The busy tone after the call hung in the silence, like a stretched wire. Lu Chenzhou put down his phone, his fingertips unconsciously rubbing the cool metal casing. A faint, almost imperceptible twitch came from the corner of his left eye. He closed his eyes, paused for three seconds. When he opened them again, the subtle fluctuation in his pupils had sunk into a deep pool. A crack had been pried open. Now, he had to wedge himself inside. The daylight outside the window was fading. He walked to the bookshelf and pulled out a thick volume titled *Criminal Technology Yearbook*. Inside the cover page was a printed map, the destination circled in glaring red ink: Yong'anju Residential Area. Scrawled beside it was a line of small text—"Zhou Zhengping, retired, lives in Building 3, Unit 402. Habit: Buys evening paper daily around 6 PM at 'Old Chen's Newsstand' near the community gate." He needed an "encounter." One that appeared natural, reasonable, and carried a bureaucratic courtesy, yet stayed within the boundaries drawn by the Shen family. Social connections investigation for the Zhao Mingcheng case, seeking advice from an old criminal investigator on identifying "grey zone intermediaries"—this reason was smooth enough, and fragile enough. Fragile to the point that any extra attention could shatter it. At 4:20 PM, Lu Chenzhou pushed open the door of the temporary office. At the end of the corridor, Gu Zhixing leaned against the windowsill making a call. His gaze behind the gold-rimmed glasses swept over, lingering on Lu Chenzhou for half a second. Lu Chenzhou's footsteps didn't pause. He gave a slight nod, his face wearing a formulaic expression somewhere between aloofness and cooperation. The file folder in his hand had "Preliminary Sorting of Peripheral Social Contacts in the Zhao Mingcheng Case" printed on the cover. "Attorney Gu." He approached, his voice steady. "Need to conduct on-site visits to verify Zhao Mingcheng's activity trail in the three months before his death. Some addresses aren't clear from the map." Gu Zhixing said "wait a moment" into the phone, covered the receiver, and his gaze fell on the file folder. "Scope?" "The old city district. A few teahouses and flea markets he frequented, and..." Lu Chenzhou opened the folder, his fingertip tapping on one page. "...the Yong'anju area where a deceased distant relative of his once lived. The environment is messy. I want to see for myself if any daily contact points were missed." He spoke slowly, each word seemingly measured. Gu Zhixing looked at him for two seconds, the corner of his mouth curving into a smile devoid of warmth. "Advisor Lu is very meticulous. Go ahead. Be careful." He paused, the gaze behind his lenses deepening a fraction. "The old district has complex public security. Don't linger too late." Lu Chenzhou turned and left. He could feel that gaze sticking to his back, like a thin, cold sheet of metal. Only after entering the elevator and pressing the button for the basement level did that sensation slowly fade. The elevator wall reflected his blurred silhouette, expressionless. But he had to step into that aura-covered domain. The car was parked on the roadside two blocks away. Outside the wall of an old factory building, weeds grew wild. The skeletons of several scrapped minivans were half-buried in the overgrowth. Lu Chenzhou cut the engine but didn't get out immediately. He rolled down the window. The slightly cool evening wind rushed in, mingled with the clamor of the distant vegetable market closing for the day, the smell of coal briquette stoves, and the damp, musty scent settled in the brick crevices of the old district. He sat for five minutes. His gaze swept over the rearview mirror, observing the activity on the road behind. A scrap-collecting tricycle pedaled slowly past. Two elementary school students chased and fought as they ran off into the distance. No suspicious trailing vehicles, at least none in the open. He pushed the door open and got out. He wore a somewhat worn dark grey jacket, jeans, and sneakers. He tucked the file folder under his arm and now carried an old black canvas bag, bulging as if stuffed with documents. He turned into a narrow alley along the shadow of the wall. The outline of the Yong'anju residential area appeared ahead. Several six-story old-style slab buildings, their pale yellow exterior paint long since mottled, revealing the dark red brick beneath. Clothes-drying poles extending from balconies resembled a forest of withered trees, hung with clothes of various colors, swaying slightly in the rising evening breeze. It was just the time for preparing dinner. The smell of cooking oil waft Lu Chenzhou’s steps did not pause. He didn’t even spare an extra glance in that direction, his gaze fixed on his phone screen as if he were an ordinary visitor looking up an address. But his mind was already working like a precision instrument. License plate—out-of-province plates, ending in “7.” The height of the car window gap was around shoulder level for the driver’s seat. The rhythm of the smoke drifting out was slow and steady, not the quick, sharp puffing of an anxious smoker, but more like the unconscious waiting of someone who had been there a long time. The silhouette of the person inside—one in the driver’s seat, and what seemed to be a darker shadow in the passenger seat, but the window tint was too dark to be sure. He passed Building Three without turning, heading straight deeper into the complex. Rounding the back of the building, he came to a row of low bicycle sheds, their roofs piled with junk and abandoned flowerpots. The smells grew more complex: damp earth, rusting sheet metal, the sour, rotten odor of rotting vegetable leaves in the corners. He stopped in the shadows of the bicycle shed, leaning back against a concrete pillar. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his canvas bag, took one out, and placed it between his lips without lighting it. From this angle, looking up, his line of sight could pass over the chaotic clutter of the shed roof and slant upward toward the fourth floor. Apartment 402, where Zhou Zhengping lived. The kitchen window was open, lit from within by the cold white glow of an old fluorescent tube. He could make out the blurry outline of a range hood, but there was no sound of stir-frying, no figure moving in front of the window. The living room window was covered by thick, dark brown curtains, drawn tightly shut. The bedroom window was closed, with beige curtains. Everything looked perfectly normal, like the home of an ordinary retired man. Yet Lu Chenzhou’s brow creased almost imperceptibly. It was too quiet. The kitchen light was on, but there was none of the sound or warmth that should accompany cooking a meal. At this time of day, for an elderly man living alone who was in the habit of buying the evening paper, it should typically be the time for preparing a simple dinner. Either he had already eaten, or… he simply had no mind to eat. He glanced at his watch. 5:37 p.m. About twenty to thirty minutes before Zhou Zhengping’s usual time to go out for the evening paper. The black sedan was still parked downstairs, its engine seemingly idling the whole time. From a distance, he could hear an extremely low, deep hum, like a beast lying in wait, drowsing in the shadows. The risk factor was too high. The people in that car, whether sent by the Shen family or not, posed a clear threat. They might just be watching Zhou Zhengping, or they might be lying in ambush, waiting for anyone who tried to contact him. Lu Chenzhou’s appearance would immediately shatter that delicate balance, placing both himself and Zhou Zhengping under a spotlight. Zhou Zhengping’s unshakable habit after retirement—going to the “Old Chen Newsstand” at the entrance of the complex every evening to buy the paper, sometimes chatting briefly with the owner about the weather or prices. This was a public, predictable behavior. Whoever was watching would surely know this. An “accidental” encounter at the newsstand would look much more like a chance meeting than a direct home visit, leaving far fewer traces of premeditation. Of course, that didn’t mean it was safe. The black sedan would very likely follow to the complex entrance or continue observing from some corner. But at least the contact environment would be open, with a third party present. The content and duration of any conversation would be naturally limited, and it would be easier to create the illusion of a brief, casual greeting after a “chance” meeting. Lu Chenzhou put the unlit cigarette back into its pack and zipped up his canvas bag. He cast one last glance at the lit but silent kitchen window on the fourth floor, then turned and walked back along the path he had come, unhurriedly heading toward the entrance of the complex. The last rays of sunset were rapidly being swallowed by the buildings. The sky had turned a murky dark blue. The streetlights in the complex hadn’t come on yet, and the shadows were deep. As he passed the black sedan, he still didn’t turn his head, but every nerve in his body was subtly on alert. He could feel it—a gaze from within that window gap, lingering on him for a brief moment. He didn’t speed up, didn’t pause, maintaining his original pace as he walked out of the main gate. Directly across the street was “Old Chen News "An older relative from afar. Haven't been in touch for many years, only remember this area. Surname Zhou." Lu Chenzhou opened the cigarette box, pulled out a cigarette and lightly sniffed the tobacco scent near the tip of his nose, but didn't light it. "Surname Zhou? Old Zhou?" The proprietress thought for a moment, "The retired old policeman? Lives in building three, buys a newspaper from Old Chen every evening?" "Yes, yes, that's probably him." A suitably relieved expression, as if having found the target, appeared on Lu Chenzhou's face. "What time does he usually come to buy the paper?" "Right about this time, around six o'clock, very punctual." The proprietress glanced at the sluggish electronic clock on the wall. "Soon. You can wait outside, you'll see him as soon as he arrives." Lu Chenzhou thanked her and walked out of the small shop. He didn't stand directly opposite the newsstand, choosing instead a spot under an old locust tree with sparse branches and leaves to one side. From here, he could clearly see both the newsstand and the residential compound entrance, while part of his body was obscured by the tree trunk and its hanging withered branches. He leaned back against the rough bark, took out his phone again, but his focus bypassed the screen, locking onto the compound exit. The cigarette in his hand was unconsciously rotated between his fingers, the filter's sponge slightly deformed. Time passed second by second. The proprietress's chatter, the intermittent opera from the newsstand's radio, the sound of cars passing on the distant road, the faint sighing of the wind through the locust branches... all these sounds wove together into a net. Lu Chenzhou's attention was like a needle suspended at the net's center, waiting for vibration from a specific node. At the compound entrance, a figure in a dark blue old jacket, carrying a gray cloth bag, appeared. But the way he walked caused Lu Chenzhou's pupils to contract slightly. His pace was faster than expected, even somewhat hurried, unlike the usual leisurely gait of a retired old man. His head was lowered, shoulders slightly hunched forward. His gaze wasn't level ahead but darted quickly left and right, each turn seeming alert and brief. The dark blue jacket hung a bit loose on him, his whole body exuding a stiffness gripped by invisible pressure. He walked straight towards the newsstand. When his eyes met the newsstand owner's, he seemed to relax for a moment, but his body remained tense. He fished out some change from the cloth bag and reached for an evening newspaper hanging at the window. Lu Chenzhou stepped out from under the locust tree, his stride natural as he crossed the small open space in front of the newsstand. Calculating the angle and timing, just as Zhou Zhengping picked up the newspaper and was about to turn and hand the money to the owner, Lu Chenzhou took a side step, placing himself precisely between Zhou Zhengping and the newsstand window. The distance between them closed to less than a meter. Lu Chenzhou could smell the faint scent of cheap jasmine tea on Zhou Zhengping, mixed with a hint of that characteristic elderly odor, like old books and mothballs. He spoke, his voice not loud, carrying just the right amount of surprise and politeness. Zhou Zhengping's hand jerked violently. The folded evening paper slipped from his fingers, about to fall to the ground. Lu Chenzhou's hand was faster. With a casual reach, he steadily caught the falling newspaper, his fingertips inevitably brushing against Zhou Zhengping's cold and slightly trembling fingers. Zhou Zhengping looked up. When he saw the person standing before him, the color visibly drained from his face. His lips moved once, and his pupils contracted into two extremely small black dots in the dim evening light. "... Lu... Advisor Lu?" The voice was dry, as if forced from his throat. "How... are you here?" Lu Chenzhou's expression remained normal, the corner of his mouth holding a faint, almost polite smile. Holding the newspaper, he naturally turned towards the window, pulled out some change, and handed it to the still-unreacting newsstand owner. "Just happened to be making visits in the area, remembered you lived around here." His tone was steady. His gaze returned to Zhou Zhengping's face, carrying just the right amount of sincerity, like a junior respectfully consulting a senior. "Regarding Zhao Mingcheng's case, some old methods for checking social connections, young people nowadays don't really understand them anymore. Wanted to learn from an old-timer like you. Would it be convenient... to chat for a few minutes?" As he spoke, he had already paid for Zhou Zhengping's newspaper and was handing it back. The movements were smooth and natural, as if merely a polite gesture done in passing. Zhou Zhengping didn't take the paper. His fingers curled slightly. His Lu Chenzhou followed. As he passed the newspaper kiosk window, he could feel the shopkeeper’s curious gaze briefly lingering on them. He didn’t look back, his eyes calmly following Zhou Zhengping’s retreating figure, while his peripheral vision swept the opposite side of the street and the entrance to the residential compound like the most precise radar, scanning for any possible anomaly. But the invisible string in the air was already pulled taut to its limit. The two men walked to the locust tree. The setting sun stretched their shadows, casting them obliquely onto the mottled wall like two ink stains about to melt. Underfoot, the withered, yellow locust leaves made a fine, crushed sound as they were trodden upon. In the distance came the cry of a scrap collector, accompanied by the clattering of a tricycle’s chain. Lu Chenzhou took out a cigarette case from his pocket, flicked one out, and offered it. Zhou Zhengping didn’t accept it, merely waved a hand in refusal, his other hand still gripping the evening paper tightly. “Quit,” Zhou Zhengping said curtly, his gaze landing on Lu Chenzhou’s face before quickly shifting away, fixing on some spot on the ground. “Lungs are no good. Doctor told me to quit.” Lu Chenzhou nodded, didn’t light one for himself either, just held the cigarette between his fingers. He needed this prop, something to cover pauses and redirect the focus of his gaze. He spoke, his voice steady as if reporting work: “Zhao Mingcheng’s case, his social network is very messy. The overt business partners, political and commercial connections—the task force is already sorting through those. But some things… aren’t on the surface.” Zhou Zhengping made a noncommittal “Hmm,” didn’t respond further. He was hunched over, the collar of his dark blue jacket turned up, covering nearly half his face. The wind stirred the graying hair at his temples. A small bead of sweat on his forehead glinted faintly in the slanting sunlight. “Especially those ‘middlemen’ who operate in gray areas, with access to secrets from all sides,” Lu Chenzhou continued, his pace unhurried. “This type of person often doesn’t participate in transactions directly, but they’re well-informed, act as intermediaries, even… help handle matters that are inconvenient to deal with openly. They’re the hardest to investigate because the traces they leave are the faintest, and most easily overlooked.” Zhou Zhengping’s shoulders tensed. He wasn’t looking at Lu Chenzhou, but his breathing rhythm changed, becoming short and shallow. Lu Chenzhou paused, letting the wind pass through the silence between them. He heard the plastic awning of the newspaper kiosk rustling in the wind, heard the sound of a television news broadcast drifting from some distant window—reporting good news about local investment promotion. The fingers holding the cigarette unconsciously rotated it; he always wanted to take something apart when he was thinking. “For example…” He raised his eyes, his gaze falling on Zhou Zhengping’s profile. “I recall there was someone named Li Guohua in the early years, seemed to be that type of person? Does that ring a bell, Old Zhou?” The moment the words fell, Zhou Zhengping’s body froze. Not a slight tension, but a complete, statue-like rigidity. The fingers clutching the newspaper turned white at the knuckles, the joints protruding as if trying to crush the stack of newsprint. He abruptly lifted his head to look at Lu Chenzhou. Something exploded in his eyes—fear, intense, almost overflowing fear, mixed with a trace of startled indignation. “Li Guohua?” Zhou Zhengping’s voice changed pitch, turning hoarse and rushed. “You… why are you asking about him?” “Just an example,” Lu Chenzhou’s tone remained steady, as if discussing an inconsequential case. “The behavioral patterns, activity habits, possible traces left by such people… I wanted to hear your experience. After all, you handled quite a few similar cases back in the day.” “I don’t know.” Zhou Zhengping said immediately, his words unnaturally fast. “I don’t have much impression. It’s been so many years, I’ve long forgotten.” “Is that so.” Lu Chenzhou didn’t press, just gently rotated the cigarette in his hand. “But I heard that before Li Guohua disappeared, he seemed to be involved in a few commercial disputes. Some people privately called him an ‘information broker’—the kind who specializes in selling inside information, helping people smooth over trouble. When this type of person disappears, it often means…” “Means what?” Zhou Zhengping cut him off, his voice suddenly rising before immediately dropping again, carrying a neurotic tremor "You..." Zhou Zhengping's voice was pressed to an extreme low, almost squeezed out from between his teeth, "What exactly do you want to do? Lu Chenzhou, I'm telling you, some things... some things must not be touched! Do you think you're investigating a case now? You're looking for death!" "I'm merely asking for advice on investigation methods," Lu Chenzhou said, meeting his gaze calmly. "For someone like Li Guohua, if I were to investigate, where should I start? Places he frequented? People he might have contacted? Or... at the time of his last appearance, was there anything unusual?" "There was nothing unusual!" Zhou Zhengping nearly roared out, but he immediately realized his loss of composure and quickly glanced around, especially toward the direction of the black sedan. His breathing grew heavy, his chest rising and falling. "He was just... just a thug! Dealing in some information, making some dirty money. Later, he might have offended someone and ran off on his own. It's that simple! If you insist on digging deeper, what will you find? A pile of mud! You'll only bury yourself in it!" "Sometimes there are other things hidden beneath the mud," Lu Chenzhou said. He noticed Zhou Zhengping's gaze drifting toward the black sedan again, with increasing frequency, as if drawn by a magnet. The fear wasn't directed at him, at least not entirely. That car, the person inside it—that was what he truly feared. Lu Chenzhou followed his gaze with a sidelong glance. The black sedan's window was still only cracked open, making it impossible to see the person inside, but the front of the car seemed to have adjusted slightly—more oriented toward the locust tree. "Old Zhou," Lu Chenzhou took half a step forward to close the distance, lowering his voice so only the two of them could hear. "Where was Li Guohua last seen before he disappeared? Who was he with? Even if it's just a vague direction, the initials of a name, a feature of a place... anything will do." Zhou Zhengping stared at him, his eyes as complex as a tangled knot of threads. Fear, anger, hesitation, some deeply buried guilt... and a faint, almost fear-drowned struggle. His lips moved silently, unable to produce sound. His hands trembled, causing the evening paper in his grip to rustle softly. In the distance, the black sedan's engine suddenly rumbled—a low, deep sound, as if it had just started and immediately died. But in the relatively quiet old residential area, the sound was particularly clear. Zhou Zhengping shuddered as if electrocuted. He turned his head sharply and stared intently at the car, his face as pale as paper. When he looked back at Lu Chenzhou, the last trace of struggle in his eyes had vanished, leaving only naked, almost desperate fear. "Western suburbs," he said hurriedly, his words rapid as if reciting from memory. "Behind the secondhand market, there's a teahouse called 'Old Place.' He... he often went there. A week before he disappeared, someone saw him there." He paused, breathing heavily. "The person with him... was a stranger. Wore a suit, glasses, always carried a black briefcase. That's all. I don't know anything else, really, I don't!" After speaking, he immediately stepped back to put distance between them, as if Lu Chenzhou carried the plague. "Consultant Lu," Zhou Zhengping's voice regained a deliberate, stiff calmness, but the trembling at the end betrayed him. "I've said all I should say. I'm just a retired old man, my memory is poor, many things are fuzzy. If you want to investigate the case, follow the proper procedures, don't... don't keep dwelling on these old matters. It won't do any good." He turned and left without waiting for a response. The dark blue jacket quickly blended into the shadows of dusk, the gray cloth bag swinging at his side. At the entrance of Building Three's unit, he paused for a moment, his shoulders trembling slightly. Without looking back, he quickened his pace, almost jogging as he disappeared into the doorway. As he passed by the black sedan, his body visibly stiffened for an instant before vanishing even faster. Lu Chenzhou stood where he was, watching the figure disappear. The unlit cigarette in his hand had been unconsciously crushed and slightly deformed. He loosened his fingers and returned the cigarette to the pack, his movements slow and precise. Western suburbs secondhand market. "Old Place" teahouse. A stranger in a suit and glasses, with a black briefcase. Li Guohua. Information broker. Disappeared one month before his imprisonment. The pieces were coming together, still blurry but at least taking shape and direction. This wasn't the disappearance of an ordinary th He reached the newsstand. The owner, head bowed as he sorted magazines, asked casually, “Leaving?” “Yeah, leaving.” Lu Chenzhou replied without breaking stride. He walked out of the residential complex gate, turned into the side street, and headed towards where he’d parked. The sun had completely sunk behind the buildings, leaving only the dark red embers of dusk staining the street in an ambiguous, murky yellow. The old district’s streetlights hadn’t come on yet, and shadows began to creep out from every corner. He pulled open the car door and sat in the driver’s seat, not starting the engine immediately. He needed a few seconds to digest everything that had just happened. Zhou Zhengping was hiding more. That was certain. That momentary struggle, that complex look in his eyes—they proved he knew far more than just “West Suburb Teahouse” and “unfamiliar faces.” But he didn’t dare say it, or perhaps couldn’t. The presence of that black sedan was the most direct warning—Zhou Zhengping was under tight surveillance. Every move, even every unusual contact with the outside world, could be recorded, analyzed, and reported. A lead had been given, but the watchers had been thoroughly alerted. Every step from now on had to be more precise, more covert. Teahouse, man in a suit, briefcase—these three words were like three rusty nails, driven deep into a specific point in time that had been deliberately buried. He started the car. The low hum of the engine was unusually clear in the quiet alley. In the rearview mirror, the entrance to the complex was empty; the black sedan hadn’t followed. But Lu Chenzhou knew something had been triggered. This wasn’t an ending; it was the prelude to another kind of beginning. The car slowly pulled away from the curb and merged into the traffic flow of the gathering dusk. Streetlights flickered on one by one, casting moving spots of light on the windshield. The knuckles of his hands on the steering wheel were slightly white. Not from gripping too hard, but because that familiar, icy clarity was washing over him again—just like the night years ago when he first realized he’d stepped into a trap. The lead had a direction. The price had been paid. What he needed now was to find the bespectacled man in the suit, find that teahouse, find the last person Li Guohua had contacted before he vanished—all before the watchers could react. Then, dig out what was lying beneath the muck.