By the time Lu Chenzhou returned to his temporary lodgings, the sky was pitch black. Inside was a charred floor plan of the archives, with the words "You're late" scrawled on it in red pen. The motion-sensor light in the stairwell was broken, and he groped his way up to the fourth floor in the dark. The moment his fingers touched the door handle, the cold metal sensation was tainted by something strange—an object was hanging from it. It wasn't a lock, nor an advertising flyer. It was a weighty, hard object that swayed slightly as he turned his wrist, emitting a faint metallic scraping sound. He stopped in the darkness, his breathing slowing. The humiliation from Shen Moqing's study still burned in his gut, like he'd swallowed a hot iron. The old man's warm touch as he fondled the jade thumb ring, that gentle yet unassailable tone when he spoke, and the words, "Lin Wei is currently living at 3-1702 Fenglin Yuan in the west of the city, the neighborhood security is quite good"—each word was a meticulously honed blade, currently slicing its way down his esophagus. And now, there was another knife on the door. Lu Chenzhou pulled out his phone. The screen light cut a stark, pale gash through the darkness. The beam swept across the door panel, illuminating the object: a rusted tin pencil case, the kind elementary school children use. The cartoon pattern on its surface had worn away, leaving only a few patches of faded paint. The box was tied to the door handle with a thin hemp cord. The knot was neatly tied—a sailor's knot—and the ends of the cord were trimmed clean and sharp. He stared at it for three seconds. The city lights outside the stairwell window reflected on the side of his face, the line of his cheekbone taut like a knife's edge. Then, he slowly fished out the latex gloves he always carried and put them on. His movements were deliberate, carefully pulling each fingertip down to the base. The sensation of the rubber tightening against his skin was distinct and familiar. As he untied the knot, the coarse fibers of the hemp cord scratched against the glove's surface with a soft, rustling sound. The pencil case fell into his palm. It was somewhat heavy; something was clearly inside. He inserted the key into the lock and turned it. The sharp *click* of metal engaging was jarringly loud in the silent corridor. The door opened. He didn't turn on the light immediately. Instead, he sidestepped inside, his back against the door panel, listening for any movement in the hallway for ten seconds. There was only the distant hum of an elevator in operation and the sound of a TV playing the evening news from somewhere downstairs. The newscaster's crisp, standard Mandarin floated up muffled through the floorboards, as if through a layer of water. He locked the door behind him and slid the deadbolt. The solid *thud* of the metal bolt sliding into place was reassuring. He turned on the desk lamp. A dim, yellow halo of light pushed back a small circle of the darkness, illuminating the stacked photocopies of old case files, maps, and that copper wax seal fragment stored in an evidence bag on the table—the lotus and the character "Shen" glinting dully under the light. The air smelled of mildew from the paper and dust, hanging motionless. Lu Chenzhou placed the pencil case in the center of the table. He didn't sit down. He stood, looking down at it. A slight twitch began in the corner of his left eye. He raised a hand and pressed it, his fingertip feeling the faint pulsing beneath the skin, like a tiny spring moving under the surface. This habit had appeared during his second year in prison, flaring up when he was wound to the extreme, like a malfunctioning timer inside his body. The box wasn't locked; the clasp was loosely fastened. He lifted the lid. A mixed odor rushed out—an acrid smell of burning and the deep-set mustiness of aged paper, like opening a coffin buried for years. Inside the box lay a piece of paper, folded in half, its edges charred black and curled from fire. He pinched a corner of the paper and carefully extracted it with a pair of tweezers. His fingertips could feel the rough, crumbly texture of the carbonized edges; a little more pressure and it would turn to powder. As he spread it open on the table, the paper emitted a dry, brittle crackle. It was a floor plan of the archives. An old-style blueprint, with hand-drawn lines and annotations. The paper had already yellowed and become brittle. But what truly made Lu Chenzhou's pupils contract was Lu Chenzhou's breath hitched for half a beat. The charred edge precisely traced a hidden 'L'-shaped path that wasn't annotated on the electronic map. It wasn't a room, but an 'L'-shaped corridor deliberately erased from the official blueprints, along with an inconspicuous small storage room at its end. The charred mark was like a black highlight, isolating it from a grid of orderly squares. It wasn't accidental burning. It was a marker. He immediately grabbed the metal stationery box, flipped it over, and inspected the outer shell. The rusted surface showed only scratches, nothing unusual. He turned on his high-intensity flashlight, angled the beam into the box, adjusting it so the light skimmed along the inner wall. The metal interior reflected a dull glow, covered in fine scratches and rust spots like a face full of wrinkles. Lu Chenzhou removed the glove from his right hand. His fingertips touched the inner wall directly, starting from the edge and stroking inch by inch. A cold sensation traveled up from his fingertips; the metal surface was rough, with patches of flaky rust that scraped against his skin with a fine, gritty texture. He closed one eye, relying entirely on touch to discern the almost imperceptible bumps and depressions. Near the corner at the bottom of the box, the tactile sensation under his fingertips changed. Not a scratch, not rust. It was extremely shallow, regular indentations, arranged in a sequence. He steadied his breathing, his fingers rubbing repeatedly over that area, using varying pressure to feel. One, two, three times... The skin of his fingertips turned slightly pale from the pressure. Numbers. They were impressions, pressed into the inner wall bit by bit with some blunt instrument, likely less than a tenth of a millimeter deep, utterly invisible to the naked eye. But the skin of his fingertips memorized their shapes: 8, 7, 1, 1, 0, 3. 871103. Exactly the same date carved inside the Archives file cabinet, just without the separating dots. Lu Chenzhou remained hunched over, unmoving for a long time. The weak heat from the desk lamp bulb warmed the side of his face; his skin could feel that circle of warm light. The floating dust in the air slowly swirled within the beam, like tiny insects trapped in amber. He could hear the throbbing of the blood vessels at his temples—thump, thump, thump—like some kind of countdown. The anonymous party hadn't left a threat. It was a cipher. A cipher that used charred marks to indicate a location and impressions to give a time. The other party knew he would be warned by Shen Moqing, knew he would be forced to yield, and also knew he would never truly stop. So they chose this method—hiding the clues beneath the facade of a "threat," evading the Shen family's eyes while ensuring only a "professional" like Lu Chenzhou could peel them away. He slowly straightened up, his vertebrae emitting a faint crackle. His fingers unconsciously disassembled the pen on the table. Pen cap, barrel, spring, refill—the parts lay scattered in his palm, a mix of cold plastic and metal sensations. Then he reassembled them one by one. Assembled, then disassembled. Repeated three times, each click of the snap fitting crisp and clear. The twitching in the corner of his left eye stopped. Replacing it was a cold, long-unfamiliar sense of excitement, creeping up from the base of his spine like a hibernating snake awakening in spring. The humiliation was still there, the fear was still there, his ex-wife's address was like a thorn stuck in his throat. But at this moment, within this compressed, narrow space pushed to its limit, he had regained hold of the steering wheel. Even if it was just an illusion. He walked to the window, didn't turn on the light. Outside was the city's nightscape; in the direction of the distant Shen family mansion, only a blurred silhouette was visible, with a few scattered lights flickering among the tree shadows. The damp night wind seeped through the window crack, carrying the chill of early autumn, blowing against his face like cold silk. Who was the anonymous party? Not one of Shen Moqing's people. If the old man wanted to warn him, he'd use Lin Wei's photo directly, use more overt violence. Nor was it the police or the disciplinary commission—their methods were more “formal.” This was someone who knew the details of the 1987 fire, knew the secret of the archives, even knew about the existence of the “L”-shaped area. Someone capable of monitoring his movements, able to hang something on his door before the Shen family could. Someone who used encrypted methods to deliver a message, rather than appearing in person. Why? Lu Chenzhou’s fingers tapped against the windowsill, the joints knocking against the wooden frame with a dull, irregular rhythm. The other party was guiding him, but using the most dangerous method—hiding clues within a “threat,” forcing him to decipher it himself. Was this a test, or protection? Or both? He turned back to the desk, his gaze falling once more on that charred blueprint. The “L”-shaped area. 871103. These two elements collided in his mind, sparking. He closed his eyes, forcing himself to trace back all the fragmented memories related to the old archives site—those scattered pieces of information he had chewed over repeatedly over the years, almost etched into his bones. Blurred spots of light flickered behind his eyelids. The archives relocated in 1998, were abandoned in 2003. The 1987 fire, three personnel deaths, official conclusion: aging electrical circuits. 1996… what happened in 1996? Not a large-scale reorganization; it was a small-scale, informal “archive optimization pilot project.” Yes, a project funded by some city cultural foundation, nominally a “rescue effort to organize endangered historical archives.” In reality, very few people participated, and it lasted less than two months. Where had he seen the relevant records? Not an official report, but an attachment to some personnel duty roster, printed on brittle, mimeographed paper with blurred characters. He was still at the city bureau then, needing to access old files for another case, and had stumbled upon it by chance in the records room. That attachment listed the personnel involved in the pilot project and their assigned areas. Because it wasn’t part of the official roster, many people even used pseudonyms or abbreviations. His memory was like an old projector, the images flickering, skipping frames. The list… what was on the list? An area marked with the code “L-7.” He hadn’t paid attention at the time, thinking it was just an internal numbering. Now it occurred to him—could that “L” refer to the “L”-shaped corridor? Who was responsible for the “L-7” area? The memory film jammed. He frowned, a slight throbbing pain blossoming at his temples, like a needle slowly twisting inside. The distant sound of a car came from outside the window, tires rolling over the damp road, the noise approaching and then fading, leaving behind an even deeper silence. Think harder. There was a remarks column below the attachment, the font very small, added by hand with a blue ballpoint pen. What did it say… “Assisted by intern teacher, Shen.” Shen. Shen what? His heart gave a heavy thud in his chest, pounding against his ribs painfully. The name was like a stone lying at the bottom of water, slowly being dragged to the surface by the hook of memory—Shen Qinghuan. Shen Moqing’s second daughter, the family’s “little daughter” with a faint presence, always wearing an innocent smile. The attachment read: “Assisted with preliminary classification of materials by intern teacher Shen Qinghuan (History Department, Normal University).” The time was autumn 1996. Exactly when the “archive optimization pilot” project was underway. Lu Chenzhou’s eyes snapped open. The desk lamp’s light stabbed into his pupils. He squinted, the afterimages from when his eyes were closed lingering on his retinas. An emotion mixed with shock, realization, and an even heavier wariness seized him, like cold fog suddenly flooding his chest, tightening his lungs. Shen Qinghuan. That girl who at family banquets would only lower her head and smile, whom Shen Moqing would casually introduce with “my little daughter, she doesn’t understand things” before sending off to a corner. That marginal figure who appeared to have no connection whatsoever to Shen Yan's death, the 1987 fire, or any of the dark entanglements. In 1996, she had entered the archives as an intern teacher. And that deliberately erased "L"-shaped corridor was precisely the area she had been "assigned to assist" with that year. Coincidence? Lu Chenzhou walked back to the window, this time pushing it open. The night wind rushed in, carrying the city's characteristic murky smells—car exhaust, restaurant grease fumes, and the earthy scent of dust from distant construction sites. He took a deep breath. The cold air stung his lungs, but it also sharpened his mind. Not a coincidence. The anonymous party had used the burn marks to indicate the "L"-shaped area and the indentation to give the date "871103". The point where these two clues intersected landed squarely, unerringly, on Shen Qinghuan. The other party was directing him to look at her. Why her? What exactly had Shen Qinghuan seen during that "Archive Optimization Pilot Project" back then? What had she done? Or... what had she hidden? A neglected second daughter of the family, a seemingly harmless intern, why would she become the critical node connecting the 1987 fire and the current Shen Yan murder case? Lu Chenzhou's fingers tightened unconsciously, nails digging into his palm. The pain was sharp, clear, a piercing sting that helped him steady his mind. The anonymous party was not an enemy. At least, not entirely. They were an "informed party" who knew the inside story but was unable or unwilling to reveal themselves directly. Using this method to convey information was both to bypass the Shen family's surveillance and possibly to test Lu Chenzhou—to see if he had the ability to decipher the code, if he was worth being "guided". And Shen Qinghuan... He looked towards the direction of the Shen family mansion in the distance. Its outline was submerged in the night, only a few scattered windows still lit, like the half-open eyes of a slumbering giant beast, their pupils reflecting the city's light. She was the breakthrough point. Also a trap. Shen Moqing had warned him not to investigate the old case, yet the anonymous party had shoved the key to the old case into his hand. And this key fit precisely into the most inconspicuous door of the Shen family. Lu Chenzhou closed the window. The glass reflected his face, blurred, distorted, his eyes holding a clarity that bordered on ruthlessness. The sense of humiliation was still there, but it had been suppressed by a stronger, more intense focus—the focus of a hunter who has discovered his prey's trail. His ex-wife's address was a shackle, Shen Moqing's warning a cage, but now he saw a crack—a narrow, dangerous crack that might lead to the core. He returned to the desk, carefully folding the charred blueprint. The paper made a fragile, rustling sound. When placing it back into the tin stationery box, his fingertips brushed against the cool metal interior again. As he closed the lid, the clasp made a soft *click*, like a confirmation of sorts. Then he picked up his phone, pulled up a number with no saved name. His fingers hovered over the message box for a few seconds, suspended above the screen, able to feel the faint static attraction of the glass. Finally, he typed out a line: *«Investigate one person: Shen Qinghuan. All details of her participation in the 'Archive Optimization Pilot Project' at the Municipal Archives in the autumn of 1996, including the specific archive numbers she accessed, her work logs, and the movements of all relevant personnel after the project ended. Priority: her personal background, especially her social connections, communication records, and bank transactions around 1996.»* Click send. The message displayed "Delivered", the screen briefly lighting up. He put down the phone, took out a blank sheet of paper from the drawer. The edge of the paper made a light scraping sound against the wooden desk. With a pen, he drew two intersecting circles on it. In one circle, he wrote "1987 Fire". In the other, "Shen Yan Murder Case". In the overlapping area of the two circles, he wrote three characters heavily: **Shen Qinghuan.** The pen tip pierced the paper, a small blot of ink spreading at the puncture. Outside the window, the city continued to operate—the sounds of traffic, human voices, the faint wail of a... *** Lu Chenzhou's breathing was almost inaudible in the darkness. Each inhalation was deliberately drawn out, letting the cold air fill his chest cavity before being silently exhaled. He first tilted his head, his ear almost pressed against the door panel, listening for any movement in the hallway—no footsteps, no hum of the elevator running, only He first checked the lock—the metal bolt was smooth, with no new signs of prying, and there were no metal shavings around the keyhole from forced entry. This meant the other party either had a key or used a more professional, traceless method. He then walked to the window, hooked his fingertip on the edge of the curtain, and pulled it open a narrow slit. Across the street was another residential building, most of its windows dark, like countless empty eye sockets. Only a few scattered ones still glowed with light, pale and unremarkable. But the anomaly was on the table, right in the center of that dim, yellowish halo. He returned to the desk and pulled open a drawer. Inside, a pair of latex gloves was rolled into a ball. He took them out and unrolled them. As the gloves slid over his skin, they made a faint, almost inaudible friction sound, amplified by the silence, like a snake shedding its skin. His fingertips were enveloped, the sensation dulled, yet that very sense of separation served as a reminder. Only then did he open the lid of the box. A soft *click*. A pungent odor surged out, hitting his nostrils. It wasn't the simple metallic rust smell from last time; it was a mixture of scorched stench, mustiness, and a sour, rotten smell—like paper soaked in water then slowly decaying in a sealed space, faintly tinged with a bitter almond-like note. There was no note inside, no new warning. Only a folded piece of paper, its edges already charred black, fragile as a dried leaf that might crumble at a touch. Lu Chenzhou carefully extracted the paper with tweezers. As the tweezers touched the charred part, he felt an extremely slight, powdery texture. He unfolded it on the desktop, his movements so slow they were nearly frozen. It was another floor plan of the archives building. But different from the last one. This map was more severely burned; about two-thirds of the paper had become charred debris. Only a small area in the upper left corner retained its original printed lines, like an isolated island surviving a disaster. The edges of the charring were irregular, showing a strange wavy pattern. Looking closely, the direction of those waves wasn't natural spread; it seemed more like the flames had been deliberately guided to selectively consume certain parts while avoiding others. His gaze locked onto the surviving area. It was the northeastern corner of the first-floor plan of the archives building. On the standard blueprint, it was labeled "Equipment Room" and a corridor leading to the fire escape. But on this charred map, the lines in that area had been deliberately preserved—no, not preserved. They had been "cleared" out. The flames acted like a precise etching tool. Lu Chenzhou leaned down, his nose almost touching the paper. The smell of burning grew stronger, mixed with the distinct chemical odor of burnt paper, reminiscent of bitter almonds, stinging the corners of his eyes until they felt slightly sore. His pupils contracted to pinpoints under the dim yellow light. The pattern of the charring was off. When flames burn paper, they usually spread outward from the ignition point, forming roughly circular charred areas. But on this map, the edges of the charring showed clear angular lines. Especially in the lower right corner—an almost perfectly straight black line extended along the printed grid lines of the blueprint, then abruptly turned left, forming a precise ninety-degree right angle. Like the letter "L". A signpost etched by fire. Lu Chenzhou straightened up, his spine emitting a faint *crack*. He took out his phone from his pocket. The cold screen light instantly pierced the dim yellow glow. He pulled up the digital file of the original archives floor plan and zoomed in on the same area. His fingers slid across the cold glass screen, leaving blurred smudges of sweat. His gaze rapidly shifted between the phone screen and the charred remnant on the table. Once. On the digital map: "Equipment Room (Backup)", "Corridor B". Twice. On the charred remnant: the charring spread along the path of a non-existent wall. Three times. That "L"-shaped outline precisely framed an area that had become a blank space on subsequent blueprints. His breathing grew shallow, the rise and fall of his chest almost vanishing. On the digital map, that location was labeled "Equipment Room (Backup)", with a corridor labeled "Corridor B" beside it. But in the actual architectural structure of the archives building, Corridor B had been sealed off after the 1998 renovation, and the equipment room had been relocated elsewhere. That area later became a space for storing discarded filing cabinets and miscellaneous items. It had no formal designation and was simplified into a blank space in subsequent blueprint updates. A blank space, unnoticed and forgotten by the system. But on the charred map, Lu Chenzhou set down his phone. The corner of his left eye began to twitch slightly, uncontrollably—a physiological reaction to nerves stretched taut, like a fine thread plucking beneath the skin. He looked back at the tin stationery box, this time without touching it, scanning it inch by inch with his gaze, as if deciphering a coded message. The box was old. The kind of student stationery box common in the 1990s, made of pressed tin, its surface printed with a cartoon pattern that had long since faded and peeled—a rabbit holding a carrot, its color washed into a blurry pinkish-orange. The rust along the edges of the lid was uniform, a reddish-brown from years of exposure to damp air. But at the bottom of the box, near the edge, there were several fresh, silvery scratches, as if recently scraped against rough cement or brick, a glaring contrast to the surrounding old rust. He picked up the box, gauging its weight. Heavier than an empty box. The extra weight was unevenly distributed, leaning toward one corner. Lu Chenzhou turned the box upside down, cradling the bottom in his palm, gently shaking it. No sound of anything sliding or colliding, but the sense of weight shifted slightly as the angle changed. He opened the lid, the fingertips of his latex gloves probing the inner wall, pressing and feeling along the cold, rough tin edges, inch by inch. In the bottom right corner, his fingertip touched a tiny set of indentations. Not natural pits from corrosion. The arrangement of the indentations was patterned: six dots, divided into two groups. The first group had two dots, the second had four. The spacing between the dots was nearly equal, their depth consistent, as if carefully pressed in with some blunt instrument. Like an impression. Some kind of message. Lu Chenzhou retrieved a high-power flashlight from the drawer, its metal casing cold. He adjusted the angle, letting the beam shine into the bottom of the box at an extremely low, oblique angle. Under the sidelight, those indentations revealed clearer outlines—not simple dots, but numbers. The contours of numbers pressed in with force, casting tiny shadows under the strong light. “8… 7… 1… 1… 0… 3.” He whispered them aloud, his voice dry. 871103. The date struck his consciousness like an ice pick, sudden and sharp. November 3, 1987. The day of the archive fire. The same day he had repeatedly encountered in these past days—in yellowed case files, vague testimonies, and ambiguous official records—a date mentioned over and over in countless documents yet perpetually shrouded in fog. And now, it appeared here. In a tin box left by an anonymous person, containing charred blueprints, in this almost provocatively concealed manner. Lu Chenzhou switched off the flashlight. The room sank back into the desk lamp’s dim yellow glow, the sudden darkness leaving afterimages dancing before his eyes. He leaned back in his chair, the old wooden frame groaning under the strain. He closed his eyes. The gloves were still on his hands; the latex impaired blood circulation in his fingertips, bringing a faint numbness and chill. A threat? No. If it were a pure threat, the anonymous person could have simply written a sternly worded letter of intimidation, or, like Shen Moqing, used Lin Wei’s photo to apply pressure—simple, direct, effective. Leaving charred blueprints, leaving an imprinted date only visible under sidelight, leaving an “L”-shaped guide that required professional spatial perception and archival knowledge to interpret—this was too complex, too circuitous, the cost too high. This felt more like… a test. A qualification screening. Testing whether he could still extract valid information from chaotic clues, whether he could still maintain his investigative instincts under Shen Moqing’s pressure and his own predicament, whether he still deserved—or rather, still had the ability—to play the role of the “puzzle solver.” And after passing the test? The reward delivered would be this path leading into the depths of darkness? Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes. His gaze fell on the charred blueprint, on that silent “L”-shaped outline etched by the flames. Then, he turned to the window. The night was deep as ink, the city’s light pollution staining the sky with a dirty, dark-red haze. In the depths of that haze, that outline was the Shen family mansion. Shen Moqing’s warning still echoed in his ears, each word carrying the lingering scent of incense from the study and a cold, heavy weight. “Let the old case end here. If you touch it again, I can’t guarantee Lin Wei’s safety.” Each word was like a nail, pinning him firmly into that narrow, monitored identity of “investigator of the current case.” He had been Two coordinates. One pointed to an erased space, the other to a concealed time. And where the two intersected— Lu Chenzhou’s mind began to operate at high speed. Inside his skull, he could almost hear the faint sounds of precise gears meshing and turning. Fragments of memory were forcibly dredged up from the depths of his consciousness. Some were as clear as yesterday, others blurred like viewing objects through water. Some were even just the lingering trace of a certain scent, or the tactile memory of fingertips brushing over a specific texture. The old Archives building. He had been there himself three times. The first time was ten years ago. As a rising star in the Criminal Investigation Division, he participated in the joint investigation of a bill fraud case related to old archives. Back then, the Archives weren't completely abandoned; there were still a few grey-haired old custodians stationed there. He remembered the first-floor corridor being very long, the old-fashioned fluorescent tubes buzzing overhead. The light was pale and sickly, failing to illuminate the far end. The air always carried the complex odor of dust, aged paper, and a faint hint of mildew—a heavy scent to breathe in. The second time was last week, to investigate clues related to "87.11.3." He stood for a long time before that pried-open filing cabinet. The scratches on the cabinet's interior wall gleamed with a cold, metallic sheen under his phone's light. On the windowsill was that unfamiliar shoe print—size 42, with the common wavy tread pattern of sports shoes, the edges stained with a dark red mud that looked suspiciously like rust. The third time was yesterday, before Gu Zhixing took him away for "assisted investigation." He walked a complete circle through the corridor, now a ruin. His fingers traced the rough, exposed cement surface where the plaster had peeled off. Underfoot, he occasionally crushed the dried husks of unknown insects, emitting a soft *crunch*. Each time, his attention had been drawn to more conspicuous clues. He hadn't noticed that "L"-shaped area. Because on the official blueprints, it was a blank space. In reality, it was a wall that looked utterly unremarkable, painted with ordinary whitewash. Who would pay attention to a wall? Unless you knew something was hidden behind it, or unless the wall itself was a marker. Lu Chenzhou straightened his posture, his spine taut. He picked up his phone again. The screen lit up once more, its blue glow illuminating his tense jawline. He pulled up the original architectural blueprint of the Archives building—not the later, repeatedly revised, whitewashed official versions, but the first edition construction drawing issued by the Architectural Design Institute in 1985. He had painstakingly unearthed this drawing from the encrypted digital archives of the City Construction Archives. At the time, he had only skimmed it for completeness. Now, he needed to examine it as if under a microscope. His fingers zoomed in on the screen, then zoomed in again. His fingertips turned slightly white from the pressure. Northeast corner. Next to the equipment room. Corridor B. On the construction drawing, the end of Corridor B was marked with a very small room, labeled "B-1." A note in tiny script read: "Temporary storage. Non-public area." The shape of the room—a standard rectangle, but with its entrance on one of the long sides. Viewed from the corridor, its overall outline did indeed resemble a sideways "L." This room had vanished from all subsequent updated blueprints. It wasn't remodeled. It wasn't merged. It was directly, thoroughly erased from the drawings. Starting from the first restoration blueprint after the 1987 fire, "B-1" never appeared again. In all later floor plans, that area was a blank, merged with the adjacent equipment room in the annotations, as if it had never existed. Why? A temporary storage room. Why did it need to be so deliberately deleted from all official records after the fire? Unless what it stored couldn't see the light. Or, unless the fire itself had some unspeakable connection to it. Lu Chenzhou felt a throbbing begin at his temples, blood vessels pulsing beneath the skin. The intracranial pressure from high-speed thinking was like an invisible hand, squeezing tighter and tighter. He took off his glasses. The cool metal temple pieces left his skin. He pressed the acupressure point at the bridge of his nose hard with his thumb and forefinger. A dull ache spread. In the instant he closed his eyes, chaotic spots of light danced in the darkness, like embers drifting down from a charred blueprint. Then, a name surfaced. It wasn't a sudden flash of insight. It was like a submarine in the deep sea, using sonar to scan bit by bit, finally locking onto a target from the dark depths and slowly rising. At first, it was just a vague Lu Chenzhou had almost no specific impression of her. Before being forced into the Shen family affairs, he wasn’t even sure if Shen Moqing had this daughter. She was like a transparent shadow, existing in the background of the family. But now, this name and the "L"-shaped area were forcibly stitched together by a thread of memory. It wasn't a fabricated connection. It was a document from the depths of his memory, almost forgotten and supposedly destroyed—an auxiliary logistics personnel list for the 1996 "Archives Optimization and Preservation Pilot Project" of the Municipal Archives. That list was not formally archived, had no document number, and was merely attached to a pile of internal logistics paperwork, mixed in with a large stack of papers slated for destruction. Ten years ago, because of another case involving economic crime, Lu Chenzhou had seen it among the mountains of materials awaiting processing in the archives. At the time, he had only glanced over it hastily to check for a related name.