The handwriting on that piece of paper burned into his eyes like a branding iron. Lu Chenzhou stuffed the A4 sheet into his inner pocket; the corner scraped his fingertip, leaving a sharp, stinging sensation. Lei Hu's voice suddenly came through the earpiece— "Mr. Lu, the eldest Shen son has returned to the mansion. The main hall, now." He had no time to process the meaning of "Page Two." Grabbing his jacket, he pushed open the iron door of the safe house. A cold draft from the corridor rushed into his collar, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. Shen Yan's main hall. Three minutes later. He stood on the second-floor corridor, looking down. Shen Yan was crossing the marble floor; the crisp sound of his leather shoes tapping against the stone echoed in the vast hall. His steps were hurried, his face ashen, as if he had just ended a phone call with someone. Lei Hu's voice sounded again: "East corridor, Camera Three signal lost." Lu Chenzhou's gaze snapped toward the east side. Camera Three—the only route to the side door of the main hall. "Seal the side door." He pressed the talk button. "Everyone—" His words were cut short. A faint red light glowed deep within the east corridor. Dim, yet it instantly froze his blood. The activation indicator light of a directional explosive device. "Get down!" He vaulted over the railing, plummeting straight down from the second floor. The airflow tore at the hem of his clothes; his leather shoe shattered a floor lamp upon landing, broken glass piercing his calf, the pain swallowed by adrenaline. He lunged toward Shen Yan, his fingers just brushing the other man's collar— Explosion. Flames engulfed his vision. The shockwave was like a solid wall, hurling his entire body backward. His back slammed into a marble pillar; his bones made a dull thud, the air squeezed from his lungs. A ringing like a swarm of bees filled his ears; the world became a distorted slow-motion scene. The metallic taste of blood surged into his mouth. Debris flew everywhere. Shen Yan was thrown two meters by the blast, landing heavily on the ground. Lu Chenzhou struggled to push himself up. His left shoulder was dislocated, his entire arm hanging uselessly at his side like scrap iron. He crawled toward Shen Yan with one hand, his palm pressing against the marble floor—slippery, warm. Blood. Shen Yan's blood, spreading in a winding path across the cold stone, the cloying, sweet stench hitting his nostrils, like a piece of rusted iron pressed against the back of his tongue. A black shadow emerged from the smoke. The assassin. Heading straight for Shen Yan. Lu Chenzhou grabbed the shattered copper lamp base beside him and hurled it at the shadow. "Stop him!" The copper struck the assassin's shoulder and back with a dull thud; the man staggered half a step. But the blade was already drawn; a flash of cold light swept across Shen Yan's chest. Drops of blood splattered onto the marble, blooming on the cold white surface, the smell of blood growing even stronger. Gunfire. Lei Hu had finally arrived; a bullet struck the assassin's calf. The man grunted, rolled into the thick smoke, and disappeared outside the side door. The hall was in chaos. Lu Chenzhou knelt beside Shen Yan, his right hand pressing firmly against the bleeding wound on Shen Yan's chest. Hot blood oozed between his fingers, scalding his palm numb. Shen Yan's face was as pale as paper, his lips moving soundlessly. His eyes rolled back; consciousness was slipping away. The corner of his left eye twitched slightly. A physiological reaction under extreme stress, something he couldn't control. "Don't speak." His voice was so hoarse it didn't sound like his own. "You won't die." He looked down at the wound. A piece of metal shrapnel was deeply embedded below Shen Yan's left rib, its edges serrated, distinctly different from ordinary shrapnel. Lu Chenzhou's pupils contracted sharply. The same serrated design. The same copper-nickel alloy. Ten years ago, the specially-made bullet that had pierced his former partner's chest—the projectile had been this shape, this material. Same origin. He clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm. The fragment residue removed from beside Shen Yan's wound pressed painfully into his palm, the serrated edges scraping his skin. Gu Zhixing stood in the distance, his gold-rimmed glasses reflecting the firelight, his expression calm, almost indifferent. Lu Chenzhou pushed himself up on his knees, his left arm hanging limply. He walked toward the surveillance room on the second floor, each step landing in the bloodst His thumb paused for a moment. Then resumed its rotation, faster now. The friction between skin and jade generated intense heat. Lu Chenzhou slapped the shrapnel onto the desk. The metal striking wood produced a dull thud, the vibration spreading across the tabletop. The serrated fragment gleamed coldly under the lamp, its copper-nickel alloy color distinctly different from ordinary bullet casings. Warm blood smeared across the polished surface of the desk. "You understand what this is better than I do, Mr. Shen." Shen Moqing finally turned around. His gaze fell on the shrapnel, his pupils constricting for an instant—so brief it was almost imperceptible. But the hand rubbing his thumb ring stopped, and a faint, almost inaudible hitch of breath escaped his chest. "Ten years ago," Lu Chenzhou's voice was pressed low, his vocal cords taut like steel wire, "the same serrated design, the same copper-nickel alloy. That bullet pierced my partner's chest." He paused. The corner of his left eye twitched slightly, his jaw clenched until it ached. "The killer is still out there. He won't stop." Gu Zhixing took half a step forward, his leather soles crushing the carpet fibers, his tone steady: "Legally speaking, Mr. Lu, a single fragment isn't enough to prove—" "Shut up." Two words, flat and without inflection. Lu Chenzhou didn't even look at him, but the veins on the side of his neck bulged faintly. Gu Zhixing's fingers paused on his cufflinks, the metal edge digging into his flesh. His eyes flickered behind his glasses, but he didn't speak again. "Shen Yan is lying on the operating table right now," Lu Chenzhou stepped closer, the scent of blood on him pressing toward the old man. "Who's next? You? Shen Qinghuan? Or—" He stopped. Letting the unspoken threat hang in the air, like a blade suspended overhead. Shen Moqing's gaze changed. Not anger, but something deeper—like an undercurrent beneath ice, invisible yet capable of crushing everything. A coarse, heavy breath rasped from the old man's throat. "What do you want." "Full authority." The jade thumb ring made a faint clicking sound. Shen Moqing's thumb finally stopped moving. "Family security, personnel deployment, surveillance access—all under my command." Lu Chenzhou enunciated each word, each syllable like a nail hammered into wood. "Refuse, and the next one to die will be you." The study fell into dead silence. A log in the fireplace cracked, sparks flaring up and dying out, the scorched smell of pine resin seeping into the air. Gu Zhixing adjusted his glasses, his lips parting slightly, but Shen Moqing raised a hand to stop him. The old man walked to the desk. Opened a drawer, the slide rail emitting a grating, rusty sound. He took out a rosewood box. Lifting the lid revealed a lining of dark red velvet, and lying in the center was a brass seal—the symbol of the Shen family's authority, a token passed down for a century. Shen Moqing pushed the seal, box and all, across the desk. The heavy brass struck the mahogany with a dull thud, like a drumbeat, shaking the shrapnel on the table. "Take it." Lu Chenzhou reached out. His fingertips touched the icy surface of the seal, a bone-chilling cold spreading up his fingers. The brass was rough, the engravings deep and severe, scraping against his fingertips. "But Jingyuan—" Shen Moqing's voice suddenly dropped, as if squeezed from between clenched teeth, hoarse like crumbling dead leaves, "if my son dies, you will repay it with your life." No answer. Lu Chenzhou pocketed the seal and turned toward the door. The weight of the brass dragged down his pocket, the fabric pulling taut against his thigh. Gu Zhixing shifted slightly as he passed, his leather shoes making a crisp sound on the floor. The reflection on his glasses obscured his gaze, a hint of cold cedar scent mixing with the smell of blood. "Mr. Lu," Gu Zhixing said, his tone still steady, "the original negatives from the surveillance room, I have already arranged for them to be sealed. Based on procedural compliance—" Lu Chenzhou's step faltered. The tendons in his ankle tightened instantly. Sealed? Not destroyed, not handed over—"sealed." He glanced back at Gu Zhixing. Gold-rimmed glasses, impeccable suit, a perfectly professional smile. Sealing meant he would need to apply for access. Applying meant time. Time meant— Someone needed those negatives to disappear. "Camera three," Lu Chenzhou said, "the recording from the three seconds before the signal cut. I want the original." Gu Zhixing adjusted He avoided looking, not letting his gaze fall on the sticky, dark red patch on his knee. That was Shen Yan's blood, seeping into the fabric fibers. The roaring deep in his eardrums hadn't yet faded, the thick, rusty stench of blood assaulting his nostrils. Every time he closed his eyes, the lingering image of Shen Yan collapsing before he fell was nailed into the darkness—his lips moving, only to spray out a mouthful of warm, bloody froth. The stamp suddenly stopped. The left corner of his eye twitched violently. The door hinge let out a strained creak. Qin Wangshu walked in carrying a coarse ceramic teacup, the soles of her military boots knocking against the concrete floor, her steps deliberately slowed. She didn't speak, placing the cup on the folding table beside his hand. White steam billowed from the cup's rim, carrying the bitter, astringent fragrance of cheap tea leaves. "Drink," she spat out a single word. Lu Chenzhou reached out. As his fingertips just touched the cup's wall, the scalding heat transmitted through the rough ceramic instantly pierced his skin—his knuckles trembled, tea splashing out, scalding the back of his hand. He didn't pull back. Instead, his five fingers clamped fiercely onto the cup wall, his fingertips pressed tightly against the ceramic surface, as if trying to forcibly clench that burning pain into the crevices of his bones. The coarse ceramic's grit scraped against his palm. Hot. But only this burning sensation could drag him out of the numbness. Qin Wangshu leaned against the door frame, her fingertips subconsciously reaching for the holstered gun at her waist, brushing past the safety catch before withdrawing. She bit the inside of her lower lip, tasting a hint of rust, then spoke: "He Wanqing just called. Shen Yan is temporarily stabilized." "Temporarily," he repeated, his voice like sandpaper scraping over sheet metal. "Yes, temporarily," Qin Wangshu's voice was rigid. "What do you expect me to say? Guarantee he'll be out of bed tomorrow?" The overhead fluorescent light tube sizzled and flickered once. Lu Chenzhou stared at the swaying water surface in the cup, his own fragmented reflection submerged at the bottom of the murky tea. He slapped the stamp onto the table, the bronze surface producing a dull, heavy thud. Qin Wangshu stared at his tightly clenched jawline: "You don't need to push yourself into becoming a machine." His Adam's apple rolled laboriously, as if stuck with a piece of raw iron. His fingertips still faintly burned; he suppressed the slight tremor threatening to escape his vocal cords, squeezing out only three words: "I'm fine." Qin Wangshu didn't respond. She looked at Lu Chenzhou's hand, still death-gripping the teacup, a flicker of something like moonlight trembling in a deep well passing through the depths of her eyes. "When you signed the confession for your sister ten years ago," she paused, her voice softening, "it wasn't because of any contract either." The left corner of his eye twitched again. He didn't refute it. The tea gradually cooled. He tipped his head back and gulped it down; the bitter, cold tea scraped his throat, yet in his stomach, it churned up a residual warmth that burned. "That shell fragment," he suddenly spoke, his voice pressed extremely low, "is from the same batch as the custom-made bullets from the old case back then." Qin Wangshu's breath hitched for half a beat. "Are you sure?" "Bottom engraving number, process characteristics, alloy composition ratio." He thumped the empty cup onto the table, the ceramic producing a sharp, grating sound. "He Wanqing is cross-referencing now, but I can't be mistaken." He abruptly stood up, his knee slamming hard into the table corner, the brass stamp rolling halfway around. He didn't pick it up. "The real culprit doesn't just want to kill Shen Yan." His voice turned completely cold and hard, like the final metallic ring of a blade before it's sheathed. "He's telling me—he knows everything about what happened ten years ago." Qin Wangshu's right hand moved towards the safety catch again, this time not withdrawing it. "Then what next—" "Interrogate Gu Zhixing." He walked towards the door, brushing past her side, his shoulder blades narrowly avoiding the crook of her arm. "Seal all surveillance records. Before he destroys them." He didn't look back. After three steps, his voice thudded back from the dimly lit corridor— "Thanks for the tea." "I'm giving you a choice." Lu Chenzhou clenched the brass stamp in his pocket, its edges digging painfully into his palm, piercing the numb skin. "Hand over the surveillance film negatives held the surveillance film negative up to the desk lamp. The intense white heat of the tube scalded his fingertips. The light penetrated the film, revealing a grayscale surveillance image—the entrance to a fire escape, a figure swiping a card sideways, holding the door open for a black-clad person behind them. Dark blue uniform. Epaulettes. Badge number. Standard-issue holster at the waist. A police uniform. Lu Chenzhou’s fingers abruptly tightened. The sharp edge of the film negative dug into his fingertip. He leaned closer to the lampshade, the searing white light stinging his eyes as he stared, desperately trying to make out the badge number below the epaulettes. That number— Qin Wangshu’s police badge number. A rust-like taste of blood surged into his throat. Blood seeping from his palm stained a corner of the film red. The person who, just twenty minutes ago in the safe house, had pressed a cup of scalding, coarse tea into his trembling hands. From behind came the crisp echo of leather soles grinding across the carpet, then stepping onto hardwood, step by step approaching the door. "By the way, a reminder," Gu Zhixing's voice drifted from behind, steady as if reading contract clauses, "fifteen minutes ago, I already notified Captain Zhao Tieshan—someone is suspected of providing police access to an assassin." The lock turned. The door opened. Cold corridor air rushed in. Then it closed. Lu Chenzhou stood alone under the light, clutching the blood-stained film negative. Zhao Tieshan already knew. Qin Wangshu’s badge number was already lying on Zhao Tieshan’s desk. He pulled out his phone. The screen’s cold light was blinding. He dialed Qin Wangshu’s number. Busy tone. Dialed again. Busy tone. The third time, it connected. No one answered.