Each word was like an ice pick, driven one after another into the air. The corner of Lu Chenzhou’s left eye began to twitch slightly; he controlled it, merely closing the atlas. The plastic cover made a soft *snap*. “Is that so,” he said, his speech cadence even. “What a pity.” “Yes.” Gu Zhixing looked at him, a faint, professional curve lifting the corner of his mouth. “Investigation is investigation, but past matters… it’s best to let them go. Accidents—who can say for sure?” The threat was wrapped in the notification, sugar coating poison. Lu Chenzhou didn’t respond. He picked up the atlas and walked toward the door. As he passed by, the faint scent of cologne on Gu Zhixing’s person—cedar mixed with some cold, chemical fragrance—drifted into his nostrils. Lu Chenzhou’s steps didn’t falter; he went straight to the end of the corridor. Returning to the guest room, the guards outside had increased from two to three. One of them was a new face, burly, with knuckles that protruded slightly when his hands hung at his sides—the mark of long-term boxing practice. Lu Chenzhou swept a glance over him and pushed the door open. The door closed behind him, the sound of the lock engaging crisp, resolute. He walked to the washbasin and turned on the tap. Cold water gushed out, flowing over his fingertips. The warmth and greasy feel of the plastic casing still lingered on his palm—left from holding the atlas moments before. He stared at his own face in the mirror; the whites of his eyes held a few threads of red, like tangled streets and alleys. He bent down, reaching his hand beneath the washbasin. His fingertip touched a hard object the size of a matchbox, secured with waterproof tape. He tore off the tape, and a cheap black disposable phone appeared in his palm. The plastic casing was already warmed by body heat, its edges slick. The screen was dark. Shen Qinghuan had slipped it in. This morning, she had entered under the pretext of “delivering fresh towels.” The towels were neatly folded, this item pressed underneath. The screen lit up. The battery icon showed only one bar left, red, like the pulse of a dying man. The signal bar flickered between zero and one bar, weak, like a candle flame in the wind. He turned off the tap. In the bathroom, only the low hum of the exhaust fan remained, like the panting of some trapped beast. He walked into the shower cubicle and pulled the frosted glass door shut. The space instantly became cramped. Steam mixed with the smell of cheap soap clung to his skin. He squatted down, his back against the cold tiled wall, and pressed the call button. Only one number was stored in the phone, no contact name. *Du— Du—* Each tone was like a hammer striking his temples. Lu Chenzhou’s breathing was held very low, his ears straining to catch any sounds from outside the door—the footsteps of the guards in the corridor, an occasional cough, the fuzzy crackle of static from a walkie-talkie. His fingernails unconsciously dug into the seams of the phone’s plastic casing. “Hello?” An aged, hoarse voice came through the receiver, carrying a distinct tremor. Lu Chenzhou pressed his lips close to the mouthpiece, speaking at the lowest volume, fast and clipped: “Old Zhou, it’s Jingyuan.” “Jingyuan… it’s really you?” Zhou Zhengping’s voice dropped even lower, almost becoming a whisper. “They… they The other end of the line fell silent for a few seconds, followed by faint rustling sounds, as if Zhou Zhengping was moving toward the window. "...Five. No, six. Scattered around my feet." Half an hour, six cigarettes. Anxiety, or waiting. Lu Chenzhou’s fingernail scratched against the gap between the tiles, producing a faint *scrape* sound. "Listen." His words came faster now, but each syllable was enunciated clearly. "The plan remains the same, but the route is adjusted. Leave your room now, take the stairs, don’t use the elevator. Go out the back door, turn left for twenty meters. Behind the green trash bin, there’s a black plastic bag. Inside, there’s a wig, a dark blue work jacket, and a canvas bag. Change into them, then go to the intersection of Hongqi Street and Jianshe Road, to that abandoned newspaper kiosk." "Newspaper kiosk..." Zhou Zhengping repeated, the tremor in his voice calming slightly, as if clutching a floating log. "And then?" "Someone will meet you there," Lu Chenzhou said. "Repeat the final location." "Hongqi Street and Jianshe Road... intersection, abandoned newspaper kiosk." "Good." Lu Chenzhou glanced at his phone screen; the battery icon began to flash, the red growing dimmer. "Don’t panic. Follow the new route, walk at a normal pace, don’t look back. Our person will be waiting for you there." "Jingyuan..." Zhou Zhengping’s voice suddenly choked. "I... what if I..." "You can do this." Lu Chenzhou cut him off, his tone devoid of any comfort, only carrying a fact-stating certainty. "Ten years ago, you signed that report because someone threatened your son’s future. I know. Now your son is in Australia, finished his master's degree, got married last year. You have nothing left to lose—except the truth." A suppressed sound, like a sob or a sigh of relief, came from the other end of the phone. "I... I understand." Zhou Zhengping’s voice suddenly steadied, carrying a desperate, do-or-die resolve. "The newspaper kiosk. I’ll get there." He stared at the phone screen. The battery icon went completely black. In the second before the screen darkened, he quickly pulled out the SIM card, snapped it in half with his fingernail, and threw it into the toilet. The flush sounded, the fragments swirling away down the drain. The plastic casing still retained body heat. He stood up, his knees emitting a soft *crack* from squatting too long. Outside the frosted glass door, the guard’s shadow shifted, then stopped. Lu Chenzhou stuffed the phone into his pajama pocket, where it formed a subtle hard lump beneath the fabric. In the bathroom mirror above the sink, his face looked unusually pale under the dim light. The twitch at the corner of his left eye had stopped, but the veins at his temples still pulsed. He turned on the faucet and washed his face again. The cold water stung, tightening his skin. *Tap, tap, tap.* Three knocks, neither light nor heavy, carrying a familiar rhythm. Lu Chenzhou turned off the water, dried his hands with a towel, and walked toward the door. Opening it, Shen Qinghuan stood outside, holding a silver tray. On the tray sat a pot of black tea, two plates of scones, and a small jar of clotted cream. She wore a light beige knitted sweater, her long hair loosely tied at the back. She looked like a well-behaved young lady from a wealthy family, simply delivering afternoon tea. The edge of the tray trembled slightly, producing an almost inaudible *ting*. Her eyes met Lu Chenzhou’s, then quickly shifted away, focusing on the porcelain cup on the tray. "Mr. Lu," she began, her voice light but carrying a trace of unnatural tension. "The kitchen just baked some fresh scones. Father asked me to bring some over, saying... saying you’ve been working hard on the case lately." Her fingers unconsciously twisted the edge of her apron, her knuckles turning white. Shen Qinghuan stepped into the room, her footsteps light. She placed the tray on the small round table by the window, deliberately slowing her movements, as if adjusting her breathing. The daylight outside filtered through the sheer curtains, casting mottled shadows on her face. She turned to face Lu Chenzhou, her lips moving but no sound coming out. Then, with her fingertip, she lightly tapped the edge of the tray three times. Lu Chenzhou walked to the table without any change in expression and sat down. He picked up a scone and broke it open. The coarse texture carried the aroma of "Two p.m., garage. Heard Gu on the phone. Mentioned 'Yuelai,' 'cleaner,' 'traffic accident.' The other voice was unfamiliar, with a northern accent. Gu said 'make sure it looks like an accident.'" The raised texture of the ballpoint pen's path across the paper pressed against his fingertip. Lu Chenzhou rolled the slip of paper back up, stuffed it into the crumbs of the scone, and then nudged it a few times with a fork, burying it completely. He lifted his head, looked at Shen Qinghuan, and gave a slight nod. Shen Qinghuan's shoulder line relaxed by a millimeter. She took a deep breath, her fingers releasing from the edge of her apron and hanging at her sides. But the tips of her fingers were still trembling slightly, like leaves in the wind. "The tea is getting cold," Lu Chenzhou said, picking up the teapot and pouring himself a cup. The black tea was a deep color, rippling in circles within the porcelain cup. He took a sip, the warm liquid sliding down his throat, somewhat suppressing the chill rising from his stomach. "There's something," he began, his voice dropping so low only the two of them could hear, "I need your help with." Shen Qinghuan's eyes widened a little. She didn't speak, just nodded gently. Lu Chenzhou took the disposable phone from his pajama pocket—just the body, no SIM card. He gripped both ends and snapped it hard. The plastic casing emitted a crisp *crack*, splitting in two. Inside was a simple circuit board, a battery, and a small vibration motor. He detached the vibration motor, then pulled a thin copper wire from the circuit board, wrapping it around the motor's electrodes. His movements were quick, his fingers steady, not like he was assembling a makeshift device, but like he was disarming a bomb. Ten seconds. A crude, match-head-sized metal lump appeared in Lu Chenzhou's palm. He pinched it and held it out toward Shen Qinghuan. Outside the door came the faintest sound of footsteps. Not the regular, heavy tread of a guard—lighter, more hesitant, stopping at the door. Lu Chenzhou turned off the water, dried his hands with a towel, and walked out of the bathroom. He had just sat down at the desk when the knock came. Three times, evenly spaced, moderate force. "Mr. Lu." It was Gu Zhixing's voice, still polite through the door panel, "Are you available?" "Come in." The door opened. Gu Zhixing stood in the doorway, not entering immediately. He had changed to a pair of gold-rimmed glasses today. The gaze behind the lenses swept the room before finally settling on Lu Chenzhou's face, carrying that professional, appraising gentleness. "Not disturbing your rest, I hope?" Gu Zhixing walked in, casually closing the door behind him but not shutting it fully, leaving a crack. The action was subtle—maintaining basic privacy etiquette while ensuring the guards outside could vaguely hear the commotion inside. "No." Lu Chenzhou leaned back in his chair, his fingers resting unconsciously on the edge of the desk. "Something on your mind, Lawyer Gu?" "Two things." Gu Zhixing walked to the window, his back to Lu Chenzhou, looking out at the gray sky. "First, regarding Forensic Zhou... that is, Old Zhou. His matter has been closed by the police as an accident. Mr. Shen asked me to convey that this matter ends here. No need to be distracted by it any longer." Lu Chenzhou didn't speak. His gaze fell on Gu Zhixing's left wrist—there was a watch, its dial a deep blue, reflecting the cold light from the window. A very ordinary business style, but the strap seemed a bit tight, leaving a shallow indentation on the wrist bone. Gu Zhixing turned around, a perfectly appropriate, slightly apologetic smile appearing on his face. "The second matter might require you to move slightly. Mr. Shen feels that you staying in the guest room all this time is ultimately not very convenient. There's an independent small study in the rear garden. Quiet, and more spacious. We'll move you there this afternoon. What do you think..." "When?" "Now." Gu Zhixing nodded. "If you don't have much, I'll have someone come help you pack." This was to completely isolate him from the main residence area. An independent study in the rear garden sounded elegant, but in reality, it meant stricter surveillance and fewer opportunities for external contact. Aunt Wu was in the kitchen, Shen Qinghuan was active in the main residence. Once he moved to the rear garden, the fragile, gossamer-like connection established by that disposable phone could snap instantly. Lu Chenzhou's fingertip tapped lightly on the edge of the desk. "Alright," he said. "I "Alright," he finally said. "Then I'll have the kitchen send someone over. Take your time packing, there's no rush." He turned and left, the door closing softly behind him. The sound of his footsteps faded into the distance. Lu Chenzhou stopped moving. He stood before the wardrobe, a folded shirt in his hand, his ears straining to catch every sound outside the door—Gu Zhixing's footsteps disappeared at the end of the corridor, followed by the faintest, almost imperceptible sound of another set of footsteps approaching and stopping outside the door. The door was gently pushed open a crack. A hand reached in, fingers pinching a folded piece of paper, quickly placed it on the carpet inside the door, then withdrew. The door closed again. Lu Chenzhou walked over and picked up the note. Unfolding it, he saw Shen Qinghuan's scrawled handwriting; the ballpoint pen tip had dug into the paper, leaving deep grooves: 「Garage, black car, assemble at three. Yuelai, cleaner, traffic accident. They're going to strike on the road. I heard it. Trust me once.」 No signature. The handwriting trembled violently, the last few strokes almost flying off the page. Lu Chenzhou brought the note close to his nose. Aside from the faint acidic smell of the paper itself, there was an extremely faint trace of a scent—a mix of perfume and cold sweat. The smell of Shen Qinghuan. He tore the note into shreds, flushed them down the toilet, and pressed the flush button. The swirling water swallowed the scraps. He stared at the vortex, his mind rapidly piecing together the information: Yuelai Inn, cleaner, traffic accident. The keywords from Gu Zhixing's call matched the fragments Shen Qinghuan had overheard. The timing also aligned—assemble at three in the afternoon, strike on the road. A warning, or a trap? If this was a test designed by Shen Moqing, then Shen Qinghuan's fear, her trembling handwriting, her risky act of passing a note… it all felt too real. Real enough that it didn't seem like acting. But if it was real… Gu Zhixing was already prepared to strike against Zhou Zhengping on the road. Time was running out. He walked back to the desk, pulled open the drawer, and took out the remains of that disposable phone. Battery, motherboard, plastic casing. He detached a capacitor the size of a grain of rice from the motherboard, then pulled a ballpoint pen from the pen holder, unscrewed it, and took out the spring behind the pen tip. The spring was thin, made of copper, gleaming with a dull gold hue under the light. His fingers began to move. Disassembling, bending, connecting. His movements were fast and steady, as if he'd done this countless times. The twitching at the corner of his left eye started again, but he ignored it. All his attention was focused on that tiny space between his fingertips. The capacitor served as a miniature power source, the spring as a simple antenna, copper wire as a trigger circuit. A crude, disposable signal jammer. Its effective range wouldn't exceed five meters, its duration at most thirty seconds. But placed near a car engine, it would be enough to briefly disrupt the electronic ignition system, causing a few seconds of startup delay. A few seconds, at a life-or-death moment, could mean the difference between life and death. In his palm lay a crude little device, wound together from a capacitor, a spring, and a small piece of copper wire stripped from a data cable. The size of a match head, inconspicuous. Footsteps sounded outside the door again. This time, two sets, one light, one heavy. "Mr. Lu?" A young woman's voice, tinged with timid respect. "Attorney Gu sent me to help you move your things." Lu Chenzhou closed his hand, gripping the small device in his palm. The metal edges dug into his skin, a bit painful. He walked over and opened the door. Outside stood a young girl in a gray servant's uniform, head bowed, holding two large empty woven bags. Not far behind her, in the shadows of the corridor corner, leaned a guard in a black suit against the wall, looking down at his phone, but his ears were clearly turned toward them. The girl walked in with her head down and began silently tidying the scattered papers and books on the desk. Her movements were slow, a bit clumsy, occasionally stealing glances at Lu Chenzhou. Lu Chenzhou walked to the window, his back to her, looking outside. In the direction of the back garden, he could see a small building with gray tiles and white walls, hidden behind a few tall parasol trees. It was very quiet, unnervingly quiet. "Mr. Lu…" The girl suddenly spoke in a whisper, her voice so low it was almost "……She didn't say anything." The girl's voice dropped even lower, trembling with a sob. "Mr. Lu, I... I'm just a kitchen helper, I don't know anything... It's just that Miss Qinghuan has been so kind to me, that's why I... Please, don't tell anyone..." "What's your name?" "Xiao... Xiao Mei." "Xiao Mei." Lu Chenzhou walked over to her, took the few books from her hands, and placed them into the duffel bag himself. "Go back and tell Miss Qinghuan that I understand. Thank her." Xiao Mei abruptly looked up, her eyes red. She glanced at him, then quickly lowered her head again. "...Okay." She sped up, swiftly packing the remaining odds and ends. Both duffel bags were full now, though there wasn't much—mostly books and documents. Lu Chenzhou picked up one himself, and Xiao Mei took the other. They walked out of the guest room one after the other. The guard in the corridor lifted his head, his gaze sweeping over them before falling back to his phone screen. To reach the rear garden, they had to pass through a long corridor flanked by bamboo on both sides. The corridor was dark, with only a sliver of daylight filtering in from the far end. Their footsteps echoed on the stone-paved floor, hollow and lonely. Halfway through the corridor, Lu Chenzhou suddenly stopped. "Xiao Mei." "Ah?" The girl was startled and stopped as well. Lu Chenzhou turned around to face her. The light in the corridor was dim, half of his face hidden in shadow, his expression unreadable. He extended his hand, palm open. "This," he said, his voice low but each word distinct. "Find an opportunity to give this to Miss Qinghuan. Tell her, near that black sedan, around the hood, there's a spot... that will be warmer than the surrounding area. Stick this onto it, press it firmly. Then leave immediately, as far away as possible." Xiao Mei stared at the small device, her eyes wide, not daring to take it. "What is this?" "Something that can help her." Lu Chenzhou pushed the device forward a little. "Tell her, once it's stuck on, don't concern herself with anything else, just go straight back to her own room. Leave the rest to me." Xiao Mei's hands trembled even more violently. She looked at Lu Chenzhou, then at the device, her lips quivering a few times. Finally, as if having made some kind of decision, she suddenly reached out, snatched the device, and clenched it in her fist. "I... I understand," she whispered, pulling her fist back into her sleeve. Lu Chenzhou nodded, said nothing more, turned, and continued walking. Xiao Mei followed behind him, her fist clenched so tightly in her sleeve her nails nearly dug into her flesh. The small, cold lump of metal felt like a burning coal, searing her skin and her nerves. Exiting the corridor, the small building in the rear garden was right in front of them. The door was open, the interior dimly lit. Lu Chenzhou stopped at the doorway and glanced back toward the direction of the main house. On the third floor, the curtain at a window on the east side shifted slightly, then quickly stilled again. He withdrew his gaze, picked up the duffel bag, and walked into the "study" prepared for him. Xiao Mei stood outside the door, staring at the closed door for a long while. Then she turned and walked quickly back the way she came. Her steps grew faster and faster until she was almost jogging. Inside her sleeve, the small device grew warm from her grip, damp with the sweat from her palm. She passed through the corridor, through the bamboo grove, and didn't stop until she reached the kitchen passage at the back door of the main house. Leaning against the wall, she gasped for air. Her heart felt like it was about to explode. She opened her palm and looked at the small, ugly lump of metal. Then, gritting her teeth, she stuffed it into the breast pocket of her uniform, patted it, and confirmed it wouldn't fall out. After doing all this, she leaned against the cold wall and closed her eyes. Lu Chenzhou's final words echoed repeatedly in her mind— **Leave the rest to me.** But could it really be left to him? This man who was under house arrest, under surveillance, who could barely protect himself? Xiao Mei didn't know. All she knew was that Miss Qinghuan trusted him. And Miss Qinghuan was the only person in this cold mansion who had ever shown her warmth. She took a deep breath, opened her eyes, straightened her uniform, and pushed open the kitchen door. Inside, steam filled the air, and voices clamored. The