The faint electrical hum in the receiver persisted, like some living creature. Lu Chenzhou sat on an old folding chair. The laptop screen in front of him cast a cold, white glow. The report was finished—the investigation record of Shen Yan's death scene in the garage, every detail met professional forensic standards, flawless. But he knew this wasn't what Gu Zhixing wanted to see. He picked up the black encrypted communicator on the desk. The metal casing was cool, its edges showing slight signs of wear. It had been delivered three days ago by a young man in a suit and white gloves, accompanied by the instruction, "For work-related contact only." There was no keypad, only a single green button. His finger hovered above the button. He paused for three seconds. A dry, scratchy feeling rose from deep in his throat, as if fine sand were grating. He swallowed, but it did no good. Outside the window, the city blurred gradually in the twilight; the headlights on the distant overpass formed a broken river of light. This temporary office on the edge of the old city district was arranged by Gu Zhixing—one bedroom, one living room, the furniture simple to the point of sparseness. The only peculiar thing was the internet—a dedicated fiber optic line, the router a custom model with no brand logo on its casing. "Consultant Lu." Gu Zhixing's voice came through the receiver, clear, steady, devoid of any background noise. "The report is complete?" "Complete," Lu Chenzhou said. He kept his tone professional, his pace measured, each word enunciated clearly. "It has been sent via the encrypted channel to your designated server. Additionally, regarding the direction of the subsequent investigation, I have several requirements to report to you." His gaze fell on the notebook in front of him. The open page held a list he had written in pencil—neat handwriting, clearly organized. But between the third and fourth items, the paper was rough from repeated erasures with a rubber eraser. What was originally written there was another sentence, a request for cross-referencing files related to the 1987 fire case. He had crossed it out at the last moment. What remained on the paper now was a list of "consultant requirements" that appeared to revolve entirely around the Shen Yan case. "First," Lu Chenzhou began, his voice particularly distinct in the quiet room. "I need to review the travel records of Young Master Shen Yan for the past six months. This includes all traceable public and non-public itineraries: business trips, private gatherings, medical visits. This is crucial for mapping his social network." "Approved," Gu Zhixing said. "The relevant records will be compiled and provided." "Second, I request informal interviews with three to five core members of Young Master Shen Yan's immediate work team during his lifetime. The interviews will be conducted at a location of your designation, with full audio and video recording permissible." A faint rustling of paper came through the receiver. Gu Zhixing seemed to be checking something. "The list requires pre-approval," he said. "Specific arrangements will be notified separately." Lu Chenzhou's fingertips unconsciously tapped the desktop. Once, twice. The rhythm was light, but his knuckles were white. "Third," he continued, the dryness in his throat more pronounced. "To comprehensively assess Young Master Shen Yan's social relations and potential conflicts, I request limited access to the non-core archives within the group related to personnel and project approvals he was involved in over the past three years." He paused. Then added, "Limited to procedural documents directly related to him personally, not involving commercial secrets or strategic planning." He had carefully crafted the wording—"non-core archives," "procedural documents," "directly related." Each word was meant to delineate a safe boundary, to make the request sound reasonable, necessary, and harmless. The blue light from the old computer screen reflected on his face, casting a shallow shadow beside the bridge of his nose. He could feel the pulse in his temple, faint but persistent. The electrical hum filled the silence. It wasn't complete quiet, but a low, continuous drone. Lu Chenzhou held his breath. His gaze was fixed outside the window; a light came on in a window of the building opposite, warm yellow, a contrast to the cold white of this room. "Consultant Lu." Gu Zhixing's voice sounded again, its tone unchanged, still unnervingly steady. "The requirement you have proposed partially exceeds the authorization scope of your current consultant agreement." "According to Article 7, Appendix 3 of the agreement," Gu Zhixing continued, his tone like someone reciting legal text, "your authority as a special investigation consultant is limited to on-site investigation of Young Master Shen Yan's death, physical evidence analysis, and inference-based research using publicly available information. Internal management archives of the "I understand this is for information security reasons," Lu Chenzhou said. He made his voice sound as calm as possible, even tinged with a hint of understanding. "But Mr. Gu, if we cannot access any of Young Master Shen Yan's behavioral tracks within the group, the investigation will likely remain superficial. Some potential conflicts or contradictions might be hidden in his daily work interactions." "I respect your professional judgment," Gu Zhixing said. "But procedures are procedures. This request is not approved." Those four words, transmitted through the encrypted line, compressed and restored, still felt as cold as iron nails. Something sank inside Lu Chenzhou's chest. Not a sudden plunge, but a slow, irrevocable sinking. He took a deep breath; the air entering his lungs carried the faint, specific scent of mildew and dust unique to this room. "Then," he asked, his voice still steady, though unconsciously slowing down slightly. "What information does Mr. Gu consider to be within my 'authorized scope' and substantively helpful to the investigation?" This was a probe. A careful, cautious probe at the boundary. Gu Zhixing seemed to adjust his posture. A faint sound of fabric rustling came through the receiver. "You have already received the itinerary records and interview permissions," he said. "That is already the maximum cooperation we can provide based on your special status. Consultant Lu, please understand, some boundaries are not personal to you, but are inherent to the rules themselves." Lu Chenzhou's fist clenched under the table. His fingernails dug into his palm, bringing sharp, stinging pain. He needed this pain to suppress another, more turbulent emotion—the humiliation of being labeled to his face, of being reminded, "You are always an outsider." The sound of traffic outside the window seemed to grow louder, buzzing in, mingling with the electrical background noise. "I understand," he said. Three words, uttered lightly, but each one felt forced through clenched teeth. "Additionally," Gu Zhixing continued, his tone taking on a more official, business-like quality. "Regarding your work environment. Considering the sensitivity and confidentiality requirements of the investigation, the group has decided to assign an assistant to you. Li Ming, reporting at nine tomorrow morning. He will be responsible for your field coordination, information delivery, and ensuring your work environment complies with the company's communication security standards." Lu Chenzhou's fingers paused on the desktop. "An assistant?" "Yes. After all, you are not familiar with the group's internal processes; having dedicated assistance can improve efficiency." Gu Zhixing paused. "Furthermore, the network at your temporary office has been upgraded to a dedicated encrypted line. The original civilian broadband will be disconnected at midnight tonight. From now on, all work-related communications must use the equipment issued to you." From invisible, remote surveillance to a specific person. An "assistant" who would appear precisely at nine tomorrow morning in this room, standing beside him, watching his every move. And the network—cutting off the civilian line meant even his last shred of private, potentially unrecorded external communication channel was being taken away. Lu Chenzhou's Adam's apple bobbed. He unclenched his fist. Four deep, crescent-shaped indentations remained on his palm, slowly fading from white to red. "One more thing." Gu Zhixing's voice came again, this time with a tone that was almost gentle, and therefore even more chilling. "Consultant Lu, are you available to come to the group headquarters now? Regarding the preliminary report on the Shen Yan case, we need to conduct a face-to-face work briefing. Also, some new arrangements need to be communicated to you in person." Lu Chenzhou looked up. Outside the window, it was completely dark now, city lights forming a blurred sea of light. His reflection in the glass was hazy, distorted, like another person trapped inside the mirror. "Now is fine," Gu Zhixing said. "The car is already downstairs. Black sedan, license plate ending in 337." Lu Chenzhou's gaze shifted to the window. At the mouth of the narrow alley downstairs, indeed, a black sedan was parked, lights off, like a silent shadow. The electrical background noise vanished. The room suddenly fell into an excessively complete silence. Lu Chenzhou sat in the chair, not moving immediately. He looked down at his open palm. Those crescent-shaped nail marks were slowly fading, but the pain lingered, fine and persistent. He stood up. The movement was slow, as if every joint needed to reconfirm its function. He walked to the window and looked down. The black sedan was still there, motionless. The driver's side window was halfway down; he could see the driver's blurred profile, wearing a cap, waiting motionlessly. Lu Chenzhou turned, walked to the desk, and closed the laptop. The moment the screen went dark, the last bit of light source in the room vanished. He stood in the darkness for a few seconds. Then, he picked up the jacket draped over the back of the chair—an ordinary dark gray jacket with coarse fabric. He put it on, zipped it up to his chest. Next, he took the encrypted communicator from the drawer and held it in his hand. The metal casing had already taken on the warmth of his palm, no longer so cold. The moment his hand grasped the doorknob, he paused. Outside was the old hallway, the motion-sensor light probably broken, pitch black. He could hear his own breathing, unusually clear in the silence. Then he turned the knob, pulled the door open, and walked out. There was indeed no light in the hallway. Darkness wrapped around him like a tangible fluid, only the faint glow from the car at the mouth of the alley downstairs seeped in a little through the window on the stairwell landing. Lu Chenzhou walked down the steps one by one, his footsteps echoing in the empty hallway, dull and monotonous. The night air rushed in, carrying the chill of early autumn and the city’s unique blend of scents—car exhaust, the cooking fumes from distant snack stalls, and some unknown floral fragrance. The alley was narrow, flanked by mottled walls, with piles of discarded clutter at the base. The driver got out of the car. A man around thirty years old, with a crew cut, wearing a dark suit. He didn’t speak, just opened the rear door and made a gesture of “please.” Lu Chenzhou walked over. As he passed by the driver, he caught a faint whiff of cologne, mixed with the smell of new car leather. He bent down and got into the back seat. The seat was soft but well-supported, the interior spotless, the air filled with the scent of a car freshener—some cheap lemon fragrance. The sound of the engine starting was very soft, almost inaudible. The car smoothly drove out of the alley and merged into the traffic on the main road. Lu Chenzhou leaned back in the seat, his gaze fixed out the window. The street scenes flew past outside, neon signs forming flowing ribbons of light. His left hand rested at his side, fingers unconsciously curling and then stretching. Then, as the car turned a corner and drove onto the elevated highway, he raised his hand and used his fingernail to dig sharply into the crescent-shaped mark on his palm once more. He needed this. He needed the pain to remind himself to stay alert, to remember the feeling at this moment—the feeling of being shut out by the high walls built by procedures, rules, and those polite refusals of “not approved.” To remember the coldness in Gu Zhixing’s voice. To remember what the words “assistant” and “encrypted line” represented—the impending, more tightly sealed cage. The car accelerated on the elevated highway, the lights on both sides stretching into blurred lines. But in the darkness, his mind had already begun to race. Like a precise yet silent machine, gears meshing, bearings turning, processing all the information he had just obtained: the reason for the refusal was “procedure” and “scope of authorization,” not a direct denial of the necessity of the investigation; the specific form of the escalated surveillance was “personnel” plus “technology”; Gu Zhixing demanded a “face-to-face report”… And that subtle sound at the very end of the call, almost drowned out by the electrical noise, possibly made when Gu Zhixing adjusted his posture and inadvertently touched something. He opened his eyes. His gaze fell on his own reflection in the car window. A blurred face, an expression so calm it was almost empty. But only he knew that beneath that calm, something colder, harder, was taking shape. Like a deep autumn lake, its surface placid, but the first thin layer of ice was already beginning to form in its depths. The car drove off the elevated highway and entered the downtown area. The outline of the Shen Yan Group headquarters building appeared ahead—a structure of over fifty stories with a glass curtain wall, brilliantly lit against the night sky, like a massive, sharply angled block of ice. The security booth at the main gate was lit, uniformed guards standing ramrod straight. The car slowed down and drove into the underground garage entrance. The barrier arm lifted. The car slid into the dim underground space, descending along the spiral ramp. The air turned cool and damp, carrying the smells of concrete and motor oil. Finally, the car stopped in a designated parking spot. The driver got out again and opened the rear door. “Advisor Lu, please,” he said. “Mr. Gu is waiting for you in the conference room on the twenty-eighth floor.” The parking garage was dimly lit, the ceiling low, a sense of oppression pressing down. He The reflection in the mirror was gradually swallowed by the crack of the door, until only a pair of eyes remained. In the instant before it closed completely, a flash of icy, almost inhuman sharpness passed through them. A slight sense of weightlessness washed over him. The interior of the elevator car was so quiet he could hear his own breathing. Lu Chenzhou looked up, watching the floor numbers flicker: 1, 2, 3… The digits steadily increased on the red LED display. His right hand hung at his side, his fingers tapping lightly against the seam of his trousers. The elevator doors opened. Twenty-eighth floor. The corridor was carpeted in a deep grey, with excellent sound absorption that almost swallowed all footsteps. The air carried a mixed scent—the leather of new furniture, the filtered cold air pumped out by the central air conditioning, and an extremely faint trace of disinfectant. The walls were a matte metallic material, with recessed light strips embedded at regular intervals. The light was even and indifferent, casting no shadows. The conference room door was slightly ajar. Lu Chenzhou pushed it open and entered. Gu Zhixing was already seated at the far end of the long table. A slim laptop lay open before him, and next to his hand was a kraft paper file folder. He wore a charcoal-grey suit today, no tie, the first button of his shirt undone. He appeared less rigid than on the phone, exuding a greater sense of control. "Consultant Lu, please have a seat." Gu Zhixing looked up, his gaze calm and unreadable behind gold-rimmed glasses. He gestured. Lu Chenzhou sat down three seats away from him. The chair was ergonomically designed, offering good support, but the curve of the backrest forced him to sit up slightly straighter. The surface of the table was polished to a mirror sheen, reflecting the square grille lights on the ceiling and his own blurred, somewhat tense face. Gu Zhixing offered no pleasantries. He directly pulled a sheet of paper from the file folder and slid it across with two fingers. The paper made a faint *shhh* sound as it glided over the smooth tabletop, coming to a stop in front of Lu Chenzhou. The header was in a prominent red Song typeface: "Shen Yan Group Internal Affairs Management Department — Non-Approval Notice." Below were listed a reference number, date, and the very "requests" he had read out item by item over the phone half an hour earlier. Each item was followed by a brief reason for rejection, worded as rigorously as legal clauses: "Exceeds scope of authority under consultancy agreement," "Involves internal family management information, per Chapter 3, Article 12 of the *Shen Yan Archives Management Regulations*," "Not a directly necessary link for the current investigation; may affect investigation efficiency." At the bottom was stamped a bright red official seal: "Shen Yan Group Internal Affairs Management Department Approval Seal." Lu Chenzhou's gaze lingered on that seal for two seconds. The edges of the stamp showed slight smudging, from ink that was too saturated or uneven pressure when it was applied. A detail. An insignificant detail. His fingertips brushed unconsciously over the surface of the paper. The characteristic feel of cheap copy paper—smooth yet insubstantial, slightly cool—transmitted through his touch. "Standard procedure." Gu Zhixing's voice came, not loud, but particularly clear in the excessively quiet conference room. "I hope you can understand." Lu Chenzhou raised his eyes. "I understand procedure," he said, his voice so steady it felt strange even to himself. "But Mr. Gu, an investigation requires information. Especially information regarding Master Shen Yan's social connections and potential conflicts. If I can't even access basic records of his work trajectory within the group over the past three years, my on-site investigation report…" He paused, choosing a word, "...lacks the necessary contextual foundation." "The police have already obtained the background information they deem necessary." Gu Zhixing adjusted his glasses, a flash of light reflecting off the lenses. "Your role is to provide a criminal investigation expertise perspective, not to duplicate police work. The group's internal archives, especially those involving personnel and project approvals, are sensitive information. Even the 'non-core' parts are not on your current list of permissions." "List of permissions." Lu Chenzhou repeated the phrase. The corner of his left eye twitched almost imperceptibly, as if pricked by an invisible needle. He controlled it, didn't touch it. "Then, what exactly does my 'list of permissions' include? Apart from entering the crime scene, taking photographs, taking measurements, and…" he glanced at the "notice," "...aside from providing you with an oral preliminary report?" Gu Zhixing leaned back in his chair, folding his hands on the table. It was a relaxed posture, yet carried an air of scrutiny. The "Your access is granted based on the 'Special Consultant' status specially approved by Mr. Shen Moqing," Gu Zhixing said slowly, enunciating each word clearly. "It permits you to provide professional assistance within the designated scope of the group's investigation into the unfortunate incident involving Young Master Shen Yan. To ensure your work can proceed more efficiently and safely..." He paused, retrieving another printed sheet from the document folder. This time, he didn't slide it over, merely held it in his hand. "The Group has assigned you an assistant. Li Ming. He will report to your temporary office location at nine o'clock tomorrow morning." Gu Zhixing's gaze fell on the paper as if reading out the most ordinary personnel arrangement. "Li Ming's duties are to assist you with field coordination, manage information handover and delivery with the police and within the Group, and ensure your working environment meets the company's communication security standards. He will accompany you for all subsequent investigation activities." Lu Chenzhou's breathing grew heavier. Not a sigh, but a weight settling on his chest, making each inhalation slow and laborious. He felt his throat tighten, as if all moisture had been sucked away by the dry, cold wind. "Furthermore," Gu Zhixing set down the paper and looked at him. "Based on security considerations, the civilian network line at your temporary office will be disconnected before 6 PM today. The Group will install dedicated encrypted network equipment for you to ensure the security of all investigation-related data transmission. Your personal mobile phone may be retained, but if you need to contact external personnel unrelated to the case via non-encrypted channels, it is advised to report it to Li Ming in advance to avoid unnecessary misunderstandings." Every word was wrapped in soft velvet, but inside was a hard lump of iron. Lu Chenzhou's fingers tightened under the table. His fingernails pressed into his palms, transmitting a distinct, dull ache. He needed this pain to suppress that hot, churning thing rising from his stomach. That thing was called anger, called humiliation, called the exact same cold sense of powerlessness he had felt ten years ago when signing his name in the interrogation room. But his face showed no expression. He merely lowered his gaze, looking once more at that "Disapproval Notice." The red official seal resembled a cold, indifferent eye, staring back at him. "I understand," Lu Chenzhou said, his voice still steady, even a bit steadier than before. "I will comply with the company's arrangements." He said "company," not "the Shen family." A tiny, unconscious severance. Gu Zhixing seemed to nod slightly, or perhaps he didn't. He raised his hand to glance at his wristwatch, a very natural gesture. "Regarding the on-site investigation of Shen Yan's case, does Consultant Lu have any additional findings or preliminary inferences to share?" he asked, his tone shifting back to a business-like channel. Lu Chenzhou did not answer immediately. That hot, churning thing in his chest was roiling, seeking an outlet. It couldn't be emotion, couldn't be questioning. It had to be something else. He recalled Gu Zhixing's words on the phone about "investigation efficiency," remembered this flimsy piece of paper stamped with the red seal, thought of the impending shadow named "Li Ming." Then, he spoke. His tone was calm to the point of indifference, as if discussing a technical parameter unrelated to himself. "Mr. Gu, on the night of Young Master Shen Yan's death, regarding the security system logs of the Group's headquarters, especially the access control and camera records for the floor where his office was located—have the original data already been sealed and preserved?" He paused, letting the question hang in the quiet air for half a second. "Or, does access to such core security data also face similar 'procedural' restrictions within the Group's ongoing 'Archive Digitization Migration' project?" He said the words "Archive Digitization Migration" unhurriedly, as if merely casually mentioning a well-known company initiative. The perfect professional mask on Gu Zhixing's face exhibited an almost imperceptible moment of rigidity. Very brief, perhaps only a fraction of a second. His interlaced fingers shifted slightly, the knuckle of his right index finger unconsciously nudging the nose pad of his gold-rimmed glasses. The gaze behind the lenses seemed to focus for an instant, landing on Lu Chenzhou's face, carrying a sharpness of reassessment. But immediately, that perfect glaze covered over it again. "The relevant data has already been lawfully obtained and processed by the police and technical departments," Gu Zhixing said, his voice as steady as before, betraying no ripple. "Your focus on this point is very professional. I will convey it to the relevant departments." He neither admitted nor denied. He built another wall with "lawfully obtained" and "relevant departments." Lu Chenzhou did not press further. He got what he wanted — not an answer, but a reaction. That momentary pause, like a needle on a precision instrument's dial suddenly twitching and then returning to zero, proved he had touched something real, something with substance. It also proved that the words he had glimpsed on the corner of that briefing were not inconsequential. He stood up. "If there's nothing else, I'll head back to prepare for the handover," he said, using the word "handover," pointing toward that yet-to-be-met "Li Ming." Gu Zhixing also stood up, giving a slight nod. "Thank you for your hard work. Li Ming will help you familiarize yourself with the new communication equipment and workflow tomorrow." Lu Chenzhou turned and walked toward the door. His footsteps were steady, neither fast nor slow. His gaze was level, sweeping over the polished metal walls, the recessed light strips, the broad desk behind Gu Zhixing. Just as his line of sight was about to slide past the corner of the desk, he saw it. The briefcase Gu Zhixing had casually placed there earlier, its side zipper not fully closed, revealing the top edge of a stack of documents inside. On top was an internal briefing, printed on light blue paper, slightly narrower than standard A4. The bold black characters in the title bar of the briefing leapt into his field of vision: **[Shen Yan Group Archives Digital Migration (Phase I) Project Progress Briefing]** Below, there seemed to be another line of smaller text, not fully legible, but a few words caught him — "historically retained documents," "categorization and disposal," "authorization re-review." Time likely only allowed for that single glance. His footsteps did not falter in the slightest, not even slowing by a hundredth of a second. Maintaining the same pace, he reached out, grasped the cool brass door handle, pulled it open, and walked out. The corridor remained empty and silent. The door closed softly behind him, cutting off the dry, chilled air of the meeting room and any gaze Gu Zhixing might have cast his way. The elevator was still waiting on this floor, its doors open as if it had never moved. Lu Chenzhou stepped inside and pressed the button for the ground floor. The elevator doors slid shut slowly, the metal interior walls reflecting his blurred, upright figure, his face expressionless. Just as the gap between the doors was about to vanish completely, his back to any potential surveillance camera, his right hand hanging at his side, he used the thumbnail of his right hand to dig fiercely into the palm of his left hand. A sharp pain exploded, clear, concrete, like a bolt of lightning cleaving through the murky chaos of his thoughts. "Archives Digital Migration (Phase I)." "Historically retained documents." "Categorization and disposal." "Authorization re-review." These phrases, along with the rapidly fading yet still faintly throbbing mark in his palm, were seared into the depths of his memory by the pain. The elevator began its descent, a slight sense of weightlessness enveloping him. The metal cab emitted a low hum, masking his suddenly accelerated heartbeat. He stared at the constantly changing floor numbers, his gaze icy. Access control. Cameras. Raw data. Digital migration. Process. Loopholes. Temporary authorization. Fragments began to collide, spin, trying to assemble into a different shape amidst the suppressed fury and the ashes of humiliation. A shape more concealed, more dangerous, perhaps... the only viable shape. The elevator reached the first floor with a soft *ding*, and the doors opened. Outside was the lobby's overly bright, almost glaring light, and the blurred figures and murmurs of staff coming and going. Lu Chenzhou stepped out, his stride steady, heading toward the building's exit. His left hand was tucked in his coat pocket, his fingertips repeatedly tracing over the fresh, tiny wound on his palm. The pain remained. And the plan had already begun to grow.