The iron gate bulged violently inward under another heavy impact. A crisp sound of metal breaking came from the lock, like a bone being snapped. A beam of light squeezed through the door crack, slicing through the acid mist and dust filling the archive. Lu Chenzhou didn't move. He stood there, clutching tightly in his arms the file bag labeled "96-07-BX-Original Negative" and the half of a bloodstained group photo. The blood from the wound on his cheek had half-congealed, the sticky sensation on his fingertips lingering. Footsteps. More than one. Heavy, disciplined, with a steady cadence. Not the police. Police would shout before breaking down a door. Nor were they Shen Moqing's people—if they were here to "clean house," their movements would be more covert, more lethal. These footsteps carried a kind of official, unquestionable pressure, like machinery in motion. Lei Hu's men? Or... Gu Zhixing? A faint twitch started at the corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye. He took a deep breath, the acrid air burning his throat. The things in his arms felt hot. Shen Jun was slumped in the corner like an emptied sack of burlap, his eyes half-open, pupils dilated, his mouth still moving unconsciously, repeating that unfinished name: "...He thought he could... protect..." A low command came from outside, mostly obscured by the sound of twisting metal, but a few words leaked through. "...Confirm target..." "...Priority recovery..." "...Eliminate if necessary." Lu Chenzhou's muscles tensed like a fully drawn bowstring. He scanned the surroundings. Filing racks were toppled, paper scattered like snow. The acid pool still emitted thin white smoke, the pungent odor mixing with the musty smell of old paper, pressing heavily on his lungs. The only exit was that iron door about to be breached. Or perhaps, not the only one. His gaze fell on the area behind where Shen Jun had been slumped. There was a row of low, wall-embedded metal cabinets with rusted doors, but the handle on the far-right one was noticeably shinier than the others—recently touched frequently. Below the cabinet, the dust pattern showed subtle drag marks, as if something heavy had been pulled out and pushed back in. Another loud crash against the iron gate. The hinges were completely deformed, a twenty-centimeter gap wrenching open inward. A hand reached in, groping for the inside bolt. Lu Chenzhou moved. He slid like a shadow along the base of the wall toward the row of metal cabinets. His steps were extremely light, treading on scattered papers, making only faint rustling sounds. Passing Shen Jun, he glanced at him. The old man's lips were still moving, silently repeating a certain shape. Lu Chenzhou crouched down and quickly traced two characters with his bloodied finger on Shen Jun's palm—"Who?" Shen Jun's eyeballs turned toward him with extreme slowness, Lu Chenzhou's cold, hard face reflected in his murky pupils. Then, those cracked lips finally emitted two blurred, breathy syllables: "...Qing... Huan..." Shen Qinghuan? Lu Chenzhou's breath hitched for an instant. But there was no time. The impacts on the iron gate outside turned into rhythmic prying, the metal groaning more and more sharply. He stood up, grabbed the handle of the shiniest cabinet door, and pulled hard— The cabinet door wasn't locked. Inside weren't files. It was the entrance to a narrow, downward-leading concrete passage, pitch black, with cold air rushing up from the depths carrying the smell of earth and older mildew. A set of old-fashioned climbing rope ladders with grappling hooks hung from the edge of the passage, the knots severely worn but seemingly still capable of bearing weight. This was Shen Jun's escape route. A secret passage leading deeper underground or to another part of the building, one even Shen Moqing might not have known about. *Bang—Crash!* The iron gate was finally pried completely open, collapsing inward with a roar, stirring up a cloud of dust. Several beams from powerful flashlights instantly stabbed in, cutting through the chaotic space like scalpels. "Don't move!" "Hands up!" Lu Chenzhou didn't look back. He shoved the file bag and photo into his suit's inner pocket with one hand, grabbed the top of the rope ladder with the other, and leapt into the darkness. *** The descent was deeper than expected. The rope ladder swayed violently, the rough nylon rope scraping his palms. Shouts and footsteps came from above; someone had discovered the opening, strong light sweeping downward. Lu Chenzhou sped up, his feet pushing off the slippery concrete shaft wall, sliding down about three stories' worth of height before finally landing on solid ground. Underfoot was soft earth mixed with This was not a naturally formed cave. The walls were rough cement plaster, and overhead, old-fashioned cable conduits wrapped in cobwebs snaked forward. A narrow passage, barely wide enough for one person, extended into the darkness. On both sides of the passage, at intervals, there were heavy, rusted iron doors fitted with old padlocks—some corroded shut, others hanging loosely. It resembled some kind of abandoned underground storage room, or... a private prison. Lu Chenzhou didn't hesitate. He chose a direction and moved quickly. The sound of his footsteps created faint echoes in the enclosed space. He needed to find another exit as soon as possible, or at least a place where he could hide temporarily and sort through the clues. Shen Jun's final utterance, "Qinghuan," was like a thorn stuck in his mind. Shen Qinghuan had provided the key and clues to Shen Bojun's old residence. Shen Jun, on the verge of collapse, had called out her name. What did that mean? Was Shen Qinghuan in the know? Was she another "person he thought he could protect," or... was she herself a part of this vast shadow, perhaps even the bait that led him into this trap? The passage forked ahead. The left branch continued downward, the slope steeper, the bitter almond scent seeming a bit stronger. The right branch was relatively flat, the air circulation slightly better, with a faint, indistinct sound of flowing water from far away—possibly an underground drainage system. Lu Chenzhou chose the right path. He needed to get back to the surface quickly, needed space and time to deal with the evidence he was carrying. The circle of light from the pen flashlight swayed across the walls, illuminating some mottled graffiti and blurred numbers. This place seemed to have once been the underground facility of an old factory or institution, later secretly modified and occupied by the Shen family. After walking for about five minutes, a door different from the other iron doors appeared ahead—a thick wooden one. Above the lintel was a faint, dust-covered metal emblem. Lu Chenzhou moved closer, wiping away the dust with his hand. The outline of the emblem became visible: an abstract, folded-winged kite. A variant of the Shen family crest. But older, more austere. Was this the entrance to the underground secret chamber of Shen Bojun's old residence? No, judging by the direction and depth, this should still be somewhere within the city's underground pipe network, far from Shen Bojun's suburban old residence. So, what was behind this door? Another transfer point? Or one of Shen Bojun's true "secret chambers"? He tried pushing the door. It wasn't locked, emitting a dry creak as it swung inward. A more complex odor rushed out. Old wood, dust, aged paper, a faint scent of mothballs, and... that thread of bitter almond scent became distinctly discernible here, mixed with another faintly sweet aroma, like some kind of drug or chemical reagent that had been evaporating for a long time. The flashlight beam swept inside. The room was small, about twenty square meters. Against the walls stood several tall, glass-doored rosewood bookshelves, packed full with books whose spines had yellowed. In the center of the room was a large old-fashioned desk. On it sat a green-shaded desk lamp with a brass base, now covered in rust. Beside the lamp rested a heavy cast-iron safe. In the high-backed chair behind the desk sat a person. Or rather, a body. An elderly man wearing an old-style Zhongshan suit, his head tilted slightly to one side, resting against the chair back. His gray hair was combed meticulously. His hands were folded over his abdomen, his posture even serene. But his face had an unnatural bluish-gray pallor, his lips slightly purple, with a trace of dried, dark residue at the corner of his mouth. His eyes were closed, the eyelids slack. Shen Bojun. He was already dead. And had been for some time. The corpse showed no obvious signs of decay. The room temperature was very low; perhaps there was some kind of simple cooling device installed, or the deeply buried environment itself acted like a natural ice cellar. That bitter almond scent was emanating from him—cyanide, a classic sign of suicide by poison. Lu Chenzhou stood at the doorway, not entering immediately. His gaze swept over the room like a probe, inch by inch. The desk surface had a thin layer of dust, but the area near the old man's hand, around the keyhole of the safe, and near the few sheets of paper spread out on the desk showed signs of disturbance. By the corpse's feet lay a toppled small glass vial, its cap rolled to the side. The label on the vial had faded, but chemical formula symbols were still barely legible. A suicide scene. But too tidy. Tidy as a meticulously staged Spread out on the desktop were several yellowed letter papers, written in pen with neat and forceful handwriting. Lu Chenzhou picked up the top one. It was in Shen Bojun’s handwriting. “To whoever sees this letter, you must have entered this room. I, Shen Bojun, know my sins are deep, and my time is short. What is hidden in this room is the shame of my life, and also the sin of the Shen family…” Lu Chenzhou skimmed quickly. The first part of the letter was a confession about an old incident, a covered-up “accident,” a “necessary sacrifice” made for the sake of family interests. The letter mentioned a name—one that had long been erased from official records and was a taboo even within the family—Gu Zhiyuan. Gu Zhixing’s elder brother. The letter paper trembled slightly in Lu Chenzhou’s hand. Not from fear, but from a kind of cold confirmation. Speculation was verified; a vague outline finally had its first iron nail driven into it. Gu Zhiyuan, the man whose face had been erased and all records cleared from the 1996 group photo, died in a “training accident.” And Shen Bojun admitted that the accident was “carefully orchestrated,” with the purpose of ensuring that “absolute control” over a certain project did not fall into other hands, to silence a mouth that was “too upright, possibly capable of leaking secrets.” Shen Bojun wrote: “…Zhiyuan was exceptionally talented, pure and upright in character, and could have been a pillar. However, he glimpsed the core of the ‘Iris’ Project and refused to cooperate. At that time, I and several others discussed it together, and all believed the potential threat must be eliminated. I personally signed the accident report… This is one sin.” The “Iris” Project. Another unfamiliar term. Lu Chenzhou set down the first letter and picked up the second. The handwriting here was slightly more hurried, the ink smudged in places, as if written in emotional agitation. “…For many years afterward, nightmares haunted me. Gu’s second son, Zhixing, changed drastically in temperament, lying low and biding his time, his ambitions not small. I gradually grew uneasy, fearing that the events of that year would one day come to light. But the Shen family was already deeply entangled; Moqing and his generation saw this as the cornerstone of their rise and would not allow it to be shaken. I retreated to this old residence, in truth to avoid disaster, and also to keep watch. The original group photo stored in the old residence’s secret room, along with some correspondence from that year, are the final evidence I have kept…” The original photo! Lu Chenzhou immediately looked up, his gaze locking onto the heavy cast-iron safe. His eyes finally settled on a conspicuous spot on the desk—there, several pages of letter paper were weighed down by a paperweight. The top page was densely covered in characters written with a brush, the ink dark and thick. Beside the letter paper lay an old-fashioned kraft paper file folder, its opening gaping, revealing a corner of a yellowed photograph. Lu Chenzhou walked over. His footsteps were light, as if afraid of disturbing the dead. The cold air in the room enveloped him, carrying the heavy, death-specific silence. He first circled to the side of the corpse, quickly checking Shen Bojun’s carotid artery and pupils—confirming death. No signs of struggle, no signs of external injury. Everything was consistent with voluntary poisoning. Then, he approached the desk. His gaze was first drawn to that photograph. He carefully pulled it out from the file folder. It was a color group photo, its edges slightly curled and yellowed, but the image was still clear. The background looked like a conference room in some government guesthouse, with a red banner hanging, its characters blurred. In the photo stood seven or eight men, all dressed in typical 1990s suits or cadre attire, smiling. Standing slightly forward in the center was a much younger Shen Moqing, looking proud and ambitious. To his left, slightly behind, was the very Shen Bojun now in the chair, his hair still black then, his smile restrained. To Shen Moqing’s right stood a tall, lean young man whose face bore a seventy-percent resemblance to Gu Zhixing’s, but whose eyes appeared sharper and more somber. His smile seemed somewhat forced, his shoulders slightly tense. Gu Zhiyuan. In the photo, his face was perfectly clear. Not cut out, not blurred. This was the original photograph corresponding to that “96-07-BX-original negative.” The man who had been erased, wiped from all subsequent records, stood here openly, beside Shen Moqing. Lu Chenzhou’s fingers pinched the edge of the photo, his knuckles whitening slightly. Seven years. For seven years he had searched for this name **When you find this place and see this old bones of mine, you must have already investigated most of what needs to be found. Good. It saves me the trouble of explaining those filthy deeds. Yes, I, Shen Bojun, had a hand in framing your father back then, in sending you to prison. Not just a hand—many of the details were my nod, my ‘coordination,’ me putting the final links in that forged ‘chain of evidence.’** **‘Moqing was the mastermind. He wanted what your father had in his hands, and even more, he wanted to eliminate your father, a potential threat who refused to swim in the same murky waters. But he needed someone to do the dirty work, a knife that was obedient, sharp, and could be discarded at any time afterwards. Gu Zhiyuan was that knife. He was Moqing’s protégé, lifted from the bottom. Clever, ruthless, ambitious, and… foolish enough to believe that by doing such things for his master, he could truly enter the inner circle.’** **‘The specific execution, the cleanup of traces, the ‘arrangement’ of witnesses, including that final ‘accident’ report that took your father’s life—all were handled personally by Gu Zhiyuan. He did it cleanly and efficiently, even with a kind of mad artist’s flair. Moqing was very satisfied. We all thought the matter was over.’** **‘Until three years ago, when Gu Zhiyuan suddenly began investigating some of the ‘leftover scraps’ from back then in private. He seemed to have discovered something, grew restless, started demanding a price. He wanted to use what he knew to exchange for a more secure position, or… a payoff to disappear far away. He forgot—once a knife develops its own thoughts, it is no longer a knife, but a liability.’** **‘So he died. Died in a car ‘accident.’ Very similar in method to the ‘accident’ that took your father, isn’t it? How ironic. Arranged personally by Moqing. Cleaned up thoroughly. All records, photos, files related to him—completely erased. As if he never existed.’** **‘This is the ‘truth’ you wanted. Gu Zhiyuan. A dead scapegoat. An erased shadow. Are you satisfied?’** Here, the penmanship suddenly changed. The strokes grew heavier, the ink even bleeding through the paper, betraying an uncontrollable venom and mockery: **‘But, young man of the Lu family, do you think finding this, toppling a Shen Moqing, will allow you to overturn the case? To cleanse your father’s name? To give meaning to those ten years you spent in prison?’** **‘You are too naive!’** **‘What you have found is merely another grave! We are all in graves! Your father was, Gu Zhiyuan was, I am, and Shen Moqing will be in the future! You think you are chasing justice? You are merely walking along the burial path we laid out long ago, step by step towards the pit reserved for yourself!’** **‘The sins of the Shen family are deeply rooted, long since grown into this very land! Can you dig it up? Can you wash it clean? For every inch you dig, more blood and filth will gush out, until it completely drowns you!’** **‘Your sister, Lu Chenxing, her surgery was very successful, right? Thanks to that ‘deal’ back then. You traded your freedom for her life. A good bargain, isn’t it? But have you ever wondered, why was it precisely then that she could get that matching heart? Why were all the procedures unnaturally fast?’** **‘Look around you, kid. The air you breathe, the ground beneath your feet, every face you see—which part isn’t a piece of this sin? You hate us, but everything you rely on to survive is stained with our blood!’** **‘You cannot escape. Nor can you… wash it off.’** **‘You will end up just like us.’** The final line of words seemed to have been stabbed onto the paper with all his might. The strokes were fragmented, carrying a hysterical, cursing tone. Lu Chenzhou finished reading. The room was deathly silent. Only the sound of his own breathing and the faint roar of blood rushing to his head. The words on the suicide note were like branding irons, searing onto his retinas, burning into his mind. Anger? Yes. But beneath that anger was a deeper, icy-sea chill and… a touch of absurd pity. For Shen Bojun, for Gu Zhiyuan, even for Shen Moqing, and for himself. This interlocking chain of sin, this quagmire that devoured everything and replicated itself. Right at that moment— *Click.* A clear, muff At the same time, from the four corners of the room near the ceiling, the copper ventilation grilles he had assumed were decorative emitted a faint *hissing* sound from within. A colorless, odorless gas, which caused immediate mild dizziness and throat tightness upon inhalation, began to rapidly fill the air. Anesthetic gas? Or poison gas? A trap! The suicide note itself was the signal that triggered the mechanism! Shen Bojun had not only killed himself, but had also used his own death and final words to set up one last deadly trap, waiting for any "Gravedigger" who might pursue the investigation this far! Lu Chenzhou’s reaction was faster than thought. He grabbed the original suicide note and the group photo from the desk, along with the file folder and half-photo originally in his jacket, and stuffed them haphazardly into his inner suit pocket. During the movement, he glimpsed something else—the corner of a thin, hard card—sticking out from the crack of the desk drawer. No time for a closer look. He yanked out the card. It was another, smaller photo, like an individual portrait cut from a group photo. On the back, written in ballpoint pen, was an address and a line of small text: **"The person he thought he could protect. Zhou Zhengping knows."** Zhou Zhengping! The gas was growing denser. The dizziness intensified, and his vision began to blur slightly. The steel plate overhead had already descended by a third; it was only a matter of time before it sealed completely. Lu Chenzhou tore off his tie, quickly poured out a little water from the miniature water pouch hidden in the tail of his pen flashlight (a habit formed over years of investigative work), soaked the tie, and pressed it tightly over his nose and mouth. The wet cloth filtered out some of the gas, but it wouldn’t hold for long. He rushed toward the doorway. The steel plate was now only a little over a meter from the floor. Bend down and dash out? Too late; the plate’s descent was accelerating. Besides, the situation in the corridor outside was unknown—there could be other ambushes. His eyes swept rapidly over the room. The bookshelf? Too heavy, impossible to move quickly. The desk? Perhaps it could temporarily brace the steel plate, but the gas was still pouring in. The vents? Too small, and they were the source of the gas. Wait—underneath the chair where Shen Bojun’s corpse sat, the edge of the carpet seemed to have an extremely slight unevenness, as if it could be lifted. Lu Chenzhou rushed over and, disregarding any disrespect to the deceased, forcefully moved Shen Bojun’s body along with the chair aside. Sure enough, beneath the chair, a one-meter-square section of old carpet was separate, with hidden fasteners along its edges. He lifted the carpet. Beneath it was a rusty iron plate with a pull ring. Not a passage, more like an access hatch or storage compartment. He pulled hard on the iron plate—a colder, more oppressive air, heavy with the smell of earth and faintly of sewage, rushed out. Below was pitch black, bottomless, but there was a corroded metal ladder set into the side wall. It might lead to deeper underground pipelines, or an abandoned ventilation shaft of the old building. It could be a dead end, or it could be a way out. The steel plate overhead was now less than half a meter from the floor. The gas was making his thoughts sluggish. There was no choice. Lu Chenzhou pressed the wet tie tighter over his face, took a deep breath of the relatively "clean" air, and leaped into the black hole. As he fell, he reached back and pulled the iron plate as closed as possible, leaving only a crack. *Thud.* A dull impact sounded from above as the steel plate sealed completely. Immediately after came the *hiss* of some kind of airtight mechanism locking. The chamber was utterly sealed. Darkness. Absolute darkness. Only from far below came the faint, hollow echo of something like flowing water. He hung onto the corroded metal ladder, the cold metal biting into his palms. Sealed above, unknown below. The evidence in his jacket pressed against his ribs. The words from the suicide note—"You will end up just like us"—seemed to burn faintly in the dark. He began to climb down. The metal ladder was dilapidated, some rungs loose or missing. He could only rely on touch and extremely cautious testing, moving downward step by step. In the darkness, his sense of time blurred; he might have climbed for minutes, or longer. The sound of flowing water from below grew louder, the air increasingly damp, cold, and laced with the distinct, decaying odor of sewage. Finally, his foot touched solid ground. No, it was semi-solid sludge. His flashlight was dead; Following the sound of water flow and the direction of relatively fresh air currents, he trudged for what felt like an eternity. Ahead, a faint glimmer of light appeared—not natural light, but rather like that from a maintenance lamp or light seeping in from a distance after multiple reflections. He moved toward the light. The light came from the bottom of a vertical, roughly sixty-centimeter-diameter circular shaft pointing upward. The shaft walls were smooth concrete, with a rusted U-shaped rebar ladder extending upwards. The opening was high above, out of sight, but a hazy halo of light was visible at the top, and he could hear an extremely faint sound, as if filtered through thick soil... the sound of car engines? Close to the surface! Hope had just ignited when it was interrupted by another sound. From above the shaft, muffled by soil and building structures, came the faint sound of footsteps. More than one person. The footsteps echoed in some cavernous space, accompanied by brief commands and the sounds of objects being moved. "... Search every room carefully." "Focus on the basement and any mezzanines." "Report immediately upon finding any survivors or suspicious items." The voices were muffled but clearly discernible. It was trained personnel searching inside a building. They were already up there. In Shen Bojun's old residence? Or was this shaft connected to some other building? Lu Chenzhou stopped in the shadow at the bottom of the shaft, holding his breath. His muscles trembled slightly from prolonged tension and cold. He gently touched the hard photographs and suicide note in his inner pocket. The evidence was still there. But he was trapped underground, with a building being systematically searched right above his head, himself exhausted, covered in filth, with almost no capacity to resist. He had gone from an active investigator to a fugitive carrying lethal evidence. Prey. He slowly leaned against the cold, damp wall of the shaft and closed his eyes, letting the darkness envelop him. His ears, however, were perked up, catching every faint sound from above. The engine sounds seemed closer now; a vehicle had stopped nearby. The searching footsteps were moving toward this area. He couldn't stay here long. He had to go up, had to use the building's structure to maneuver, had to... before the dragnet completely closed, find a crack to get the evidence out, or at least pass the information along. He opened his eyes, his gaze falling on the shaft ladder. Then he began to climb. His movements were slow, light, like a wounded animal, moving painfully toward that sliver of light in the gaps between the hunters' footsteps. With each step upward, the sounds of the search above grew clearer. That halo of light drew closer and closer. It also seemed to grow colder.