Lu Chenzhou leaned against the rough cardboard, his left hand pressed against the outside of his left leg—the site of the gunshot wound. The blood seeping through the bandage had already glued his pant leg to the skin. Each breath tugged at that dull ache. His right hand hung at his side, fingertips touching the sharp-edged shard of broken porcelain he’d taken from the condiment stall, hidden in his pocket. Heavy breathing. The sound of fabric rubbing. The man outside didn’t immediately pull aside the curtain and enter. Instead, he moved slowly outside, like a bear prowling at the mouth of a cave. Lu Chenzhou heard him mutter something into his collar, the voice muffled but the words "still inside" and "block it off" distinguishable. Waiting for the other two to flank him from the other end of the market, or waiting for him to run out of stamina and charge out himself. Lu Chenzhou's gaze swept over the faint light filtering through the gaps in the cardboard boxes. The light cut diagonally, casting a narrow sliver of brightness on the ground. At the edge of that light, several soy sauce bottles lay toppled, their dark contents meandering into tiny rivulets on the floor. The sour-salty smell mixed with the damp, moldy odor of the cardboard boxes, seeping into his nostrils. He moved his left hand from the wound, slowly reaching into his jacket's inner pocket. His fingertips touched the encrypted SIM card Qin Wangshu had given him, its plastic shell cold. Further down was the temporary visitor pass—prepared in advance by Zhou Zhengping, the photo a seven-year-old ID picture of a younger, almost unfamiliar version of himself. The metal edge of the pass clip pressed against his ribs. Nine in the morning. The maintenance window for the archives. Thirty minutes. And he was still trapped behind this condiment stall piled with discarded boxes, his leg bleeding, with at least three men waiting for him outside. He closed his eyes, drew in a very light breath, and when he opened them again, the scattered light in his eyes caused by the pain had refocused, cold as a frozen lake. He withdrew his right hand from his pocket, the sharp edge of the porcelain shard pressed against his palm. He turned sideways, using his shoulder to push against the outermost, half-empty cardboard box, gauging its weight and center of gravity. Footsteps came from deep within the market. Hurried, yet deliberately lightened, moving in this direction. Not the steps of an ordinary shopper. He pushed with his shoulder, shoving the cardboard box violently toward the curtain. As the box toppled, he ducked and dove in the opposite direction—toward a higher stack of boxes that nearly reached the ceiling. Between that stack and the wall was an extremely narrow gap, swallowed by shadow. The dull thud of the box hitting the ground, the brittle shatter of jars, and the low roar of the large man yanking the curtain aside and charging in exploded almost simultaneously. The rough cement wall scraped against his shoulder blades, dust sifting down. The gap was even narrower than he'd estimated, his chest compressed uncomfortably. He inched along, each push-off with his left leg feeling like a red-hot iron rod being driven into the muscle. Sweat beaded at his temples, trickling into the corners of his eyes, stinging. Before the words faded, a sharp, piercing whistle suddenly sounded from deep within the market. It was the kind of iron whistle market inspectors used to chase off vendors, its sound grating, carrying the uniquely institutional, unquestionable sense of authority. It was followed by several shouts in the local dialect, roughly meaning "Who told you to pile goods here?", "Blocking the fire exit", "Clear it now, immediately." The thugs outside were clearly stunned too. The sounds of rummaging stopped. After a moment of silence, the large man lowered his voice: "Damn it, cops?" The footsteps rapidly retreated, hurried and unwilling. Only when the whistle and shouts had also faded into the distance did he slowly back out of the gap. His left leg was almost numb. He braced himself against the wall, steadying his stance. Behind the condiment stall was a scene of chaos: toppled boxes, shattered jars, sauce spilled everywhere. Half the curtain had been torn down, lying on the ground. Sunlight poured in from outside, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air. The porcelain shard had embedded itself in his flesh, carving a not-too-deep, not-too-shallow cut. Blood mixed with grime was sticky. Expressionless, he pulled the shard out, wiped the blood on his pant leg, and tossed it into a pile of garbage in the corner. Then he pulled the visitor pass from his inner pocket and hung it around his neck. The metal clip touched He then withdrew his gaze, glanced down at his watch, and stepped inside. The door slowly closed behind him, but when there was still a hand's width of space left, it stopped. Zhou Zhengping had wedged a small stone beneath the door with his foot. He didn't walk fast; the injury to his left leg caused a slight drag with every step, but he deliberately controlled the extent, making that bit of unnaturalness look like fatigue. The visitor pass around his neck swayed gently with his stride. The youthful face in the photo formed a cruel contrast with the pale, gaunt face currently hidden beneath his cap brim. He walked up to the access door and, without pausing, pushed open the slightly ajar door. A mixture of disinfectant, old paper, and the heat from some electronic equipment. Inside was a narrow corridor. Fluorescent tubes emitted a steady hum, the light a blinding white. Zhou Zhengping was already waiting at the corridor's corner, his back turned, holding a black insulated cup, unscrewing the lid. The two didn't exchange words. Zhou Zhengping unscrewed the lid, took a sip, his Adam's apple bobbing. Then he capped the cup, turned around quite naturally, and walked deeper into the corridor. Lu Chenzhou followed half a step behind, his gaze sweeping over the closed doors on either side—Technical Department, Evidence Room, Archive Inquiry Office. The lettering on some of the doorplates was already peeling. Occasionally, people in police uniforms or plain clothes walked past them. Zhou Zhengping would give a slight nod or a vague "hm" as a greeting. Most of them nodded back, their eyes lingering briefly on Lu Chenzhou, but upon seeing the visitor pass around his neck, they looked away. In this system, an authorized person bringing a visitor into non-public areas, while not common, wasn't something that required special inquiry either. Lu Chenzhou kept his breathing very light. He could feel the rhythmic, throbbing pain from the wound in his left leg with every step, like a second hand buried in his flesh, counting down. He counted his own steps, the door numbers he passed, the surveillance cameras hanging from the ceiling every five meters. Those black hemispheres hung silently, their red indicator lights steadily blinking. But the route Zhou Zhengping chose cleverly avoided most of the cameras directly aimed at the corridor, always walking along the edges, or using the shadows of corners, fire cabinets, or potted plants. The old man's familiarity with this place was like knowing the lines on his own palm. There was an old-fashioned freight elevator, its metal doors painted a dark green, the edges already rusted. Beside the elevator was a sign: "Equipment Level · Archives · No Unauthorized Entry." Zhou Zhengping pulled a bunch of keys from his jacket pocket, found a copper-colored one, and inserted it into an inconspicuous lock hole beside the elevator call panel. The floor indicator lights on the panel, which had been dark, lit up, from "1" to "B3". Zhou Zhengping pressed "B3". The elevator doors slowly opened. Inside was spacious but empty, the walls rough metal plates, the floor scarred with scratches from moving heavy objects. The doors closed. The slight weightlessness of the descending elevator, the creaking sound of cable friction echoing in the confined space. Zhou Zhengping finally spoke, his voice very low, with a hint of hoarseness: "How's the leg?" "Time is tight. The maintenance window is from nine to nine-thirty, only thirty minutes. After nine-thirty, the resident archive administrator will return, and the system logs will start recording anomalous access." Zhou Zhengping paused. "Also, Zhao Tieshan has a meeting at the bureau this morning. The meeting ends at ten, but he could leave early at any time, or call the archives to ask about something." "I'm afraid he'll ask about you." Zhou Zhengping turned his head and glanced at Lu Chenzhou. The old man's eyes were cloudy, but deep within them was something sharp, like a blade buried in ashes. "You are the primary target of the joint investigation team right now, Jingyuan. Zhao Tieshan is personally leading it. If he knew I brought you into the core archive area, especially to access permanently sealed top-secret files..." He didn't finish, just shook his head. A distinctly different air rushed in—cold, dry, carrying a strong smell of mothballs mixed with old paper, like opening a coffin buried for years. Outside was a wider corridor, lined with heavy metal doors. The doors had no windows, only numbered plates: "B3-01," "B3-02"... The lighting was stark white LEDs, illuminating the light gray epoxy floor paint, spotless. So quiet he could hear the sound of his own blood flowing through his eardrums. Zhou Zhengping stepped out of the elevator, An even colder draft swept over his face, carrying a faint trace of rust. Beyond the door was a vast space, about four meters high. Rows of gray-green metal filing cabinets stood like silent giants, arranged in neat, seemingly endless lines. The ventilation grilles at the tops of the cabinets emitted a low, continuous hum. A hygrometer hung on the wall by the entrance, its needle steady at "45%" and "18°C". "This way," Zhou Zhengping said quietly, walking deeper into the rows of cabinets. Lu Chenzhou followed him in, gently pulling the door shut behind him. As it closed, all sound from the outside world seemed to be cut off, leaving only the low, moaning hum of the ventilation system and the hollow, light taps of their footsteps on the metal grating floor. The aisles between the cabinets were narrow, only wide enough for one person. Zhou Zhengping walked ahead, occasionally stopping to glance up at the labels pasted on the cabinet sides—"1995-1997 · Major Criminal Cases · Original Files," "1998-2000 · Internal Investigations · Top Secret." The handwriting on the labels was faded. After walking for about two minutes, the old man stopped before the innermost row of cabinets. These cabinets looked older, their paint peeling in places. The cabinet doors had heavy mechanical locks instead of electronic ones. The label on the side read: "1996-1997 · Special Disposal · Permanent Sealing." "This is it," Zhou Zhengping said, his voice unusually clear in the empty vault. He pointed to the lowest level, near the corner. "Number 97-Top-003. The box at the very bottom, against the wall." A sharp pain shot through the wound on his left leg as he knelt down. He gritted his teeth, making no sound. His gaze fell on the box. It was a standard gray metal archive box, about half a meter long and thirty centimeters high, with a fine anti-slip texture on its surface. On the front was a mechanical combination dial lock. Above the keyhole was a small white label printed with "97-Top-003" and a smaller line of text: "Gu Zhiyuan (Signed) · 1997.04.11." As his fingertips brushed over it, he could feel the unique, fine yet hard texture of the metal and a faint, almost imperceptible dampness—tiny beads of condensation from the cold. "The password is six digits," Zhou Zhengping said from behind him, his voice even lower. "I didn't have clearance to know it before I retired. We can only try, or..." He didn't finish, but the implication was clear: or use another method. From his inner coat pocket, he took out the small electronic decoder—no larger than a lighter, with a black plastic casing and a tiny probe with connecting wires at one end. It was one of the "tools" he had acquired through Fang Mu's channels after escaping the old residence. In theory, it could crack the electronic simulation signals of most older mechanical combination locks. He peeled off the double-sided tape on the back of the decoder and stuck it to the box next to the lock. Carefully, he inserted the probe into a tiny inspection port on the side of the keyhole—a backdoor left for maintenance personnel on this type of lock, usually sealed, but the sealant on this old box had deteriorated. The screen lit up with an eerie blue light, lines of code scrolling rapidly. The buzzer emitted an extremely faint *beep... beep...* sound, which in the silent archive vault was piercingly clear. Zhou Zhengping turned and walked toward the aisle entrance, his back to Lu Chenzhou, looking toward Fang Mu at the vault entrance. The old man stood there like a silent sentinel, still holding the thermos cup, but the knuckles of his fingers were slightly white. The numbers on the decoder screen jumped rapidly, starting from "000000" and increasing according to some algorithm. Lu Chenzhou stared at the screen, his breathing deliberately slow. He could hear the heavy thud of his own heart in his chest, the monotonous hum of the ventilation system, and— Muffled by the heavy fire door and the long corridor, the sound was almost imperceptible. But Zhou Zhengping's back stiffened instantly. The old man tilted his head slightly, his ear twitching. The numbers on the screen stopped at "310597." The screen displayed: "LOCK OPEN." Almost simultaneously, Zhou Zhengping spun around, his voice hushed. "Someone's coming. The sound of a logistics cart." Lu Chenzhou didn't hesitate. His left hand gripped the dial of the combination lock, his right hand giving it a sharp twist—*click*. The sensation of the bolt releasing traveled through his fingertips. He immediately lifted the lid. The hinges let out a faint, grating squeak from years of disuse. A stronger smell wafted His fingers brushed over those paper bags, the brittle, stiff texture of the paper palpable at his fingertips. Then, at the very bottom of the box, tucked against the inner wall, he touched something thicker and harder. It was a kraft paper envelope, noticeably larger than the others, its flap sealed with red sealing wax stamped with the characters "Top Secret · Permanent Archive." Below the stamp was a handwritten signature: "Gu Zhiyuan," and a date: "April 11, 1997." The edges were worn, revealing the frayed edges of the papers inside. He quickly shoved this envelope into the waterproof document pouch he carried with him—made of black nylon with an anti-static lining on the inside. He zipped it shut, the zipper making a soft *hiss*. Then he closed the box lid and spun the dials on the combination lock. *Click*. The bolt reset. A sharp pain shot through the wound on his left leg from the sudden exertion, and his vision went black for an instant. He steadied himself by grabbing the nearby filing cabinet. Zhou Zhengping had already hurried back, gesturing with his eyes for him to follow. The two of them walked quickly along the passageway they had come through, heading for the storeroom entrance. Their footsteps echoed on the metal grid floor, far more urgent than when they entered. Lu Chenzhou could feel the black document pouch pressed against his abdomen, its weight and coldness seeping through his clothes. Like a block of ice, or a piece of red-hot iron. Zhou Zhengping pressed his ear to the door, listened for two seconds, then gently pulled it open. But from a distance came the faint sound of cart wheels rolling over the floor, and fragments of conversation between two men: "...this batch of expired archives must be destroyed by the end of the month..." "...have the scanned copies been backed up?..." Zhou Zhengping made a hand gesture, signaling Lu Chenzhou to take the other side—where a narrower emergency passage was located, its indicator light flashing green. They slipped inside, pulling the door shut behind them. The emergency passage had no lights, only the eerie green glow of the exit sign illuminating the steep metal stairs beneath their feet. Every time he lifted his left leg, it felt like it was filled with lead. The pain radiated from the wound to the entire leg, all the way to his waist. Lu Chenzhou's breathing grew ragged, sweat beaded again at his temples and trickled into his collar. But he didn't stop, his right hand gripping the stair railing tightly, knuckles white from the strain. Zhou Zhengping walked ahead of him, glancing back occasionally but saying nothing. The old man's back appeared exceptionally gaunt, even slightly stooped, in the dim light. Yet his pace up the stairs wasn't slow; each step was firm and steady, carrying the kind of endurance unique to a veteran detective, honed over years. Pushing open the emergency door, they returned to the main corridor. Here, there were voices, a telephone ringing from a distant office, someone speaking loudly about something. Zhou Zhengping adjusted his breathing, straightened his jacket collar, and resumed that slightly weary but otherwise normal expression. Then he turned and headed toward a different exit, not the one they came from. Lu Chenzhou followed behind him, his gaze sweeping over the windows lining both sides of the corridor. Outside was the municipal bureau compound. The sunlight had already dispersed the morning mist, illuminating the neatly trimmed holly bushes in the yard and the national flag fluttering atop the flagpole. A few young people in police uniforms walked by, chatting and laughing, holding file folders in their hands. Everything looked normal, orderly, full of vitality under the sun. And in his arms, he carried a cold secret from the dark depths of seven years ago. --- Lu Chenzhou's back pressed against the rough cardboard, his left hand pressed against the outside of his left leg—the location of the gunshot wound. The blood seeping through the bandage had already stuck to the fabric of his pants. His right hand hung at his side, fingers slightly curled, knuckles pressed against the cold metal casing of the decoder. Sweat slid down his temple, stinging the corner of his eye. He didn't dare blink. Heavy. Steady. It was the big guy. The other man didn't charge in immediately; he seemed to be adjusting to the darkness, also assessing the prey's location. Lu Chenzhou held his breath, gently tucked the decoder back into his pocket, and his fingers searched along the seam of his pants, touching a piece of half-rusted wire that had come loose from a cardboard box. Light leaked in, outlining a broad silhouette. The big guy squeezed in sideways, movements cautious, hands still in a grappling-ready posture. He first scanned the stacked boxes on the left, then turned to the right—where Lu Chenzhou was. Not a retreat, but a charge. The He rolled over and sprang up, his right hand clenched into a fist, knuckles prominent, and smashed it down hard into the depression where the base of the skull met the shoulder. It was a vulnerable nerve cluster in the human body; a heavy blow could cause temporary paralysis. As his fist landed, he felt the recoil through flesh and bone, and heard the half-suffocated grunt forced from the man’s throat. The big man’s body went limp, pitching forward and knocking over a stack of empty cardboard boxes. In the clatter, Lu Chenzhou was already staggering toward the cloth curtain, shoving it aside, and rushing into the narrow passage behind the spice stall, piled high with discarded wooden racks. He ran wildly down the passage, each push-off with his left leg feeling like a knife slash. The edges of his vision began to darken, his breath scorching his throat. At the end of the passage was a slightly ajar iron door; beyond it lay the garbage disposal area behind the morning market. The stench of rot surged in. Just as his fingers touched the rusted handle of the iron door— Not a ringtone, but a short vibration at a specific frequency. Two pulses, a pause, then three more. Zhou Zhengping’s encrypted signal. Lu Chenzhou yanked the door open, dashed into the shadows of the garbage heap, and leaned back against the cold brick wall, breathing heavily. He pulled the old Nokia feature phone from his pocket. The screen lit up, showing one unread text message. No sender number, just a single line of text: 「The thing you're looking for, there's a lead. But it's not in the regular system; it's at the very bottom of the 'tomb.' Tomorrow morning at nine, during the archives maintenance window. I only have thirty minutes.」 Sweat dripped onto the plastic keypad. He wiped his face, his finger hovering over the reply button for a second before pressing delete. The message vanished as if it had never existed. He shoved the phone back into his pocket, took a deep breath. The foul air filled his lungs, bringing with it a clarity that bordered on nausea. Outside the garbage area, the faint sounds of voices and traffic could be heard; the morning market's bustle was gradually dying down. The footsteps of his pursuers did not appear—either he had shaken them off, or they were redeploying. He couldn't stay long. Lu Chenzhou tore a strip from the lining of his jacket, hastily wrapped it tightly above the wound on his left leg, and cinched it hard. The dull ache sharpened into a numb, tingling sensation. Leaning on the wall, he stood up and scanned his surroundings. To the east of the garbage area was a low brick wall; beyond it was a back alley. When he landed on the other side, his left leg buckled, nearly making him kneel. Gritting his teeth, he steadied himself, dragging his injured leg as he moved quickly along the alley's shadows. The end of the alley opened onto a wider road; across it was the back entrance of the city library. He blended into the sparse flow of pedestrians, pulled his cap low, and walked towards the bus stop on the side of the library. He got on the bus, dropped his fare, and walked to the last row, sitting in the corner. The bus was filled with the smell of sweat and dust, the engine rumbled, and the windowpanes buzzed and rattled with every bump. He leaned back against the seat, closed his eyes, letting the pain and exhaustion momentarily drown out his senses. The next morning, a thin mist hung over the municipal bureau compound like a damp, cold shroud. Lu Chenzhou stood in the shadow of the side door of the main building. He had changed into an inconspicuous dark gray jacket, wore a baseball cap, and held a temporary visitor pass—the photo was his ID picture from seven years ago, slightly youthful, but the cold sternness between his brows was still faintly discernible. The pass had been prepared in advance by Zhou Zhengping, complete with anti-counterfeit film and a chip in the swipe zone. The old man was wearing a faded, washed-out old jacket, his back slightly stooped, but his steps were steady. He didn't look at Lu Chenzhou, swiping his card to open the employee access gate directly. The glass door slid open; he walked in and disappeared around a corner in the corridor. Three seconds later, Lu Chenzhou hung the pass around his neck. The metal clasp touched his skin, cold. He took a deep breath, stepped forward, and swiped his card. The corridor was empty, filled only with the stark white light of the overhead lamps and the smell of disinfectant. The echo of his footsteps on the tiled floor was startlingly clear, making his heart pound. Following the route Zhou A cold draft surged in, carrying the scent of camphor, old paper, and a faint trace of rust. The corridor was narrow, flanked on both sides by dark gray metal archive shelves stretching as far as the eye could see. The ceiling lights were cold white LEDs, their illumination uniform but utterly devoid of warmth, making everything look like specimens. Zhou Zhengping stepped out first, swiping a card to open the first metal-barred gate. The door hinge gave a soft *creak*. Lu Chenzhou followed, his gaze sweeping over the dense clusters of numbered labels on the shelves: year, classification level, case cause, box number. This was a vast, silent tomb, burying all the secrets this city couldn't bear to see the light. Zhou Zhengping pressed his thumb against a scanner. A green light flashed. He swiped his card, and the lock clicked open. The two men entered the core area. Here, the archive shelves were even denser, the boxes more solid and heavy, their uniform gray metal surfaces beaded with fine droplets of condensation—the constant humidity control system at work. Zhou Zhengping pointed towards a corner at the far end of the corridor. "Over there. Top-secret physics archives from after '97. Independent section."