The metal roll-up door of the garage was pulled halfway up, like a gaping metallic mouth exhaling the mingled smells of disinfectant and rust. Lu Chenzhou bent down and ducked inside. The sky outside was a pale gray, and the interior of the garage was even darker. The yellow police tape was still wound around the pillars, but the forensic lights and equipment had been removed. Only a few hastily drawn chalk outlines remained on the floor—marking the final positions where Shen Yan had fallen. The air held a thick, sticky silence. Dust tumbled slowly in the slivers of light seeping through the door crack. He stood still and took a deep breath. The scent of blood had faded, mostly masked by copious amounts of bleach and cleaning agents, but that sweet, metallic rust-like odor remained embedded in the cracks of the concrete floor, like a stubborn stain. The corner of his left eye began to twitch slightly, and his fingers unconsciously moved toward his trouser pocket—inside was a portable high-powered flashlight, a pair of stainless steel tweezers, and several sterile evidence bags. "Mr. Lu," a voice came from behind him. "Mr. Shen instructed me to tell you to look carefully. If you need anything, call me." The driver stood just outside the roll-up door, half his body in the light. His surname was Li, in his forties, with a crew cut and wearing a dark jacket. Lu Chenzhou had seen him three days ago, standing like a pillar in the hallway outside Shen Moqing's study, his gaze never straying. A watcher. "Alright," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice steady. "I may need twenty minutes." "Take your time," the driver said, taking half a step back but not moving far away. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, lowered his head, and lit one. Lu Chenzhou turned around, his back to the light from the doorway. He first walked towards the center of the garage. His steps were light, the soles of his shoes scraping softly against the concrete floor with a faint, rustling sound. The edges of the chalk outlines had blurred, washed over by cleaning water, leaving only faint white imprints. He crouched down, shining the flashlight at an angle across the floor. The light cut through the shadows. In the area examined by the police, the floor had been repeatedly scraped and scrubbed, the tire marks almost completely smoothed away. He moved slowly along the outline, his gaze sweeping over every inch—the base of the walls, the bottom of the tool rack, behind the discarded oil drums. These were all obvious spots; the police wouldn't have missed them. What he was looking for were the places they had "missed." Not out of negligence, but inevitable blind spots. Crime scene investigations follow procedures, like a combine harvester that only collects the ripe crops, always leaving a few seeds buried in the soil. Lu Chenzhou stood up and walked towards the tool rack against the west wall. The rack had three tiers, filled with rusty wrenches, old electrical wires tangled with cobwebs, and a few cans of dried-up paint. He crouched again, sweeping the flashlight beam horizontally across the space beneath the rack. The dust was thick, like a blanket of gray felt. Under the light, he could see clear drag marks—the imprints of the investigators' knees and shoes. But in the triangular area at the very back of the rack, near the corner of the wall, the dust was almost untouched. He lay down flat. The coolness of the concrete floor seeped through his shirt, the rough particles pressing against his chest. He held his breath, focusing the flashlight beam on that triangular area. There was a crack in the corner of the wall, about two fingers wide, filled with gravel, screw caps, and a few dead leaves. The beam of light moved inch by inch. Then it stopped. Wedged at the edge of the crack was something. It was very small, about the size of a fingernail, curved, with irregular edges. Its surface was covered in dust, but under the direct beam of the flashlight, it reflected a cold, glass-like refraction. Lu Chenzhou's breathing grew even shallower. He pulled out the tweezers. Their slender, stainless-steel tips gleamed silver in the light. He carefully inserted the tweezers into the crack and gently grasped the edge of the fragment. His hand was steady. The fragment was slowly lifted out, suspended in mid-air. He rotated the tweezers, letting the light illuminate the other side of the piece. Dark brown spots. The spots had dried, their color as deep as rust, but with faint, radial splatter patterns at the edges—a classic morphology formed when blood impacts a solid surface. The spots were tiny, about the size of a grain of rice Only after finishing this did he allow himself to exhale. His lungs contracted, bringing on a slight dizziness. He remained in a crouch, hands on his knees, and slowly stood up. His knee joints emitted faint clicks. The sky outside the garage seemed to have darkened further. He turned and walked toward the entrance. The driver was still standing there, having finished his cigarette, and was looking down at his phone. Hearing footsteps, the driver looked up. "Finished looking?" the driver asked. "Yeah," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice still steady. "Nothing new. The scene was cleaned up very thoroughly." The driver nodded, tucking his phone back into his pocket. "Let's go then. Mr. Shen still wants to see you this afternoon." Lu Chenzhou walked out of the garage. The rolling shutter door slowly descended behind him with a grating metallic screech. He walked to the car, opened the door, and got into the back seat. As the door closed, he caught the driver taking out his phone again and holding it to his ear. "Yes, he's finished looking," the driver said in a lowered voice. "Didn't find anything... Mm, okay." The call was brief, less than ten seconds. The driver hung up and glanced at Lu Chenzhou in the rearview mirror. Their gazes met briefly in the mirror before the driver quickly looked away and started the car. The engine growled as the car pulled away from the villa area. Lu Chenzhou leaned back in his seat, his left hand resting beside his leg, his fingertips brushing against the hard evidence bag in his trouser pocket. The glass fragments, separated by the plastic film, transmitted a faint, cool sensation. He closed his eyes. His mind began reconstructing the scene—the position where Shen Yan fell, the distance to the tool rack, the possible angle of the blood spatter. Where did that piece of glass come from? The killer's hand was cut, blood dripped onto it, then the fragment fell and rolled into the crack. Why didn't the killer notice? Because the environment was too dark at the time? Because the killer's attention was entirely on the body? Or because the killer never imagined they would bleed? The car turned a corner, tires bumping over a speed bump with a slight jolt. Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes and looked out the window. The street scene flowed past—shop signs, pedestrians, bicycles—like a reel of blurry film. He remembered the photograph in Shen Moqing's study—Lin Wei walking the dog, smiling in the sunset. He remembered Shen Moqing pointing at it, saying, "This is a reminder." Then he remembered the tin stationery box on the doorknob. The burnt floor plan of the archives building. The deliberately scorched 'L'-shaped area. The "871103" pressed into the bottom of the box. The anonymous party was pushing him forward. And Shen Moqing was holding the reins. Now, he had one more piece of bloodstained glass in his hand. It could be a key. Or it could be dynamite. The car entered the old city district. The streets narrowed, flanked by low-rise residential buildings. The driver stopped in front of an old teahouse. "We're here," the driver said without turning around. "Old Mr. Zhou is waiting for you inside." Lu Chenzhou pushed the car door open. The teahouse facade was old, the lacquer on the wooden plaque with the characters "Qingxin Teahouse" peeling and mottled. He walked in. An old man behind the counter looked up, squinting at him. "Looking for Teacher Zhou?" the old man asked, his voice hoarse. "Yes." "Upstairs, the Bamboo Melody room." The stairs were wooden, creaking underfoot. The second-floor corridor was dimly lit. At the far end, a door was slightly ajar, from which the distinctive aged aroma of ripe Pu'er tea drifted out. Lu Chenzhou walked to the door and stopped. He heard the sound of fingers tapping on a table inside—very light, but rhythmic. One tap, two, three. It was Zhou Zhengping's habit when he was nervous. He pushed the door open. The scent of tea washed over him. The small private room contained a square table and two rattan chairs. Zhou Zhengping sat by the window, a purple clay teapot and two white porcelain cups on the table before him. He wore a dusty gray jacket, his hair somewhat disheveled, his eyes clouded. But when he saw Lu Chenzhou, a sharp glint flashed within that cloudiness. "You're here," Zhou Zhengping said, his voice muffled, carrying the smell of alcohol. "Sit." Lu Chenzhou closed the door and sat down opposite him. Fine white steam rose from the spout of the purple clay pot. The sound of water gently bubbling. Zhou "Found at Shen Yan's crime scene," Lu Chenzhou said. "Glass fragments, with bloodstains on them. Not Shen Yan's—his blood type is O. Preliminary judgment is that this blood is type A or AB, needs further confirmation." "You stole it?" "The police missed it during their investigation." Zhou Zhengping placed the bag back on the table, his fingers tapping again, faster this time. "What do you want to do?" Lu Chenzhou picked up his teacup. The tea was warm, the heat passing through the porcelain to his palm. "I need a DNA comparison," he said, his voice very low. "Not through official channels. Fast, and absolutely confidential." The private room fell silent. Only the fragrance of tea lingered, and the slight rhythm of Zhou Zhengping's fingers tapping the table. Once, twice, like the ticking of a second hand. "Chenzhou," Zhou Zhengping finally spoke, his voice even hoarser, "haven't you suffered enough from that incident ten years ago?" "Because I haven't suffered enough," Lu Chenzhou said calmly, "that's why I have to keep suffering." Zhou Zhengping stared at him, his expression complex. There was worry, disapproval, and a deep-seated, almost time-worn anger hidden within. "This thing," Zhou Zhengping pointed at the evidence bag, "who are you planning to compare it with?" Lu Chenzhou was silent for two seconds. "Shen Moqing." The tapping stopped abruptly. Zhou Zhengping's hand hung in mid-air, then slowly lowered, clenching into a fist. He took a deep breath; the tea fragrance entered his nostrils, but all he seemed to smell was dust and the scent of old paper. "You're insane," he said softly. "Do you know what this means?" "I know." "You don't!" Zhou Zhengping suddenly raised his voice, then immediately lowered it again, as if afraid of being overheard. "Who is Shen Moqing? He could send you in back then, and now he can make you disappear completely! You want to compare his DNA? On what grounds? Even if it matches, what can you do? Sue him? Where did the evidence come from? Illegal collection! You'd be the first one thrown out in court!" Lu Chenzhou listened without refuting. After Zhou Zhengping finished, he spoke, his voice still steady: "Teacher, I'm not planning to sue him." "Then what do you want?" "I want to know the truth," Lu Chenzhou said. "Shen Yan was his son. If this bloodstain really belongs to Shen Moqing, why would he leave blood at the scene of his son's murder? Is he the murderer, or a witness? Or something else?" Zhou Zhengping stared at him as if examining a stranger. After a long while, he sighed, his shoulders slumping. That sigh carried the smell of alcohol and weariness. "Chenzhou, you weren't like this before." "The person I was before is dead," Lu Chenzhou said. "He died in prison." The private room fell silent again. The sky outside the window grew darker, the clouds pressing low, as if about to rain. Zhou Zhengping picked up the teapot again, refilling both their cups. The sound of flowing water was especially clear in the silence. "I'll only help you this once," Zhou Zhengping finally said, his voice so low it was almost inaudible. "Don't walk this single-plank bridge again in the future." Lu Chenzhou raised his eyes. Zhou Zhengping avoided his gaze, lowered his head, fished a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket's inner pocket, and pushed it over. On it was written a name and a phone number. "Old He," Zhou Zhengping said. "He Wanqing, retired old forensic doctor, trustworthy. Go find her. Don't say I referred you. Just say... say you're my distant nephew, for work purposes." Lu Chenzhou took the paper, his fingertips touching the rough texture of the surface. "Thank you, teacher," he said. Zhou Zhengping waved his hand as if to brush something away. "Hurry up and leave. Don't come find me again in the future." Lu Chenzhou stood up, put away the evidence bag, turned, and walked toward the door. As his hand touched the doorknob, Zhou Zhengping's voice came from behind again. "Chenzhou." He stopped but did not turn around. "Be careful," Zhou Zhengping said, something trembling in his voice. "These past few days, I keep feeling... someone is watching me." Lu Chenzhou's fingers tightened. "Understood," he said, pulling open the door and walking out. The stairs creaked. He hurried downstairs, passed through the teahouse's main hall, pushed open the door, and stepped into the street. The sky had completely Could it be the same anonymous party who left behind the iron stationery box? Or... could it be both? He opened his eyes, took out his phone from his pocket, the cold screen light illuminating the car's interior. He tapped open an encrypted messaging app and sent a brief message to a number: "Sample obtained. Need channel." A few seconds later, a reply came: "8 a.m. tomorrow. Old place." Old place—the old newspaper section of the municipal library, the computer at the very end of the third row. Lu Chenzhou put away his phone and looked out the car window. The streetlights had finally come on, their dim yellow glow bleeding into the night. Across the street, a man in a dark coat stood beside a newsstand, looking down at his phone. The man looked up and glanced toward the car. Their gazes met briefly through a layer of glass and a distance of over ten meters. The man quickly averted his eyes, turned, and walked away. Lu Chenzhou's fingers unconsciously clenched, his nails digging into his palm. The left corner of his eye began to twitch again—a slight, uncontrollable tremor. He took a deep breath and started the car. The engine roared, the headlights cutting through the night as he drove into the street. In the rearview mirror, the newsstand grew smaller and smaller, eventually disappearing around the corner. But he knew some things would not disappear. It was there, in the darkness, in every corner, like a shard of bloodstained glass, silently waiting, reflecting a cold light. *** The glow of the streetlights stretched and shrank on the damp sidewalk. Lu Chenzhou stepped over the shimmering puddles as if treading on a ground of shattered moons. His shadow arrived at the foot of the old apartment building ahead of him, split in two by the steps. The stale bitterness of Pu'er tea from the old teahouse still lingered in his nostrils, and his fingertips seemed to still be holding the almost weightless evidence bag. Inside it, the fingernail-sized glass shard, its edges dotted with dark brown stains, resembled a sleeping eye. He sharpened all his senses, scanning his surroundings—the electronic sound of the automatic door opening and closing at the distant convenience store, the faint argument of a couple upstairs, the rustle of a stray cat darting through the greenbelt. Everything sounded like the background noise of a normal night. But normalcy was sometimes the most precise disguise. He walked up to the third floor. The motion-sensor light in the hallway flickered on, casting a stark white glow. He stopped in front of door 305. A corner of something white peeked out from under the door. It wasn't the cheap paper of an advertising flyer. It was thicker, with uneven edges, as if it had been torn roughly. Lu Chenzhou crouched down but didn't touch it immediately. He first checked the lock—no signs of forced entry, the key turned smoothly as usual. He listened to the silence beyond the door, then used tweezers he carried with him to gently pick up the piece of paper. The paper had been folded in half. When he unfolded it, a pungent, acrid smell of scorching immediately assaulted his nostrils. It wasn't the smell of something freshly burned. It was the unique odor of paper instantly carbonized by high heat, then forcibly extinguished by water or chemicals—a mixture of charring and a certain sourness. The visual impact followed—half a sheet of A4 copy paper, its edges curled and blackened irregularly from burning, like wounds licked by flames. But the central part of the paper had been deliberately preserved, the photocopied text glaringly clear under the harsh white light: **"Case File: 87.11.3 Fire Incident – Witness Testimony Transcript (Lu Chenzhou Portion) Accessed."** The characters were in standard Song typeface, printed by an old dot-matrix printer. The toner was slightly smudged, but every stroke carried a cold, procedural precision. Below, there was a line of smaller text, handwritten with a blue ballpoint pen, the script hurried yet forceful: **"Jingyuan, too much curiosity can burn your hands."** Lu Chenzhou's breath hitched for a moment. It wasn't fear. It was something colder, heavier, like a piece of iron soaked in ice water, plummeting from his throat to the pit of his stomach. The left corner of his eye began to twitch uncontrollably again, a muscle memory sounding the alarm. His hand holding the tweezers was as steady as a rock, but his knuckles were white from the force. The other party knew he was back. Not only knew, but had precisely calculated the timing of his meeting with Zhou Zhengping and his solitary return. This apartment building had no surveillance cameras, and the stairwell entrance faced the street with its constant flow November 3, 1987. The City Archives fire. One auxiliary staff member on duty that night died, another was injured. The cause of the fire was ultimately classified as "aged wiring." But within the case file, there was an interview transcript of his. At the time, he was still a police academy intern and had entered the archives the day before the fire to assist with organizing files. That transcript was unremarkable, just routine procedure. The real key was in the attachment to the transcript: a rough sketch he drew from memory of the archives' internal layout—on the sketch, he had marked the locations of several "L"-shaped storage areas not normally open to the public. That sketch, along with the entire original case file of the fire, was placed on a sealed list designated as "partially classified content, temporarily not for disclosure" shortly after he went to prison. The access permissions were extremely high-level, the procedures complex, and there were electronic traces. The anonymous party could not only access the sealed file but could also "retrieve" it without triggering the usual alarms. This wasn't intimidation from street thugs, nor was it the crude surveillance of someone like Shen Moqing relying on wealth and influence. This was an opponent from within the system, or at least one who could skillfully manipulate its loopholes. The other side was flexing its muscles. Precise, restrained, and with a near-cruel mockery—using charred photocopies of the file to warn him not to play with fire. Lu Chenzhou remained in a crouch, carefully placing the paper slip into a new evidence bag. He stood up but didn't enter the apartment immediately. Instead, he walked to the window at the end of the corridor, lifted a corner of the heavy velvet curtain. Outside was the wall of the opposite building, very close, forming a narrow light well. A few windows were lit, their curtains drawn tight. On the street below, sparse vehicles passed, their headlights cutting through the wet darkness. Everything seemed normal. But he knew that within this seemingly calm night, at least one pair of eyes had just confirmed his reaction to receiving the "gift." He returned to the door, opened it, entered, and locked it from inside. He didn't turn on the main light, only twisted on the old desk lamp on the writing table. A dim yellow circle of light pooled on the desktop, like a lonely spotlight on a stage. He sat down, placing the two evidence bags side by side. On the left, the glass fragment stained with suspected blood. Tiny, fragile, yet potentially the bridge connecting Shen Yan's death to the core of the frame-up from ten years ago. On the right, the half-sheet of charred photocopy. Cold, oppressive, declaring that his vulnerabilities and intentions were already exposed under the gaze of some shadow. The stake and the cost. Hope and threat. Like the two ends of a scale, swaying slightly before his eyes. He closed his eyes, forcing down the churning emotions. Fear was useless, anger even more so. He needed logic, needed the next step. The appraisal results would take time; Zhou Zhengping's side would take at least two or three days at the earliest. And within those two or three days, the anonymous party might have further moves, and Shen Moqing's surveillance wouldn't let up either. He couldn't wait passively. He took out a cheap, untraceable prepaid phone from the drawer. Turned it on; the screen lit up with a dim blue light. He opened an encrypted communication app and sent a brief message to Fang Mu: 「Investigate two directions: 1. Around 1998, possible storage locations or backup databases for biological samples (blood samples, medical checkup records) left by Shen Moqing or core members of the Shen family at formal medical institutions, especially through non-public channels. 2. Within the past month, abnormal electronic access records or physical retrieval records at municipal-level or higher archive management departments (especially those involving sealed historical case files). Pay attention to traces of bypassing regular approval procedures. Priority: Highest. Risk: Known possibility of counter-investigation.」 The message sent successfully; the screen went dark. Lu Chenzhou leaned back in the chair. The desk lamp cast the profile of his face onto the wall, stretching into a silent, sharp silhouette. The city noise outside the window grew distant; the room held only his own steady, almost deliberate breathing and the faint pulse in his temples. He took apart an old fountain pen, unconsciously disassembling, reassembling, and disassembling again the metal cap and barrel between his fingers. The cool sensation spread along his fingertips, slightly soothing the electric-taut tension in his nerve endings. **The stake had increased.** The glass fragment was tangible physical evidence. Once the appraisal results pointed to Shen Moqing, he would hold a dagger capable of piercing the other's disguise. Even just a "high probability of *** The three days of waiting felt like walking on a knife's edge. Lu Chenzhou went through the motions of "reporting progress" to Shen Moqing, piling up professional jargon to construct analyses of the case that seemed in-depth but carefully skirted the core issues. Observing their expressions, he noticed that Gu Zhixing's gaze held more scrutiny than the usual formulaic indifference. The frequency with which Shen Moqing rotated that jade thumb ring on his finger increased, almost imperceptibly, when Lu Chenzhou mentioned, "There might be extremely minute biological evidence left at the scene, but extraction and identification face technical bottlenecks." Shen Moqing's pressure was tangible—a rope tightening around his neck, its texture and constricting force keenly felt. The pressure from the anonymous party, however, was formless, like a slow-acting poison diffused in the air; you never knew if the next breath might be fatal. A shoe repair stall had appeared below his apartment building, its proprietor a man with cloudy eyes who sat there all day with little business. Lu Chenzhou recognized the callus on the man's thumb webbing, a mark worn by years of gripping a gun. He also discovered extremely subtle displacements among the items in his room—someone had entered while he was out, their methods professional, leaving almost no trace. The visitor hadn't taken anything, merely "inspected." It was a more arrogant declaration: *Your territory, I come and go as I please.* On the afternoon of the third day, the prepaid phone vibrated once. No caller ID, just an encrypted text message from an unknown number, its content a string of seemingly random characters. Lu Chenzhou stared at the string for ten seconds, his pupils contracting slightly. It was a simple cipher, based on an old postal code manual and date offsets, something they, master and apprentice, had privately agreed upon in the early years. Decrypted, it yielded a set of coordinates and a sentence: **「The old place. Results are out, see for yourself. Do not reply.」** The coordinates pointed to the old city library building, a relay point they had often used in the past to exchange sensitive materials. Lu Chenzhou set out immediately. He didn't head directly there. Instead, he took a bus and rode around the city for half an hour, changing buses three times midway, finally walking through two bustling wet markets, using the crowds and complex environment to repeatedly confirm he had no "tail." When he finally entered through the library's side door, the afternoon sun, already slanting westward, filtered through the tall stained-glass windows, casting mottled yet faded patches of light on the dusty marble floor. The air was filled with the distinctive scent of old books and periodicals—the slight acidity of aged paper, the astringency of ink, and the smell of dust slowly settling in the still air. There were few readers here, mostly elderly people wearing reading glasses perusing newspapers, or students buried in exam preparation. The silence was accentuated by the sound of turning pages, the occasional cough, and the faint rumble of a metal book cart pushed by a librarian in the distance. Familiar with the route, he headed towards the old periodicals reading area at the very back. Rows of heavy bound volumes stood like silent giants on metal shelves, exuding an even stronger aura of time. In a corner sat a decommissioned old CRT monitor computer, connected to a terminal that could only access a local mirrored database, rarely used. Lu Chenzhou sat down in front of the computer. The screen lit up with a low hum and a flickering glow. He moved the mouse, clicked open "Local Disk (D:)", and among a pile of folders named by date, found one labeled "1998_Municipal Drainage Project Approval Backup." Double-clicking to open it revealed dozens of PDF documents. He scrolled through the list and clicked on the last one, its filename reading "Appendix 7: Pipe Material Supplier List.pdf." The PDF loaded. The first few pages were indeed dull tables and data. He quickly scrolled down to the end of the document. Beneath the final "Supplier" entry, an image was attached. It was a scanned copy of an appraisal report. The image was somewhat blurry, the scanner's resolution not high, but the key parts were discernible. The header bore the fuzzy logo of some unofficial "Biological Evidence Testing Center," lacking an official seal. The "Submitted Sample Description" field read: "One piece of unlabeled glass fragment, edge attached with suspicious brown stain (extracted)." The "Comparison Sample" field contained an internal serial number: "XXXXX," followed by a note: "Related Person: Shen Moqing, Sample Source: Backup of 1998 Municipal First People's Hospital Annual Executive Physical Exam Retained Blood Sample (Obtained via Compliant Channels)." Lu Chenzhou's gaze fixed on the final line in the "Conclusion" field. The "Based on STR typing and preliminary comparison, the submitted sample and the reference sample show a high probability of homology across the 16 genetic loci examined. Recommendation: This result is for preliminary screening only. Further Y-STR or more precise testing is required to confirm kinship and individual uniqueness. Probability assessment should not be used as direct courtroom evidence." A high probability of homology. Not a definitive "match," but it was enough. Enough to directly link Shen Moqing to the scene of Shen Yan's case. Enough to prove that this head of the Shen family, the father with a perfect alibi during his son's time of death, had left his own blood in that garage at some point in time. Lu Chenzhou's finger rested on the mouse, his fingertip ice-cold. He stared at that line of text for a long time. So long that the screensaver automatically activated, darkness swallowing the screen. He didn't move, just sat there, under the dim yellow light of the old periodicals section, like a silent stone statue. The bloodstain on the glass shard truly pointed to Shen Moqing. So, the next question arose— Why was he there?