The night vision goggles rotated three times in his palm, then stopped. Lu Chenzhou’s finger rested on the edge of the lens barrel, his own pulse palpable beneath his skin. Beating a little too fast. He took a breath and placed the goggles on the table beside the spread-out old blueprint, lining them up with the lock-picking tools and the disposable phone. A counterfeit police ID was also splayed open at the corner of the desk, its plastic cover gleaming with a cheap, oily sheen under the lamp light. He stared at the ID for two seconds. His fingertip lightly brushed over the cover, like touching the scar left by a burn. The real one confiscated ten years ago felt the same. Thin, stiff, with a gold-embossed police emblem on the front. His breath caught in his throat. He abruptly looked away and reached for the parts of the miniature camera. Screwdriver, sensor, button battery. His movements were mechanical, his joints feeling rusted. The streetlight outside sliced a pallid strip of light onto the table through the gap in the not-quite-closed curtains. At the end of that light strip was the silhouette of the black SUV at the street corner. It had been parked there, engine off, for forty-seven minutes. Lu Chenzhou’s peripheral vision was fixed on that dark shape. Forty-seven minutes. Enough time for a person to finish two packs of cigarettes, or make three phone calls, or jot down the safe house’s address, its comings and goings, and its lighting schedule into a notebook. He forced himself to lower his head and continued assembling the camera. His left hand held a screw smaller than a grain of rice, his right hand used tweezers to pick up the sensor. Align. Screw it in. The first turn, the sound of the threads meshing was as fine as a needle scratching glass. The second turn, his fingertips suddenly trembled. The screw slipped from the tip of the tweezers, fell onto the table, bounced once, and rolled toward the edge. Lu Chenzhou reached to catch it, his fingertip grazing the edge of the screw. Missed. The screw fell onto the floor. *Click…* A soft sound. In the dead silence of the room, it was amplified tenfold. Like a stone dropping into a deep well, echoes rippling out in circles, hitting the walls, and bouncing back. Lu Chenzhou froze. He stared at the screw on the floor. It rolled twice and came to rest in the shadow of the table leg. Then, he slowly raised his eyes and looked out the window. At the street corner, the black SUV’s taillights suddenly flashed once. A crimson light, like an eye opening in the darkness. It lasted a second, then went out. Forty-seven minutes and three seconds. Lu Chenzhou slowly set down the tweezers in his hand. The metal made a lighter *tap* sound against the wooden table. He stood up, walked to the window, and pressed himself sideways against the curtain gap, looking out with only one eye. The SUV was still parked in the same spot. The driver’s side window was half-lowered, the red glow of a cigarette ember flickering in the dark. One person. Smoking. Watching. Lu Chenzhou’s breathing grew shallow. He retreated two steps back to the table, his gaze sweeping over the spread-out equipment. Night vision goggles, lock-picking tools, disposable phone, counterfeit ID, and that old blueprint covered in markings—the coordinates of the maintenance hatch for the abandoned ventilation duct, the entry point for Plan B, circled in red pen. Tomorrow night at ten. He had less than twenty-four hours. But the watcher outside the window had already arrived. Lu Chenzhou’s left hand unconsciously reached for the pen on the table. It was an ordinary black ballpoint pen, a plastic body, the cap already worn. He picked it up, and his fingers began to move—removing the cap, unscrewing the barrel, taking out the ink cartridge, then reassembling it all. Disassemble, assemble. Disassemble again, assemble again. The movements grew faster and faster. The metal tip of the cartridge traced out fine silver lines under the light. A faint twitch started at the corner of his left eye. Very slight, like a fine thread buried under the skin, being tugged occasionally. The cigarette ember outside the window glowed once more. Lu Chenzhou stopped. He clenched the pen in his palm. The plastic casing made a soft *crack* sound. He turned and walked to the other side of the room, dragged a black nylon backpack from under the bed, and began packing the items from the table into it one by one. Night vision goggles. Lock-picking tools. Disposable phone. When it came to the counterfeit ID, A metallic, rust-like taste welled up in Lu Chenzhou's throat. He swallowed it down, turned, and strode quickly toward the fire escape door on the other side of the room. It was an old iron door, its paint peeling, hinges rusted. He pushed it open just a crack, squeezed through sideways, and pulled it shut behind him. There was no light in the stairwell. Darkness, thick as dense ink, wrapped around his body. Holding onto the cold iron railing, he descended step by step. His footsteps were deliberately light, landing on the concrete steps with only a soft, rasping scrape. When he reached the third floor, his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was a faint vibration, muffled by the fabric, like an extra beat of the heart in his chest. Lu Chenzhou stopped, pulled out the phone. The screen lit up with a ghostly blue light, illuminating half his face. It was a text message, from a number not saved in his contacts. 「Zhi Zhi Zhai. Now. Alone.」 Sender: Qin Wangshu. Lu Chenzhou stared at the line of text for five seconds. The light from the screen reflected in his eyes, his pupils contracting slightly. Then he turned off the screen, stuffed the phone back into his pocket, and continued his descent. His pace was a little faster than before. Reaching the ground floor, he pushed open the fire escape door. Cold wind rushed in, carrying the dampness and gasoline smell unique to streets in the dead of night. He pulled his coat collar tighter, lowered his head, and walked into the night. The SUV at the street corner was still parked there. The red glow of a cigarette tip flickered in the darkness, like the patient eye of a predator waiting for its prey to emerge. Lu Chenzhou did not look back. He turned into another alley, his figure swallowed by deeper darkness. The strap of his backpack dug into his shoulder, grating against the bone painfully. He walked steadily, each step landing in the thickest patch of shadow. But that feeling of being watched clung to his back like a cold, tight film. Exactly the same as ten years ago. That day, he had walked the streets just like this, knowing eyes were on him from behind, knowing every step could be recorded, analyzed, and woven into a script that had been written long ago. And then, the final page of that script was the interrogation room, was that "confession" they wanted him to sign. The sensation of the pen tip tearing through the paper suddenly surged up from the depths of his memory. His fingertips went icy cold. Lu Chenzhou abruptly stopped, leaning against the brick wall of the alley, taking a deep breath. Cold air flooded his lungs like swallowing a mouthful of broken glass. He closed his eyes, opened them again, forcing himself to keep walking. The edge of the old blueprint in his backpack dug into his back. Plan B. That pipeline no one had ever come out of alive. And Qin Wangshu's text. He quickened his pace, crossed two streets, and turned into an old district. Low, single-story houses, crooked power poles, abandoned furniture and cardboard boxes piled by the roadside. The air carried the smell of coal briquette smoke and the ammonia stench from public toilets. Zhi Zhi Zhai was at the end of this street. A faded wooden plaque hung above a narrow storefront. The bookstore had long been closed, its roll-up shutter pulled all the way down, not a sliver of light escaping from the cracks. Lu Chenzhou circled to the side, found an inconspicuous small wooden door. The door panel was already rotting, mold growing along its edges. He raised his hand and knocked three times. Paused for two seconds. Knocked twice more. A faint sound came from inside, followed by the scrape of a bolt being drawn. The wooden door opened inward a crack, a dim yellow light leaking out, illuminating half of Qin Wangshu's face behind it. She looked at him, said nothing, just stepped aside to let him pass. Lu Chenzhou slipped inside, pulled the door shut behind him. The sound of the bolt falling into place was unusually loud in the cramped space. They stood at the bottom of a steep wooden staircase. It led to the second floor, or more precisely, to a low attic. The air was thick with the smell of old books and years of dust, like stepping into a tomb forgotten by time. Qin Wangshu had already turned and started climbing. The wooden stairs groaned under her weight with each step, a sound of protest, as if they might snap at any moment. Lu Chenzhou followed her, his gaze sweeping over the books piled on both sides of the staircase — thread-bound volumes, old magazines with kraft paper covers, yellowed atlases, all covered in a thick layer of dust. The attic was even smaller than he'd imagined. The sl "It's from your old case file." Qin Wangshu's voice was flat, devoid of inflection, as if she were reading an autopsy report. "The third page of that confession. Old Liu from Forensics secretly ran a re-examination before he retired." Lu Chenzhou did not take it. He looked at the file bag, then at Qin Wangshu. Her face was half-lit, half-hidden in shadow under the moonlight from the skylight. Her eyes were very still, a stillness that felt unsettling. "The conclusion was that the signature pressure characteristics showed a high degree of inconsistency with your known habit samples." Qin Wangshu continued, her hand still extended. "Of course, this report was never entered into the case file." The attic was so quiet he could hear the dust drifting down through the moonlight. Lu Chenzhou finally raised his hand, his fingertips brushing the rough surface of the file bag. It felt like sandpaper, grating against his fingertips. He took the bag. It was light, too light to hold evidence that could change anything. "Why give it to me now?" he asked. His voice was dry, as if he hadn't spoken in a long time. Qin Wangshu looked at him, the moonlight reflecting two cold points of light in her eyes. "Because after tomorrow," she said, "there might not be another chance." She paused, something in her tone cracking open a seam. "I don't want you to die wearing the label 'liar'," she said. "Even if that label was put on you by someone else." Lu Chenzhou's fingers tightened. The kraft paper made a faint *creak* in his palm. Qin Wangshu leaned against a wooden crate piled high with old books, listening. The moonlight cut diagonally through the skylight, casting a cold, trapezoidal patch of light at her feet. Lu Chenzhou's voice echoed in the cramped space, not loud, but each word struck like a chisel, hammering into the solidified dust. "...The main entrance to the ventilation duct is on the north exterior wall of the boiler room, hidden by vines and abandoned exhaust pipes. It's marked on the old blueprints, but it was sealed off in the late eighties. The real entrance is three meters below it—an inspection shaft. The manhole cover is rusted shut, but the lock mechanism is simple." Lu Chenzhou's fingers unconsciously traced the route in the air; the slight twitch at the corner of his left eye was almost invisible in the shadows. "After going down, head east for seventeen meters. You'll hit the first concrete partition. It's not a load-bearing wall; it was added later. It's only twenty centimeters thick. A hydraulic breaker can open a hole big enough for a person to pass through in three minutes." Qin Wangshu's breathing was light. She wasn't taking notes, just watching him, her pupils contracting slightly in the gloom. "After passing through the partition, it's the abandoned main ventilation duct. Diameter: one point two meters. You can move forward bent over. But watch the ground—" Lu Chenzhou paused. "Zhou Zhengping mentioned that duct 'no one ever came out of alive'. Not because of structural collapse. Because there's something inside." "What kind of something?" "He wasn't clear." Lu Chenzhou's thumb rubbed the rough edge of the file bag. "Could be residual toxic gas. Could be sensor mines left over from an old security system. Could be... something else. I checked the municipal archives. During the underground pipeline renovation in that area in the early nineties, there were three 'accidental casualties'. The records are all vague, just labeled 'construction accidents', but the deceased were all retired military engineers." Qin Wangshu's Adam's apple bobbed. "So that's why you insisted on going in alone." "Four people go in, more than four might die." Lu Chenzhou's voice turned cold. "I checked the 'support team' list Gu Zhixing gave. Two are temporary transfers from a security company. Their backgrounds are suspiciously clean. Another is someone from Zhao Tieshan's squad. You know him, Li Jianguo. Got a disciplinary action three years ago for improper use of firearms, then was sidelined to the archives department. The last one is me." He raised his eyes. The moonlight illuminated half his face; the other half was submerged in darkness. "Out of the four people he gave me, three are probably his. The only one who isn't is me, the 'principal offender'. Once inside the duct, with just one 'accident', everyone can die in there. Then they can announce to the outside: 'Operation failed, all personnel killed in the line of duty.' Clean and tidy." The attic was so quiet you could hear the dust settling. Qin Wangshu slowly straightened up, took two steps away from the crate, making the floorboards give a "Yes," Lu Chenzhou admitted. "The maintenance shaft is a decoy. I will arrive there with those three people tomorrow night at 9:40, making a show of doing the preparatory work. Then, at 9:55, I'll use the excuse of checking equipment to leave via the side fire escape, circle around to the south side of the boiler room — there's a real pressure relief valve passage there, not even marked on the old blueprints. It's only sixty centimeters in diameter, requires removing three grates, but it leads directly to the middle section of the pipeline, bypassing the most dangerous first fifty meters." "Time window." "9:55 to 10:05. Ten minutes," Lu Chenzhou said. "Gu Zhixing's main force will launch their frontal assault precisely at 10:00, drawing all attention. During those ten minutes, the surveillance in the boiler room area will be temporarily jammed by the electronic interference from the 'support team' — it's a written part of the plan, he won't suspect anything. I need to get into the pressure relief valve passage, reach the middle section of the pipeline within those ten minutes, then push eastward. The target location is here." He pulled out a folded piece of paper from his coat and unfolded it — a hand-drawn sketch. The moonlight wasn't bright enough. Qin Wangshu leaned closer and could smell the faint scent of tobacco and cold wind on him. A spot was circled in red on the diagram. "The backup ventilation shaft for the Shen residence's underground archive vault. Eighty centimeters in diameter, with an air-pressure seal. But it can be unlocked from the outside using a specific frequency of sonic resonance." Lu Chenzhou's finger tapped the red circle. "I need to get in, find what Shen Yan might have hidden there before he died — Zhou Zhengping hinted that Shen Yan, under the pretext of 'air conditioning maintenance,' went in three times in the week before his death, each time for over two hours. Then, before 10:20, I need to return the same way, exit the pressure relief valve passage, get back to the boiler room, and rejoin the 'support team,' pretending I just came up from the maintenance shaft." "What if you can't come back?" Qin Wangshu asked, her voice soft. Lu Chenzhou was silent for a few seconds. "If I'm not out by 10:25, use this." He took out a small black metal tube from his inner coat pocket and handed it to her. "High-frequency signal transmitter. Effective range five hundred meters. Press the button on the top. It will continuously send an encrypted positioning signal on a frequency that overlaps with the municipal bureau's emergency band. Zhao Tieshan will receive it. He'll send people — not to save me, but to clean up the scene. But at least, you'll know where things went wrong for me." Qin Wangshu took the metal tube. It was cold, heavy, like a bullet. She held it in her hand, her fingertips rubbing against the fine anti-slip texture on its surface. "And then?" She raised her eyes. "Even if you get the thing, get out, and rejoin the support team — what then? Gu Zhixing won't let you leave the scene alive. He set this trap precisely so everyone dies inside. Even if you get out of the pipeline, you'll meet with an 'accident' during the 'evacuation.'" "I know," Lu Chenzhou said, the corner of his mouth pulling into a faint, cold arc. "That's why I need you to do one thing outside." "What?" "At 10:30, whether I'm there or not, no matter the situation on the ground, you must immediately take the support team — or rather, the people you can control — and evacuate to this coordinate in the old city." He took out another slip of paper with an address written on it. "There's a private warehouse there. The key is under the third brick by the door. Once inside, lock the door, don't turn on any lights, don't use any electronic devices. Wait for my message. If there's no word by 1 AM..." He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing. "...then take everything I told you tonight, including this report, and use the old-fashioned fax machine in the warehouse to send it to this number." He handed over a second slip of paper with a handwritten fax number. "Destroy the machine immediately after sending, leave, and don't come back. The number belongs to Chen Jianguo, from the Provincial Commission for Discipline Inspection. He'll know what to do when he sees this stuff." Qin Wangshu took the two slips of paper. The paper was thin, almost transparent under the moonlight. She looked at the handwriting, then raised her head to look at Lu Chenzhou. "You've arranged all the escape routes," she Lu Chenzhou's back stiffened. "She... doesn't know about these things." His voice was hoarse. "I arranged for her to go to the south for convalescence, with reliable people looking after her. Even if something happens to me, she can live safely." "She won't want that kind of 'safety'." Qin Wangshu took a step forward, treading on the line between moonlight and shadow. "She waited ten years, waiting for you to get out, waiting for you to clear your name, waiting for you to come home. And now you're telling me, you didn't even let her try, you just chose 'safety' for her?" Lu Chenzhou whirled around. His eyes were frighteningly bright in the dimness, like two points of cold fire. "Then what do you want me to do?" His voice was pressed low, yet every word seemed squeezed out between his teeth. "Take her along on the risk? Let her watch me die? Or have her sign another surgery consent form, this time to collect my body?" Qin Wangshu met his gaze, not retreating. "I want you to come out alive," she said, each word deliberate. "Not to clear your name, not for revenge, but to tell her..." The attic door closed softly. Qin Wangshu's footsteps descended along the wooden stairs, eventually disappearing into the silence deep within the old bookstore. Lu Chenzhou remained standing where he was. He still held the yellowed file folder in his hand, the rough texture under his fingertips feeling real and solid. Moonlight slanted in through the skylight, illuminating the tabletop — there sat a white porcelain teacup, a few faint wisps of steam still curling from its rim. Qin Wangshu had poured it before leaving. The tea fragrance was faint, mingling with the aged dust smell of old books, like an untimely gentleness. He walked to the table and sat down. The chair was hardwood, its armrests digging into his ribs. He untied the white cotton thread wound around the file folder, his movements slow, as if disarming a delayed-action fuse. The paper rustled crisply as he pulled it out, amplified in the absolute quiet of the attic into some kind of ritual. The first page of the report was a standard-format appraisal request form. The second page was a scanned copy of the signature sample — the three characters "Lu Chenzhou" from ten years ago, strokes neat and forceful, the ink piercing the paper. That was the name he had signed in the interrogation room, facing his sister's critical condition notice. The sensation of the pen tip tearing through the paper, across ten years of time, suddenly surged up from the nerve endings in his fingertips. Cold mist spread in his chest. He turned to the third page. In the appraisal conclusion column, a line of small text was circled in red: "The pen pressure characteristics of the questioned signature exhibit a high degree of inconsistency with the pen pressure characteristics of the specimen signature (p<0.01)." Below were dense, intricate waveform comparison charts, those undulating lines like an electrocardiogram, recording a truth that had long been declared dead. His heart felt like it was about to leap out of his throat. He stared at that line, his breathing becoming shallow and rapid. For the first time in ten years, he was seeing evidence from within "the system" that was favorable to him. Even if it was weak, even if it had never been entered into the case file, even if it lay now in this mold-smelling attic like an unclaimed corpse. But it existed. Lu Chenzhou's left hand began moving unconsciously — he fumbled on the table and found a pencil, pressed his fingertip against the cap, and gave it a slight twist. The cap came off, revealing the spring and small metal piece inside. He took it apart, reassembled it, took it apart again. The pencil became a scattered pile of parts between his fingers, then returned to its original form. Click. Click. Click. Mechanical repetition could suppress certain things. Like the slight twitch at the corner of his left eye right now. He thought of what Qin Wangshu had just said: "I don't want you to die with the label 'liar,' even if that label was pasted on by others." Her tone held no sympathy, no guilt, only a kind of almost cruel directness. She wasn't asking for forgiveness; she was stating a fact — she had chosen to stand on his side, not as a police officer, but as Qin Wangshu. This realization was harder for him to bear than the report. Trust had weight. It wasn't sharp like hatred, yet it could cut deeper into the bone and flesh. Lu Chenzhou was accustomed to carrying everything alone — calculation, suspicion, revenge. These emotions were familiar, like a well-worn suit of armor. But trust... Lu Chenzhou set down the teacup. Its base knocked against the wooden table with a crisp *ding*. He picked up the report again and walked beneath the skylight. The moonlight was brighter now, making the handwriting on the paper glaringly clear. He stared at the line circled in red ink for a long time. Then, he raised his hand and pinched a corner of the report. He tore it. The sound of ripping paper exploded in the silence, like a bone snapping. He tore it slowly, first splitting it down the middle, then into quarters. The fragments in his hands grew, their edges jagged, like a corpse violently dismembered. He kept tearing, into thinner strips, smaller shreds. Paper scraps danced in the moonlight, like a silent snowfall. What was he tearing up? Was it this piece of evidence, ten years too late? Was it the young, desperate Lu Chenzhou who had signed his name in that interrogation room all those years ago? Or was it every minute, every second of the humiliation and resentment from the past decade? The paper shreds fell to the floor, forming a thin layer. Lu Chenzhou stopped moving. In his hand remained the last piece—the column with the appraisal conclusion, the line circled in red. The fragment was only the size of a fingernail, the characters on it already incomplete: "High degree of inconsistency." He stared at that scrap of paper, his breath catching. Tearing it meant completely abandoning the fantasy of "proving his innocence." It meant accepting that he was forever a "fraud," even if the label had been pasted on by others. It meant tomorrow's operation was no longer about overturning the case, but about... About what? Revenge? Killing Shen Yanqing? Killing Gu Zhixing? Making those who turned him into a pawn pay the price? His fist clenched, fingernails digging into his palm. The sharp pain in his palm jolted him awake. He suddenly realized, if it was just for revenge, then what he was doing, what difference was there between him and Shen Yanqing, Gu Zhixing, and the others? They exploited the rules, manipulated people, eliminated obstacles, turning everyone into pawns on a chessboard. And him? He was calculating Gu Zhixing's trap, leveraging Qin Wangshu's trust, turning tomorrow's operation into a life-or-death gamble. He was becoming one of them. This realization felt like a bucket of ice water poured over him from head to toe. Lu Chenzhou unclenched his fist, four crescent-shaped marks of blood left in his palm. He slowly crouched down and began picking up the paper shreds from the floor. One piece, two, three... He gathered all the fragments together, placed them on the table, and carefully smoothed them flat with his palm. Those torn papers could never be restored to their original state, crisscrossed with wrinkles like a face weathered by time. But he did not throw them away. He took out the black leather-bound notebook from his backpack—the one Zhou Zhengping had given him, used for many years, its leather cover worn to a sheen. He opened it, found a page in the middle, and carefully placed the smoothed fragments inside. The paper scraps were thin, almost invisible in thickness between the pages. But he knew they were there. Just as he knew that the humiliation of those ten years and that "false confession" were forever a part of him. He could not tear them up, could not discard them. He could only carry them forward. And the path forward should not be just about revenge. Lu Chenzhou closed the notebook, his fingers lingering on the cover for a moment. The leather felt warm and solid. He lifted his head and looked out the skylight—the night was fading, a faint fish-belly white spreading across the eastern sky, as if a tiny slit had been torn in the darkness. Dawn was approaching. He sat back down in the chair, picked up the cup of now-cold tea, and drank it all in one gulp. The bitter liquid poured into his stomach, yet it strangely brought a sharp clarity. The system was online. All noise receded, leaving only the core logical chain unfolding in his mind: First, Gu Zhixing had set a trap, intending to eliminate anyone entering the "evacuation channel." This was an established fact. Second, he had formulated Plan B, preparing to infiltrate via the abandoned ventilation ducts. This was the counterattack path. Third, Qin Wangshu had provided crucial evidence and clearly stated she was on his side. This was a new variable. Fourth, tomorrow night's operation, besides gathering evidence, must ensure the safety of Qin Wangshu and the support team. This was the bottom line, and an extension of his own principle of "never harming the innocent." Fifth, true victory was not about killing someone, but about breaking the system that had reduced everyone— This shift in identity brought an unfamiliar weight, pressing down on his shoulders, yet it also made his spine stand straighter. He was no longer alone. Qin Wangshu's trust, the clues left by Zhou Zhengping, the evidence Shen Qinghuan risked her life to retrieve, even those four members of the support team he had yet to meet—all of these had become responsibilities he must shoulder. And he was willing to shoulder them. Lu Chenzhou stood up and walked to the window. The sky had brightened a little more, the roofline across the street now clearly defined. He— As daylight seeped through the grimy skylight of the "Zhizhi Zhai" attic, Lu Chenzhou happened to close the notebook. The pen's ink had bled slightly on the last page, like congealed blood. He stacked the notebook together with that torn and smoothed-out appraisal report and stuffed them into a compartment of his backpack. His hand touched a hard object at the bottom of the pack, and his movements paused. It was that old-fashioned mechanical pocket watch. Zhou Zhengping had shoved it into his hand the day he was released from prison, saying "time will prove everything." The brass case, warmed by body heat, was no longer cold, but still felt heavy. Extremely light footsteps sounded from downstairs, treading on the creaking wooden stairs with a familiar rhythm. Lu Chenzhou did not get up, merely zipped up his backpack and placed it by his feet. He picked up the long-cold cup of tea from the table and took a sip. The astringent taste of the tea spread across the back of his tongue, mingling with the uniquely bitter, dusty scent of old books. When Qin Wangshu pushed the door open, she brought in a wave of the damp morning chill. She had changed into dark gray casual clothes, her hair tied into a neat ponytail. There were faint shadows under her eyes, but her gaze was clear and bright. "Didn't sleep?" she asked, her voice slightly hoarse. "Slept three hours," Lu Chenzhou put down the teacup. "Enough." Qin Wangshu walked under the skylight and looked up at the sky. "It's overcast today, might rain. If humidity exceeds eighty percent, rust flaking inside the abandoned pipelines will intensify, visibility will drop by at least thirty percent." "I know." Lu Chenzhou pulled a folded piece of paper from the side pocket of his backpack and spread it on the table. It was a hand-drawn cross-section of the pipeline interior, densely annotated. "I recalculated the ventilation volume. If it rains today, the groundwater level will rise, there might be accumulated water at the bottom of the pipeline, but not exceeding fifteen centimeters. Won't affect passage, but will affect retreat speed." He paused, his finger tapping on an intersection point on the cross-section. "Here, the original plan was for you to lead the support team to guard this maintenance access point, as one of my fallback routes." Qin Wangshu leaned over to look at the drawing, her ponytail hanging down, brushing the paper. "And now?" "Now," Lu Chenzhou raised his head, his gaze resting on her face, "you lead the support team to guard the ground exit. This maintenance access point, abandon it." The attic fell quiet for a few seconds. In the distance came the engine sound of an early-morning bus, rumbling dully over the street. Qin Wangshu straightened up. "Why?" "Because Gu Zhixing knows about this maintenance access point." Lu Chenzhou's voice was flat, like stating a law of physics. "It was marked on the old blueprint he gave. Although he changed the coordinates to a load-bearing wall, the location of the access point is real. He will definitely leave someone watching it." "Then where will you retreat from?" "From the main passage." Qin Wangshu's breath hitched slightly. "The main passage is a trap. You just confirmed it last night—" "I know it's a trap." Lu Chenzhou interrupted her, his pace still steady, but each word like a nail driven into wood. "But traps are bidirectional. Gu Zhixing will think I'll take the maintenance access point, or take the abandoned pipeline from Plan B. He won't leave heavy forces in the main passage, only a trigger mechanism—most likely remotely detonated explosives, or poison gas." He picked up the pen and drew a new dotted line on the drawing, going directly from deep within the pipeline towards a side door of the main passage. "I'll blast an opening here, fifteen minutes ahead of schedule. I've already calculated the explosive charge, just enough to blast through the concrete layer without causing large-scale collapse." Qin Wangshu stared at that dotted line, her lips pressed into a tight line. "That's too risky "These actions will expose the support team's position." She looked up. "Gu Zhixing is no fool. He'll realize it's a feint." "That's exactly what I want him to realize." Lu Chenzhou said. "But he needs time to react. From judgment to issuing orders to adjust deployment, it takes at least four minutes. Those four minutes are enough for me to exit through the side door of the main passage, cross the abandoned warehouse area north of the factory, and reach the second rendezvous point." He paused, the corner of his left eye twitching slightly once. "And you, after sounding the siren, immediately withdraw to the rendezvous point. Don't look back, don't wait for my signal. When you hear the explosion—that's me blowing open the side door—start counting. If I don't appear within ten minutes after the explosion, you take the support team and leave, and give this to Zhou Zhengping." He took a USB drive sealed in a waterproof bag from his backpack's inner layer and placed it on the blueprint. Qin Wangshu didn't reach for the USB drive. She looked at Lu Chenzhou, her gaze like dissecting a complex corpse, trying to find traces of deceit within the muscle fibers. "You've adjusted all the assignments." She said, her voice very low. "You kept the most dangerous parts all for yourself, and gave me the relatively safe—no, just the 'less lethal' parts. Why?" Lu Chenzhou was silent for a few seconds. In the attic, only the second hand of the old clock ticked, *tick, tick, tick*, each sound striking a nerve. "Because ten years ago," he finally spoke, his pace slower than usual, "when I signed that false confession, I had only one thought in my mind: let my sister survive. As for what would happen to me, whether I'd be nailed to the pillar of shame, whether I'd never be able to clear my name... I didn't think about it." He picked up the cup of cold tea, then set it down again. The ceramic base clicked lightly against the wooden table. "But now it's different." He continued, his gaze falling on Qin Wangshu's face without evasion. "This operation, if it were only to settle my own grudge, to send Shen Yanqing and Gu Zhixing to hell, then I could continue being a lone wolf, and it wouldn't matter if I died inside. But you are not my bargaining chip, Qin Wangshu." Qin Wangshu's breathing grew lighter. "You stood here, produced that appraisal report, and said, 'This time, I'm on your side.'" Lu Chenzhou said word by word. "That means I'm carrying your life on my back too. My own life I can gamble, but the life on my back, I cannot." He reached out and took the mechanical pocket watch from the bottom of his backpack. The brass case glowed with a warm, dark gold hue in the morning light. The Roman numerals on the dial were worn, but the hands still moved steadily. "Take this." He placed the pocket watch on the blueprint and pushed it toward Qin Wangshu. "Zhou Zhengping said time will prove everything. I don't believe that. But I do believe that if after ten o'clock tomorrow night, I don't walk out, you'll need a token—to make those who should believe, believe what you're going to say next." Qin Wangshu didn't take it immediately. She looked at the pocket watch, then at Lu Chenzhou. Something in her eyes seemed to slowly shatter and reassemble. Finally, she reached out, her fingertips touching the cool brass case, then her entire palm covering it, gripping it tightly. The weight of the pocket watch pressed heavily in her palm. "I'll wait for your signal." She said, her voice raspier than before, but each word enunciated clearly. "And I'll wait for you to come back." Lu Chenzhou nodded. He didn't say "thank you," nor did he say "take care." He stood up and began packing away the blueprint and pen on the table. His movements were methodical, like completing a predetermined procedure. Qin Wangshu also stood up, carefully tucking the pocket watch into an inner pocket close to her body. She walked to the window, lifted a corner of the heavy velvet curtain, and looked out. Sparse pedestrians had already begun appearing on the street. Steam from breakfast stalls rose under the overcast sky, like hazy patches of fog. Everything looked calm, ordinary. But her gaze froze. Across the street, one intersection away, the black SUV had appeared again. This time it wasn't parked in the shadows, but directly by the curb in front of a convenience store that hadn't opened yet. The windows were tinted dark, making it impossible to see inside, but the hood was He took a step, then stopped, glancing back at Qin Wangshu. Morning light slanted through the skylight behind her, gilding the edges of her silhouette with a faint, almost imperceptible golden rim. She stood in the shadow of the mountainous pile of old books, the pocket watch he had just handed her in her hand, her gaze sharp as a blade tempered in fire. “Nine o’clock tonight, at the rendezvous point,” Lu Chenzhou said. Then he turned and went downstairs, the sound of his footsteps quickly swallowed by the depths of the creaking wooden staircase. Qin Wangshu remained where she was, listening until the footsteps faded completely, eventually drowned out by the gradually rising clamor of the street outside. She slipped her hand into her pocket, her fingertips brushing against the cold copper casing of the pocket watch. Beneath the dial, the steady, rhythmic ticking of the mechanical movement transmitted faintly but firmly through her bones. She walked to the window and lifted the corner of the curtain once more. The black SUV was still parked in the same spot. But the passenger-side window had, at some point, been rolled down a crack. A black, telescope-like tube protruded slightly from the gap, aimed directly at the dust-covered attic window of the "Zhi Zhizhai" bookstore. The distance was so close she could make out the reflection of the cold morning light, belonging to this gloomy dawn, glinting off the front end of the tube.