The one on the left, he recognized. Shen Moqing in his youth, his eyes and brows not yet shadowed by the present-day weight of somber calculation, the curve of his mouth even carrying a sharp edge of spirited ambition. The one on the right… Lu Chenzhou’s fingertip paused on the second yellowed slip of paper. It wasn’t a photograph, but an extremely thin photocopy of a document typed out on a typewriter, its edges stamped with blurred red serial numbers. He rubbed his thumb over the rough fibers of the paper, feeling the raised imprints of the inked characters. In the darkness, he closed his eyes, letting his sense of touch trace the information. “North Mountain Project Completion Commemoration… Personnel Review… Attached: List of Associated Archive Retrieval Permissions…” Followed by a string of handwritten serial numbers, the handwriting scrawled yet forceful. The last number had been heavily circled in red pen, a question mark drawn beside it. “Shen Yan!” he barked in a low voice, snapping the pocket watch shut and shoving it back into his inner pocket. He grabbed the arm of Shen Yan, who was nearly slumped beside him. “Move!” From the darkness behind them, a dull, collapsing sound was approaching from afar, like a giant beast slowly chewing through this building that had buried too many secrets. Dust mixed with some acrid chemical odor seeped in through the cracks in the passageway, irritating their throats. Dragged by him, Shen Yan stumbled forward. The passage was narrow, only allowing one person to pass through bent over. The walls on all sides were rough concrete, feeling damp and cold to the touch. In the distance, there was a faint, weak light source—perhaps an exit, perhaps another layer of trap. The corner of Lu Chenzhou’s left eye began to twitch uncontrollably. It wasn’t fear. It was his high-speed brain forcibly suppressing the chill racing up his spine from the base of his spine—Shen Moqing’s applause, those words “I’ve waited ten years,” and now these two thin, scalding pieces of paper in his possession. Bait? If everything was bait, then the evidence for overturning the case he had desperately pursued for ten years, the chance for this “collaborative investigation” he had gambled everything to obtain, even that brief few-second illusion of being the “exposer” in the conference room just now… His fingernails dug deep into his palm. The pain made his breath catch, then he forced his lungs to expand, inhaling more of the foul air. *Have to be fast.* No matter which move Shen Moqing’s game had reached, that serial number circled in red, that list hidden in the pocket watch’s secret compartment, was the only tangible clue he could grasp right now. What it pointed to was definitely not the “shadow” Shen Moqing wanted him to see. The passage began to slope upward. The light ahead grew stronger, revealing an old iron grate door embedded in the wall. Outside seemed to be a relatively open space. No sounds of guards. Too quiet. Lu Chenzhou halted abruptly a few steps from the grate door, pushing Shen Yan back behind him. He tilted his head, listening. Apart from the continuous, thunder-like collapsing sound in the distance, outside the grate there was only an extremely regular, low hum, like some large piece of equipment idling. “Stay close,” he whispered, each word seeming squeezed from between his teeth. “No matter what you see, don’t make a sound.” Shen Yan’s face was deathly pale. He nodded, his fingers unconsciously clutching the collar of his own shirt. Lu Chenzhou reached out, tentatively pushing the iron grate door. It wasn’t locked. The hinges let out a dry, grating creak, particularly piercing in the hollow echo. He sidled out, his gaze sharp as a blade, instantly slicing through the entire space. This was an underground archive vault. Larger and older than the previous “judgment hall” disguised as an archive room. Tall metal archive shelves stood like silent giants, row upon row extending to the limit of sight, piled high with manila folders and hardcover archive boxes of various sizes. The air was thick with the specific musty smell of old paper, the scent of ink, and a more pungent, acidic odor similar to chemical reagents. The hum came from the center of the room. There, a square, cement-built pool, roughly the size of a bathtub, emitted thin wisps of white vapor from its opening. Complex pipes and instrument panels were connected to its edge. An old man in a dark gray traditional Chinese-style jacket, his back to them, was mechanically feeding thick stacks of documents, one sheet at a time, into the pool. The moment the documents touched the liquid inside the pool, they Almost at the exact same moment his gaze locked on, Shen Jun seemed to have eyes in the back of his head, his hand pausing abruptly as he fed the documents. He didn't turn around, but spoke in a hoarse, dry voice, the pace unnervingly calm: "Jing Yuan, you came slower than I thought you would." Lu Chenzhou didn't move, didn't respond. He was assessing the distances—to Shen Jun, to the acid pool, to that file folder, to the nearest exit (if there was one). Shen Yan stood half a step behind him, breathing heavily. "Was Mo Qing's show enjoyable?" Shen Jun finally turned around. There was no panic on his face, only a profound, almost numb exhaustion. His palm was still wrapped in hastily bandaged gauze, seeping with specks of dark red. "He used himself as bait, fishing for you for ten years. Now, he's using you as bait to draw me out." He twisted the corner of his mouth, like a sob, or a laugh. "In his eyes, people like us are all fish in a pond. The only difference is which one goes into the pot first." "The list," Lu Chenzhou spoke, his voice equally steady, yet taut like a steel wire. "The 1996 Beishan Project, the roster of personnel purged during the review. Where is the original?" Shen Jun's clouded eyes looked at him, then slowly shifted to Shen Yan behind him, his expression complex. "You got the pocket watch? Heh... That lunatic Shen Bo'an, before he died, finally did something decent." He shook his head, no longer looking at Shen Yan, but turning his gaze back to the hissing acid pool. "The list? There is no list. All the 'lists,' all the 'group photos,' all the 'association records'... are right here." He raised a hand, gesturing towards the churning pool of liquid billowing white vapor. "This is the final cleanup. The 'cleanliness' Mo Qing wants is the kind where not even ashes remain." As Shen Jun spoke, his hand reached again for a taller stack of documents beside him. "Zhou Zhengping," Lu Chenzhou uttered the name. Shen Jun's hand trembled almost imperceptibly. "The last authorization signature on the access log inside the pocket watch is Zhou Zhengping's." Lu Chenzhou took a step forward, the sole of his boot scraping lightly against the dusty concrete floor. "1996, Deputy Team Leader of the Beishan Project Completion Review Group, Zhou Zhengping. Which people in the group photo was he responsible for identifying, marking, and ultimately recommending for 'clearance'?" Shen Jun was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly let out a low, dry chuckle, like a broken bellows. "You really... have traced it this far after all." He raised his eyes, and for the first time, there was something else in his gaze—not exhaustion, but a sorrow almost akin to pity. "Jing Yuan, why do you think your esteemed mentor was able to retire early back then? Why could he evade so many rounds of purges later? Because he always held onto the most original 'evaluation report.' Not a list, a report. Each person's 'issues,' 'risk level,' 'handling recommendations'... written in black and white, crystal clear." He pointed to his own temple. "Lists can be burned, photos can be scratched out, but the report... the report is in people's minds. Zhou Zhengping is that living 'report.' Mo Qing kept him because he needed those names and 'reasons' in his head to respond to... 'inquiries' from higher levels at certain times. And I, we who carried out the 'handling recommendations,' became the 'shadows.'" Shen Jun's hand finally grasped that stack of documents. He no longer fed them in one by one, but lifted the entire pile with both hands, preparing to dump it all into the pool. "Where is that original report?" Lu Chenzhou took another step forward, now less than three meters from the acid pool. The pungent smell grew stronger, stinging the eyes. "Gone," Shen Jun shook his head, his movement resolute. "Along with all the copies, access logs, related files that could point to it... today, they will all disappear here. This is the final task Mo Qing gave me, and also... the 'dignity' he granted me." He paused, looking at Lu Chenzhou, his eyes hollow. "As for you, Jing Yuan, you got the pocket watch, learned about Zhou Zhengping, even found this place... that's enough. This information is enough for you to be a clear-headed ghost on the road to the underworld." Before the words finished, he exerted force with his arms, shoving the stack of documents toward the The tall filing cabinet couldn't withstand the impact, tipping toward the acid pool with a teeth-grating screech of twisting metal. Countless manila folders, document boxes, and bound files cascaded down like an avalanche, most crashing onto the edge of the pool and Shen Jun, a few falling into the liquid, stirring up even fiercer hissing and white vapor. Paper swirled through the air like a hasty, desperate funeral. Shen Jun, pummeled by the rain of files, staggered back, his cry drowned in the waterfall of paper. The stack of documents about to enter the pool scattered, merging into the swirling paper snow. At the moment the cabinet fell, Lu Chenzhou had already dropped low, avoiding the falling hard-shell boxes, his eyes fixed on the pool's edge—the half-photo, shaken loose, was about to slide into the acid! He lunged forward, ignoring the scattered paper and potential sharp objects on the ground, his right hand shooting out, his fingers clamping down on the edge of the photo an instant before it would have touched the acidic mist! Almost simultaneously, a dull pain shot through his left shoulder. Shen Jun, in the chaos, had grabbed a heavy brass paperweight and hurled it. Lu Chenzhou grunted, rolling with the momentum of his lunge, his left hand seizing Shen Jun's ankle and yanking hard! Shen Jun cried out as he fell. The two men grappled amidst the littered paper and rising acid fumes. Shen Jun was old, but his desperation lent him terrifying strength; his fingers clawed wildly, trying to reach an inconspicuous red button beneath the control console. Alarm! Lu Chenzhou pinned Shen Jun's chest with his knee, his right hand still clutching the half-photo, his left hand locking down Shen Jun's wrist as it reached for the button. They strained against each other, arm muscles taut, veins bulging. The acid fumes seared their airways. Lu Chenzhou coughed violently, his vision blurring. "Let go... you can't... change anything..." Shen Jun forced words through gritted teeth, his face flushing purple from suffocation and chemical gas, "Zhou Zhengping... he was... he was the cleanest blade... we... we're all just... a word in his report..." "Where is the report!" Lu Chenzhou roared, his cheek cut by Shen Jun's other hand's fingernails. Warm blood beads welled up, slid down his jaw, dripping onto the scattered paper beneath him, and onto the half-photo in his hand. The blood quickly spread across the yellowed photo surface, soaking through those faces crossed out in red ink. Shen Jun stared at his bleeding face, then at the blood-stained photo. The madness in his eyes suddenly faded, replaced by dead ash. He stopped struggling, a wheezing, leaking sound escaping his throat. "He... he already... gave the report... to..." Shen Jun's pupils began to dilate, his voice intermittent, almost inaudible, "to... the person he thought... could protect it..." "Who?" Lu Chenzhou's heart hammered, pressing in a low voice, "To whom?" Shen Jun's lips moved, but no sound emerged. His gaze passed over Lu Chenzhou's shoulder, toward the archive entrance. From that direction, heavy footsteps approached from afar—dense, orderly, oppressive, rapidly closing in. Not one person. A team. The last trace of expression vanished from Shen Jun's face, leaving only utter resignation and emptiness. He closed his eyes, as if all his strength had drained away with his last words. Lu Chenzhou knew he would get no more answers. He released Shen Jun, swiftly scanning his surroundings. The bloodstained half-photo went into his inner pocket. His gaze fell on a slightly newer-looking manila folder that had spilled from the toppled cabinet. It was printed with the words "96-07-BX - Original Negatives (Sealed)" and a handwritten number—only the last digit differed from the one circled in red on his pocket watch list. No time to hesitate. He grabbed the folder and stuffed it inside his jacket. The rough edge of the paper scraped his skin, carrying the chill of years past. The footsteps had stopped outside the door. Beams from powerful flashlights pierced through the gaps in the iron-barred door like sharp swords, slicing through the drifting acid mist and dust. "People inside! Cease resistance immediately! Hands on your head, come out slowly!" A harsh, amplified male voice rang out, carrying an undeniable tone of command. Not Shen Moqing, nor Gu Zhixing. An unfamiliar, institutional voice. Lu Chenzhou slowly rose to his feet. The folder and photo in his jacket felt like two pieces of burning coal. He glanced at Shen Jun, limp and soulless on the floor, then at the iron-barred door, now being violently struck from the outside, He was trapped. Trapped in this suffocating room reeking of pungent odors and littered with the remnants of criminal evidence, together with Shen Jun, a worthless "shadow." Who was outside the door? Friend or foe? Was it the follow-up to Shen Moqing's "cleaning house," or had the police finally intervened? Zhou Zhengping's name, that legendary "original report," Shen Jun's unfinished "gave it to... someone he thought could protect it"... All clues pointed to a deeper vortex, and the answer lay beyond that iron door about to be smashed open. Lu Chenzhou raised his hand, wiping away the blood seeping from the wound on his cheek. His fingertips felt the stickiness and faint metallic scent of the blood. He adjusted his breathing, allowing his racing heart to calm slightly, his gaze once again becoming cold and sharp, like a blade tempered in fire. No matter who was outside the door, he had to take with him what he held in his arms and the questions in his mind. Under another heavy impact, the iron-barred door suddenly bulged inward, the lock emitting a crisp sound of metal snapping. The beam of light drew closer.