The phone screen went dark. Lu Chenzhou stared at the "Delivered" notification for three seconds. The fluorescent light tube in the convenience store warehouse hummed with an electric buzz. The air was thick with the musty smell of damp cardboard boxes and the salty, fishy odor of oden simmering in the distance. He tore open a new pack of disposable SIM cards, his fingertips pausing for a moment on the plastic film. Qin Wangshu’s reply came quickly. "Archived record number C-2013-09-17, handler Sun Mingyuan, reviewer Zhou Zhengping. The archives room caught fire that year; the physical original was destroyed. The electronic backup is in… Why are you asking about this?" He finished reading, deleted the message, pulled out the SIM card, and used a lighter to singe its edges. The acrid smell of curling, blackened plastic stung his nose. The night outside the window was as thick as ink. The silver sedan across the street was still parked; the figure in the driver's seat seemed to have shifted position. Zhou Zhengping. Lu Chenzhou swept the burnt fragments of the SIM card into the trash bin and took out the kraft paper file folder from inside his jacket. His fingers traced the slight bulge left by Shen Yanqing's personal seal at the flap. He pulled out that old photo from 1999. Three young men stood shoulder to shoulder in front of an old-fashioned office building. Shen Yanqing was in the middle, his left hand resting on Sun Mingyuan’s shoulder; on his right was Gu Zhixing, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and a gentle smile. On the back of the photo, a line of small characters was written in blue ballpoint pen: "Commemorating the Launch of the Municipal Bureau's Digital Archives Project." Sun Mingyuan. Zhou Zhengping. He needed to connect these two threads, and he needed to do it now. *** The safe house in the red-brick building in the suburbs was hidden deep within a cluster of old factory buildings awaiting demolition. Lu Chenzhou circled the area four times, confirming there were no newly installed surveillance cameras, before squeezing sideways through a rusted, small fire exit door. There were no lights in the stairwell, only the light from a distant streetlamp filtering in through a broken window, cut into strips by iron bars. The air smelled of dust, rat droppings, and a bitter scent of some long-stored Chinese medicine. He stopped before the door at the easternmost end of the third floor. The door was an old sheet-metal security door, its paint peeling, but the area around the keyhole was unusually clean, free of dust. He raised his hand and knocked three times with his knuckles, paused, then knocked twice more. From inside came the creak of old floorboards under pressure. The door opened a crack. Zhou Zhengping’s bloodshot eyes scrutinized him from the shadows, his pupils contracting to pinpricks in the dim light. The old man wore a faded, old police sweater, his left hand hidden behind his back. Three seconds. Five seconds. The crack in the door finally widened enough for him to slip inside. "Tails?" Zhou Zhengping’s voice was as hoarse as sandpaper grating on sheet metal. "Shook them off." Lu Chenzhou stepped inside and closed the door behind him with his hand. The clear *click* of the lock automatically engaging was especially sharp in the silence. The safe house was small, less than twenty square meters. A cot, an old wooden desk piled with electronic equipment. On the wall hung a map of the city and several yellowed crime scene photos. The air was a mix of old books, cheap tea leaves, and the faint scent of gun oil. Right in the middle of the desk, the red light on an old radio scanner pulsed rhythmically, and a faint electric hiss came from its speaker. Zhou Zhengping didn't turn on the main light, only lit the desk lamp. Its dim yellow circle illuminated a patch in the center of the wooden desk. He walked to the window, lifted a corner of the curtain, and observed for half a minute with a miniature monocular telescope before turning around. "The things," he said, his voice leaving no room for pleasantries. Lu Chenzhou took two sealed plastic bags from inside his jacket. The first bag contained yellowed pages clipped inside an old book, with annotations written in blue fountain pen by Sun Mingyuan, the handwriting neat and somewhat rigid. The second bag held a high-resolution scan printout—the signature page of the "Letter of Repentance" that had nailed him to the "political murder" case ten years ago. Zhou Zhengping took the bags but didn't open them immediately. He walked to the desk, took a pair of reading glasses from a drawer and put them on, then retrieved an old-fashioned rev Lu Chenzhou's breathing was very light. He stared at the screen, and also out the window. The light and shadow from the streetlamps slowly crawled across the mottled wall of the factory building opposite, like the scales of some reptile. Scan complete. Zhou Zhengping called up the software interface—an old handwriting feature point analysis program, its interface still in the Windows XP style. He imported the image of Sun Mingyuan's handwriting and began marking the feature points: the pauses at the start of strokes, the curvature of angled turns, the subtle upward flick at the end of strokes. "He started by copying copybooks," Zhou Zhengping said softly, more to himself. "Can imitate seventy or eighty percent likeness. But can't change this—" He used the mouse to circle a connecting stroke. "Here, the turn is too stiff. Someone writing naturally would let their wrist flow through it. He's tracing, so he pauses here, then drags it through." Lu Chenzhou nodded. He remembered. Ten years ago in the interrogation room, when that "confession" was placed before him, the first thing he noticed was that turn. Too deliberate. Like an actor on stage flubbing a line, that instant of rigidity. "Now, look at yours." Zhou Zhengping opened the second scan. The signature page of the confession spread across the screen. The paper was yellowed, edges curling. The signature "Lu Chenzhou" was written with forceful strokes that seemed to pierce the paper—but it was not his handwriting. It was an imitation, a very good one, even replicating his usual habit of dragging out the final dot of the character "Zhou." But that turn was still there. Zhou Zhengping placed the two images side by side and began overlaying them with the software. He first pulled up close-up shots of all the "horizontal turning hook" strokes from Sun Mingyuan's annotations, dragging them one by one to the corresponding positions on the confession signature. The semi-transparent layers on the screen began to merge. Fifty percent. Seventy percent. The whine of the fan grew increasingly sharp. Hot air spewing from the computer's cooling vent carried the scorched smell of overloaded components. Fine beads of sweat broke out on Zhou Zhengping's forehead. He took off his reading glasses, wiped the lenses with his sweater sleeve, and put them back on. Lu Chenzhou's fingernails dug into his palm. The pain kept him alert. He heard his own heartbeat pounding against his eardrums, thump, thump again, forming a bizarre duet with the regular static hiss from the radio monitor. Eighty-five percent. The images were almost completely overlapped. That stiff turn in Sun Mingyuan's handwriting, like a key, fit perfectly into the same spot in the confession signature. Just then, the laptop screen flickered violently. Snow. White noise like a blizzard swept across the entire screen, tearing the overlapped images to shreds. Zhou Zhengping grunted, fingers hammering the keyboard. Useless. The screen went completely black for two seconds, then lit up again, but the image was now warped and distorted, rainbow-colored chromatic aberration appearing at the edges. "Interference," Zhou Zhengping's voice was squeezed through gritted teeth. "High-frequency pulse interference, specifically targeting the line frequency of old-style displays." He snapped his head up to look out the window. Lu Chenzhou was already moving. He stepped to the window in one stride, didn't pull back the curtain, but crouched down. Using a gap less than two centimeters wide at the bottom of the curtain, he pressed the miniature telescope against it. The street was empty. In the distance, the searchlight on the factory roof slowly rotated, its beam cutting through the night. No vehicles, no figures. But he saw something else. In a broken window on the third floor of the factory building opposite, an extremely faint point of light flashed once and vanished. Like the reflection off a telescope lens, or perhaps... the infrared indicator of a laser rangefinder. "Three o'clock, third floor, second window from the left," Lu Chenzhou whispered, voice low. "Might just be an observation post." Zhou Zhengping didn't turn. He was frantically hammering the keyboard, trying to restore the software. Sweat trickled down his temples, gathering into drops at his chin that fell onto the dust on the desk, blooming into small, dark circles. "Damn it... damn it..." he cursed, fingers trembling with the force he was applying. The image on the screen finally stabilized somewhat. Though there was still slight distortion, the overlapping parts were still visible. Zhou Zhengping took a deep breath and dragged the last few feature points over. The software popped up a prompt box. **[Feature Point Coincidence Rate: 96.7%]** **[Conclusion: Highly consistent, extremely high probability from the same writer]** The **[Feature Point Coincidence Rate: 96.7%** Zhou Zhengping stared at the screen for a long, long time. Then he took off his reading glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose hard, until the skin turned red. When he looked up again, something in his bloodshot eyes seemed to shatter, only to quickly solidify into something even harder. "...It's Sun Monkey," his voice rasped like a broken bellows. "He was a master at copying calligraphy, but he couldn't shake this habit." He pushed the keyboard aside, bent down, and dragged a rusty tin biscuit box from under the desk. He opened it. Inside weren't biscuits, but a stack of bank statement printouts, tied with a rubber band, their edges already yellowed and curled. "In the six months before he died," Zhou Zhengping pulled out the top few sheets and spread them on the table, "his account received four wire transfers. Twenty thousand US dollars each, from four different overseas shell companies. But the intermediary bank..." He scratched a line heavily under a line of blurred English code with his fingernail, "...all went through the same offshore account. The registered agent for that account is the same white glove Gu Zhixing always uses." Lu Chenzhou leaned over to look. The print on the statements was blurred from repeated photocopying, but he still recognized the account code: "Phoenix Trust (BVI)". He'd seen that name before, in the encrypted files Shen Yanhuan had secretly given him, detailing Gu Zhixing's overseas asset structure. The forger. The money trail. The beneficiary. Three separate threads twisted into a single noose at this moment. "The chain of evidence," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice low but each word landing with weight. "Sun Mingyuan forged the confession, Gu Zhixing paid for it, and Shen Moqing... was the ultimate beneficiary." Zhou Zhengping didn't answer immediately. He silently closed the handwriting comparison software and began tidying the printouts on the desk. His movements were slow, meticulous, as if he were sorting through a deceased person's belongings. The screenshot showing the 96.7% match rate still lingered on the screen, like a wound refusing to heal. Lu Chenzhou pressed a hand over Zhou's. The skin on the back of the old man's hand was rough, veins prominent, the texture like sandpaper. Zhou Zhengping's hand stiffened, then he jerked it away violently. The force was strong; the back of Lu Chenzhou's hand slammed into the corner of the desk with a dull thud. "Enough." Zhou Zhengping stood up, walked to the wall, and lifted the old map plastered with markers. Behind the map was an old-style wall safe with a combination dial, its surface paint peeling. But he didn't open the safe. He just stood there, his back to Lu Chenzhou, shoulders slightly hunched. "Kid," he said, his voice muffled, "do you know how many of the twelve people from the original task force are still around?" Lu Chenzhou said nothing. "Just me," Zhou Zhengping answered himself. "Just me, and I'm half-dead already. Old Zhang died in a car accident. Chief Li had a 'sudden heart attack.' Xiao Wang was transferred to the borderlands... The rest either shut up or disappeared." He turned around. The desk lamp light struck from the side, casting deep shadows across his face, his eye sockets sunken, cheekbones protruding, like a skeleton draped in skin. "The person I hid..." He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing. "If something happens to him now, this case will truly rot underground. Rot completely, not even bone fragments left to find." "Who is he?" Lu Chenzhou asked. Zhou Zhengping shook his head. "What guarantee do you have?" His eyes fixed on Lu Chenzhou. "Just because you crawled out of the wolf's den that is the Shen family? Just based on these... these scraps of paper in your hands?" The pressure in the air was climbing. The crackling static from the radio monitor seemed to grow louder, rhythmic and eerie, like some kind of code. Lu Chenzhou could smell the bitter odor emanating from Zhou Zhengping—a mix of tobacco, sweat, and old pain. He could see the old man's left hand unconsciously pressing against his ribs—an old injury left by an "accident" many years ago that ached on rainy days. He straightened up. "I guarantee it with this life of mine that hasn't been settled yet," he said calmly, but each word was resolute. "But you have to tell me, where are the enemies, and where are the comrades. Otherwise..." He paused. "Otherwise, I don't even know which way to charge when I fight for my life." Silence Zhou Zhengping's face instantly turned deathly pale. He lunged toward the radio monitor as if electrocuted, frantically turning the frequency dial. But that signal had already vanished, leaving only empty background noise. "Internal channel," he gasped, his fingers white at the knuckles from the force. "Encrypted signal, but with multi-layer scrambling... It's the municipal bureau's internal comms band, but scrambled... They're probing, haven't pinpointed the location yet." He suddenly looked up at Lu Chenzhou, bloodshot veins pulsing in his eyes. "But we can't stay here." Lu Chenzhou had already returned to the window. He used the crack again to observe the street. This time, he saw it—a black SUV with no markings was slowly driving past the intersection, moving abnormally slow, as if measuring something. Its headlights were off, but one window was lowered a crack. "The car passed," he said quietly. "Probably just reconnaissance." "There's no 'just'." Zhou Zhengping was already on his feet, quickly gathering critical items from the table—the laptop, the printouts, that revolver. His movements were somewhat clumsy from haste. He grunted when he bent over due to his old injury, cold sweat beading on his forehead. "If they've zeroed in on this area, search teams will be here within half an hour at most. This building is too conspicuous." He pulled a worn canvas backpack from under the camp bed and stuffed the items inside. The zipper caught; he yanked it hard, the sound of tearing canvas sharp and grating. Lu Chenzhou watched him. Watched this once-promising old detective, now scurrying to pack his belongings like a frightened rat. Watched those trembling hands, that hunched back, the bottomless fear and... something deeper in his eyes. "The person you're hiding," Lu Chenzhou spoke, his voice unusually clear in the silence, "how far from here?" Zhou Zhengping's movements stopped. He slowly straightened up. The canvas backpack slipped from his hand and hit the floor, raising a small cloud of dust. "Twenty minutes by car," he said, his voice very light, as if afraid to disturb something. "Nanshan Sanatorium, special care ward. He's under a fake name, medical records show severe Alzheimer's, under round-the-clock supervision." "What would it take to move him?" Zhou Zhengping turned his head. His eyes were full of wariness, like a beast protecting its young. "An inconspicuous car. An absolutely safe intermediate point. And a..." he paused, "and a decoy who isn't afraid to die." Their eyes met. The desk lamp's light drew a sharp line between light and shadow between them. Lu Chenzhou stood in the light, Zhou Zhengping in the shadows. The radio monitor emitted another burst of static, this time more urgent, more dense, like approaching footsteps. Lu Chenzhou slowly let out a breath. "I'll be that decoy," he said. **(Continuation of previous scene: Handwriting analysis confirms Secretary Sun's forgery, but Zhou Zhengping refuses to reveal the key witness's information. At this moment, the radio monitor picks up an encrypted signal, indicating the safe house may be compromised.)** That burst of static, like a cold snake, slithered up his spine. Zhou Zhengping's hand froze mid-air, his fingertips still stained with dust shaken from the map. He lunged toward the old radio monitor, moving faster than a man burdened with old injuries should. He pressed his ear against it, fingers twisting the frequency dial, knuckles white with strain. Dust danced wildly in the beam of the desk lamp. Lu Chenzhou was no longer at the table. He had moved silently to the side of the window, his body pressed tight against the cold wall, peering outside through the thinnest sliver at the curtain's edge. In the viewfinder of the miniature telescope, the night was thick as ink. In the distance, the highway lay like a pale grey ribbon, winding away into the woods beyond. No headlights. But something had definitely passed by just now. The soft crunch of tires on gravel—he had heard it. "It's an encrypted signal on an internal channel," Zhou Zhengping's voice came from behind, low, phlegmy, and breathless, "but with multi-layer scrambling... Damn it, it's an old technique." "What technique?" Lu Chenzhou didn't turn around, his gaze still fixed outside. "Scrambling tech used by the Economic Crime division in the nineties for surveillance against smuggling rings. The equipment was phased out later, but the people who know it are still around." Zhou Zhengping clutched his side, slowly straightening up, his face sallow under the lamplight. "They're just probing, haven't pinpointed the location yet. But this place... we can't stay." Zhou Zhengping stared at him, his gaze a mixture of vigilance, exhaustion, and something deeper—the instinctive recoil of someone who had guarded a secret for too long when suddenly questioned at its core. He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he walked to the table, picked up the old enamel cup, turned it once in his hand, and set it back down. The bottom of the cup tapped against the wooden table with a dull thud. “Twenty minutes by car,” he finally said, his voice dry. “At the Southern Mountain Sanatorium, under a false identity. Post-cerebral infarction complications, hemiplegia, can barely speak coherently.” “What do you need to move him?” “An inconspicuous car. An absolutely safe intermediate point, at least capable of hiding him for forty-eight hours.” Zhou Zhengping paused, lifting his bloodshot eyes. “…And a decoy who isn’t afraid to die.” “Decoy?” “Someone has to lead the pursuers away, or at least pin their attention to the wrong place,” Zhou Zhengping said, his tone carrying a kind of near-cruel pragmatism. “I drive out, head in the opposite direction, make some noise. You go to the sanatorium to pick him up. It’s the fastest way.” Lu Chenzhou was silent for several seconds. In the room, only the hum of electricity and Zhou Zhengping’s suppressed, phlegm-laced breathing could be heard. The stale scent of old books and gun oil in the air seemed to thicken, blending into a disquieting odor. His gaze fell on Zhou Zhengping’s hand, pressed against his ribs—that hand was trembling slightly. “You can’t drive,” Lu Chenzhou said. It wasn’t a question. A twitch tugged at the corner of Zhou Zhengping’s mouth. He didn’t deny it. The old injury had flared up again during that desperate dive earlier; the pain had brought a fine layer of cold sweat to his forehead. He couldn’t handle a long drive, let alone a chase that might require aggressive evasion. “I’ll have to drive anyway,” he said through gritted teeth. “We can’t just let him…” “You go pick him up,” Lu Chenzhou interrupted him, his voice calm yet carrying an undeniable force. “I’ll be the decoy.” Zhou Zhengping jerked his head up. Lu Chenzhou had already walked to the table. He took out the black encrypted USB drive that Shen Yanhuan had given him earlier from his inner pocket. The plastic casing glowed with a warm, matte sheen under the light. He placed it on the table and pushed it toward Zhou Zhengping. “This has one-time vehicle access permissions, clean funds, and the addresses and key codes for several backup safehouses. Shen Yanhuan gave it to me; she thought I’d use it elsewhere,” he said. “You drive, take him, go to Point Three. There’s basic medical equipment there, enough to handle emergencies.” “And you?” Zhou Zhengping’s voice tightened. “I go to the sanatorium,” Lu Chenzhou said. “Use the identity of ‘Li Jianguo’s distant nephew,’ register for a visit, make some noise. Best to get into an argument with the nurses, or question their care plan. In short, make sure everyone sees me, remembers me.” Zhou Zhengping’s pupils contracted. He understood. This was a more dangerous, but higher-success-rate plan—attract the pursuers’ firepower to the decoy in plain sight, creating a silent time window for the real transfer. The cost was that the decoy was likely to be caught and torn apart. “Are you insane?” Zhou Zhengping’s voice was low, yet laced with anger. “Once they lock onto you, they won’t even give you a chance to speak! In a place like a sanatorium, a ‘medical accident’ or ‘suicide’ is too easy to arrange!” “That’s why I need them to see me in public,” Lu Chenzhou said. The corner of his left eye twitched almost imperceptibly, a quirk that surfaced when he was extremely tense. “The more witnesses, the better. Best if it even alarms the sanatorium management, or gets the police involved on record. It raises the cost for them to act.” “And then? They take you away? Lock you up in some basement? What do you do after we’ve finished the transfer?” Lu Chenzhou didn’t answer immediately. He walked to the wall, his fingers tracing the edge of the old map for a moment, finding the almost invisible seam, and gently pried it. A wall panel slid open silently, revealing a small metal compartment behind it. He took the micro SD card from the laptop—the one containing the He turned his head away, his hand fumbling inside his coat. A few seconds later, he pulled something out, clenched it in his palm, then suddenly thrust out his hand and slapped it into Lu Chenzhou's open palm. The sensation was cold, hard, with slightly worn, rough edges. It was a metal button. Dark blue, somewhat faded, with a string of blurred numbers engraved on the front: **Exhibit-2009-047**. On the back was a small hook, already rusted. "This is..." Lu Chenzhou's fingers closed, the button pressing into his palm. "From the evidence bag that held that 'letter of repentance' back then." Zhou Zhengping's voice was low, carrying the hoarseness of a distant memory. "Standard-issue blue nylon evidence bag, with this kind of numbered button hanging from the zipper pull. Li Jianguo—the one hidden in the nursing home—he was the clerk back then, responsible for sorting and filing. He secretly removed this button and gave it to me." He lifted his eyes; his gaze was turbid yet exceptionally sharp. "He said: 'Old Zhou, the stuff in this bag is fake. But I'm just a small fry, speaking up won't help. Keep this button. If one day... someone really comes with real evidence to reopen the case, this button... can make me talk.'" Lu Chenzhou's fist clenched tightly. The edge of the button dug deep into his palm, bringing a sharp sting. It was as if, through this cold metal, he could touch that desperate, secretive night ten years ago—a lowly clerk, before an overwhelming mountain of evidence, secretly removing a button, burying it in time as a faint, desperate cry for help. "How did he 'commit suicide'?" Lu Chenzhou asked. "Gas poisoning. In his own bathroom. Discovered 'just in time,' saved, but with brain damage, left as he is now." Zhou Zhengping let out a cold laugh. "When I got to the hospital, he still had a bit of consciousness, his fingers kept gripping my wrist, his eyes staring at me. I knew what he wanted to say. So once his condition stabilized a little, I 'transferred' him, then reported him as deceased." He paused, his voice even hoarser. "For these ten years, I've visited him every two months. Most of the time he doesn't recognize anyone, but once, I showed him a photo of Secretary Sun—the kind of standard photo in the file Shen Yanqing gave you. He stared at it for a long time, then... cried. Couldn't speak, just shed tears." Lu Chenzhou felt his throat tighten. He gripped the button tightly in his palm; that bit of coldness seemed to be warming from his body heat, turning into a heavy, scalding weight. "I'll make him talk," he said, his voice not loud but striking the air like a nail. "With this button." Zhou Zhengping nodded, saying nothing more. He walked to the table, picked up the encrypted USB drive, and stuffed it into his coat. Then he began quickly gathering the scattered papers on the table, his reading glasses, and the listening device that was still emitting a faint static hum. His movements were brisk, carrying the taut, pre-battle rhythm unique to an old detective. Lu Chenzhou moved too. He checked himself—no extra items, only his phone, a bit of cash, and that button. He walked to the door, pressed his ear against it and listened. Outside, only the wind howled, wailing through the old window frames. "Wait five minutes after I leave before you move," he said quietly. "The car is behind the third lamppost on the street corner, a gray Volkswagen, license plate ending in 37. The key is in the magnetic box inside the left front wheel fender." Zhou Zhengping grunted an acknowledgment, his hands not stopping. Lu Chenzhou's hand rested on the doorknob, pausing for a moment. He looked back, watching Zhou Zhengping's hunched back as he packed, looking at this old policeman who was once full of vigor, now crushed by time and secrets. "Teacher Zhou," he called out, using a form of address he hadn't used in a long time. Zhou Zhengping's back stiffened. He slowly turned around. "Take care," Lu Chenzhou said. Zhou Zhengping looked at him for a long moment, then nodded. "You too," he said, pausing before adding softly, "...Jingyuan." Lu Chenzhou took a deep breath and turned the lock. The old door hinges let out a faint creak. He didn't go out immediately but sidestepped to the side of the door, quickly scanning the hallway outside with his peripheral vision—dim, empty, the motion-sensor light lit up from the earlier noise, casting a The lobby on the first floor was equally dim, with only the green glow of the exit sign emitting an eerie light. He pushed open the heavy unit door, and the night wind immediately rushed in, carrying the damp scent of grass, earth—unique to the suburbs. Under the streetlight at the corner, the gray Volkswagen sat quietly. He walked over, crouched down, and felt along the inner side of the left front wheel fender with his fingers. Soon, he touched a small, cold metal box. He pried it off, opened it—inside was a car key. He pulled open the car door and got in. Inside, there was a faint, new-car smell—a mix of plastic and leather. He turned the ignition; the engine hummed softly, and the dashboard lit up with a dim blue glow. He glanced in the rearview mirror—in the reflection, the quiet street remained empty, with only streetlights casting circles of yellowish light. But he knew something had awakened. On the other end of the radio waves, in some dark room, the hounds had pricked up their ears, catching an unusual scent in the wind. He shifted into gear, released the handbrake, and the car slowly slid out of the parking spot, merging into the empty street. He didn’t drive fast, keeping just below the speed limit—like an ordinary visitor genuinely going to see a patient. In the rearview mirror, the red-brick building that housed the safehouse gradually shrank and finally disappeared around the corner. He touched his pocket. The button was still there, hard and pressing against him. Then, he took out his phone and opened the encrypted messaging app. In the list, Qin Wangshu’s avatar was still lit up. He typed a line and sent it: “Nanshan Sanatorium, possible situation. If you don’t hear from me by noon tomorrow, contact Zhou Zhengping.” He didn’t wait for a reply. He closed the app, logged out, and cleared the local records. The phone screen went dark. The car turned onto the main road leading to the suburbs. Streetlights grew sparse; the night deepened. In the distance, the outline of low-rise buildings emerged from the darkness, dotted with scattered lights. A rusted metal gate, a sign hanging on the gatepost flashed briefly in the headlights—“Nanshan Sanatorium.” He gradually slowed down. Just then, in the rearview mirror, two headlights lit up at a distant intersection. Not ordinary car headlights, but brighter, more focused beams. That car turned out, following him at a leisurely pace, maintaining a distance of about two car lengths. A black SUV. No license plate. Lu Chenzhou’s lips tightened almost imperceptibly. As expected. Faster than he had anticipated. He stopped looking in the rearview mirror and turned his gaze forward. The sanatorium gate drew closer. The iron gate was half-open; the small window of the guard booth by the entrance was lit. And right in the shadows beside the gate, two figures seemed to be standing. Wearing ordinary jackets and trousers, but their posture was ramrod straight, hands hanging naturally at their sides—a habit formed from long-term training. His foot lightly tapped the brake, slowing the car further. His right hand reached into his pocket, gripping the button again. The cold metal had already been warmed by his body heat, its worn edges rubbing against his fingertips. Then, with his left hand, he took out his phone and opened a text message interface with no saved number. He entered a pre-set message—just a single space character. Recipient: that disposable, encrypted number belonging to Qin Wangshu. Send. The moment the screen displayed “Delivered,” he deleted the sending record and the entire conversation thread. The car glided to the sanatorium entrance. He pressed the brake, coming to a steady stop. He rolled down the window, and the damp night wind mixed with the smell of disinfectant and some kind of decaying plant wafted in. The two figures by the gate moved. They stepped out of the shadows in unison, approaching the driver’s side window. One of them bent slightly, bringing his face close to the window. An ordinary-looking face, but his eyes were bright, like polished glass beads. “Visiting?” the man asked, his tone flat. Lu Chenzhou looked up, his face now wearing a perfectly appropriate expression of anxiety and fatigue. “Yes, to see my uncle, Li Jianguo. I called to make an appointment during the day.” The man stared at him for two seconds, his gaze sweeping over his face, his clothes, and the interior of the car. “ID.” Lu Chenzhou took out the forged ID card and handed it over. The man took it, shone a flashlight on it, compared it to his face, then handed it back. “Go in. Visiting hours end at 9:30 at the In the rearview mirror, the black SUV had stopped across the street and hadn't followed him in. Its lights were off now, like a beast crouching in the darkness, quietly waiting. He withdrew his gaze and looked ahead. Behind the glass doors of the main building's lobby, the faint light from a nurse's station lamp was visible, along with the silhouette of a nurse bent over, writing something. He tightened his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles turning slightly white. The button in his pocket pressed heavily against his thigh. The stage was set. The lights were on. Now, it was time for him to make his entrance.