Lu Chenzhou gripped the phone, his knuckles white. Inside the car, the final word Zhou Zhengping had left hanging in the air was like an ice needle, piercing straight into his eardrum. From the other end of the line came the rustling sound of papers being turned, followed by Zhou Zhengping’s suppressed breathing. "The technical lead for the provincial Health Department's 'Medical Data Security' project back then." He paused, his voice dropping even lower. "That project… later became the foundational architecture for the Beishan Smart Healthcare pilot. He was purged in 1997, and the Beishan project was approved in 1998. Gu Zhixing was parachuted in from the provincial department to the municipal bureau specifically to oversee 'supporting security measures'." The reflection from the river was blinding. Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes, residual dancing spots of light lingering on his retinas. Chief technical advisor, university classmate, purge, death from illness, cremation with no remains… and then the Beishan project, Gu Zhixing’s parachute drop. Pistons began to turn, cold metal components meshing together, emitting a silent roar. "Name," he said. "Lin Shouye." Zhou Zhengping gave a name, followed by a string of numbers. "I'll send the ID number to your encrypted channel. His wife was Wang Xiuqin, former head nurse at the city's Third People's Hospital, retired due to illness in 1999. There's a son, Lin Xiaofeng, born in 1988, graduated from medical school, currently…" He stopped for a moment. "Whereabouts unknown. Archives show he went abroad in 2015, but border control has no exit record." "Understood." "Chenzhou." Zhou Zhengping's voice carried a rare tension. "At this point, the thread has already been pulled to the provincial level. Gu Zhixing was the executor back then, but the person who signed off… think carefully." "I have thought very clearly." Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes, his gaze falling on the photograph of a young Gu Zhixing he had taken from the Beishan command center, lying on the passenger seat. The line of warning text on the back faintly reflected the sunlight. "Uncle Zhou, thanks." He hung up. The engine was still idling, the air conditioning blowing out dry air. Lu Chenzhou stared at the now-dark phone screen, which reflected his own expressionless face. Then he shifted into gear, released the brake, and the car drove away from the riverbank. In the rearview mirror, the gray Buick that had been following him since the courthouse entrance was long gone. The car Qin Wangshu had given him was clean; he had checked it inside and out, no extra gadgets. But some things were harder to shake than trackers. *** Municipal Bureau Criminal Investigation Division building, third floor. The hallway smelled of disinfectant mixed with the rust of old filing cabinets. Several young officers hurried past with case files, their steps faltering slightly when they saw him, their gazes mixed with curiosity and a certain deliberate avoidance. Lu Chenzhou looked straight ahead, his leather shoes making a steady, soft sound on the terrazzo floor. He hadn't heard that sound in seven years. The door to the division chief's office was open. Zhao Tieshan sat behind a large desk, looking down at a document. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting alternating stripes of light and shadow on his graying temples and epaulets. Hearing footsteps, he looked up, his face wearing a formulaic, slightly weary smile. "You're here." He put down the document and gestured to the chair opposite. "Sit." Lu Chenzhou sat. The chair was leather, old, its edges worn to a pale fuzz. On the coffee table before him sat a freshly brewed cup of tea; the leaves of Biluochun slowly unfurled in the hot water, sending up a wisp of white steam carrying a clear, bitter fragrance. Zhao Tieshan offered no pleasantries. He picked up a stapled document from beside him and slid it across the desk. The edge of the paper scraped against the smooth lacquered surface with a soft *shaa* sound. "Take a look," he said. Lu Chenzhou didn't move. His gaze fell on the red-lettered heading of the document—**Notice Regarding the Restoration of Comrade Lu Chenzhou's Police Rank and Work Arrangements**. Below was stamped the official seal of the Municipal Bureau's Political Department, bright red, neat, carrying unquestionable authority. "Chenzhou," Zhao Tieshan leaned forward, elbows propped on the edge of the desk, his tone as steady as if reading an announcement, "this is specially approved by the bureau. Restoring your rank of Second-Class Police The fragrance of tea leaves blended with the faint dust smell unique to old paper drifted into his nostrils. Lu Chenzhou raised his eyes and looked at Zhao Tieshan. The captain's face held a kind of official sincerity—deep wrinkles, puffy eye bags, but his gaze was steady. Like a stone washed by river water for many years, its edges smoothed, but its core remained hard. "Captain Zhao," Lu Chenzhou began, his voice not loud but his words clear, "I accept the compensation, and I appreciate the sentiment. But returning to the force, joining the special task force..." He paused for a moment, a barely perceptible twitch flickering at the corner of his left eye—a reaction his old injury had in specific lighting conditions. "Are you asking me to use a new badge number to investigate what might be the same force that sent me in back then?" The office fell quiet for a few seconds. Only the low, constant hum of the air conditioning vent and the faint, distant sound of traffic from outside the window remained. Zhao Tieshan leaned back in his chair, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the faded old police badge on the desk. Its metal edge had been worn smooth, glowing with a warm, subdued luster under the light. Behind him, the metal handle of the filing cabinet reflected a point of cold, white light. "I know what you're thinking," he said, his tone flat. "You think the system is rotten, untrustworthy. You think going back is just putting on a new set of shackles, having to salute the people who locked you up. Isn't that right?" Lu Chenzhou didn't answer. The pad of his thumb unconsciously brushed against the side of his index finger—a tiny habit, as if touching something that wasn't there. The rough texture of the stone chess pieces from prison, seven years later, was still etched into his skin's memory. "I've been a criminal investigator for thirty-one years," Zhao Tieshan continued, his gaze falling on the window. "I've seen black, I've seen gray, I've seen white dyed other colors. But Chenzhou, you have to understand one thing—some battles can't be won alone. How deep the waters of Shen Yan's case run, you should know better than anyone now." "Who is Gu Zhixing? Who stands behind him? Going at it alone, what leverage do you have to move them?" He turned his head back, staring at Lu Chenzhou, his eyes heavy as a counterweight. "You need an identity. You need legitimate investigative authority. You need to access files without having to crawl through the archive room's back window." He reached out a finger and tapped the red-headed document. His knuckle struck the paper with a solid *thump*. "The special task force's authority goes straight to the provincial department. The 1996 group photo, the erased records, the backgrounds of those who handled the case back then... These materials you couldn't even get close to alone can be accessed through proper procedures once you return." Zhao Tieshan leaned forward again, lowering his voice. "Including Lin Shouye." He said the last three words very softly, but each was clear. Lu Chenzhou's breathing rhythm didn't change, but the taut string in his chest vibrated silently. Zhou Zhengping's call had ended less than two hours ago. Had the information leaked? Or was this itself a test? "The conditions?" he asked. "There are no written conditions," Zhao Tieshan leaned back, interlacing his hands over his abdomen. "Only one verbal instruction: the special task force only investigates Shen Yan's case. Old matters unrelated to this case," he paused, his gaze lingering on Lu Chenzhou's face for a second, "are not recommended for deep digging. This is for your own good, and for the good of the case." The tea's fragrance suddenly turned somewhat astringent. Lu Chenzhou looked at the cup, the jade-green tea leaves already settled at the bottom. *** Lu Chenzhou's fingers paused on the car roof. The cigarette ash broke off soundlessly and fell onto the concrete ground. "So," he began, his voice colder than the river wind, "the 'help' you give me can only ever be 'invisible.'" Qin Wangshu's lips pressed into a straight line. She did not deny it. "After you return to the force, you'll be isolated for review for at least a month," her voice regained its flatness, as if reporting a case. "Psychological evaluation, background re-check, action trajectory tracing. They will examine every single day of your past seven years—what you did, who you saw, what you said—over and over. During this period, you cannot access any files related to Shen Yan's case, you cannot leave designated areas, all communication devices will be monitored." She paused. "And Gu Zhixing's people will use this month The coppery red hue on the river’s surface was fading, turning into a dull iron gray. The lights of the factory on the opposite bank came on, a few dim yellow points reflected brokenly in the murky water, swaying. Lu Chenzhou threw his cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it under his heel. That tiny red glow was completely extinguished. “Zhao Tieshan says the task force can access the original archives from 1996,” he said. “They can,” Qin Wangshu nodded. “But the access procedure requires three-level approval, taking at least two weeks. Moreover, all files you personally review will be logged and backed up in real time.” She looked at him. “What are you looking for? The person erased from the group photo? Teacher Lu, by the time you complete the process and get the files, that person might have already ‘died of illness’ or ‘emigrated overseas.’ The archive will only be left with an updated, ‘complete’ record.” A stronger river wind swept through, carrying a heavy stench and moisture. The hem of Qin Wangshu’s jacket billowed, and she instinctively pressed it down. “The car you gave me,” Lu Chenzhou suddenly said, “how far can it go?” Qin Wangshu was taken aback for a moment. She looked at him, something in her eyes rapidly cooling and hardening. “The tank is full,” she finally said, her voice very soft. “There’s a set of spare license plates in the trunk. There are no tracking devices in the car—I checked three times. But its license plate is registered in the system. If high-level permissions are used to track it, it can still be found.” “That’s enough,” Lu Chenzhou said. He pulled open the car door and got into the driver’s seat. The sound of the engine starting seemed particularly abrupt in the empty dock. The blue light from the instrument panel lit up, reflecting on his expressionless face. Qin Wangshu remained standing outside the car. She looked at the window, but the glass reflected light, and she couldn’t see the expression inside. “Lu Chenzhou,” she called his name, not “Teacher Lu.” He lowered the window. “If you choose this path,” she said, “we won’t see each other again. At least, not in a way that suggests we ‘know’ each other. All the information I can provide will be transmitted through an encrypted channel, one-way. You cannot contact me proactively, nor mention my name in any public setting.” She paused, her Adam’s apple bobbing slightly. “This is the limit of what I can do.” Lu Chenzhou nodded. His fingers rested on the steering wheel, the knuckles slightly pale from the force of his grip. “That SIM card,” he said, “I’ll use it once, then destroy it.” “Okay.” Between them lay the car door, the deepening twilight, and an invisible yet unbreakable line. The factory chimneys across the river were still smoking, gray-white plumes rising straight up, disappearing into the darkening sky. “One last question,” Lu Chenzhou said, his gaze falling on the small patch of concrete illuminated by the headlights ahead. “Wu Guohua—Old Wu. After he ‘retired due to illness’ back then, where did he go?” Qin Wangshu was silent for a long time. So long that Lu Chenzhou thought she wouldn’t answer. “A nursing home,” she finally said, her voice almost scattered by the river wind. “Jing’an Nursing Center in the suburbs. Three years ago, cerebral hemorrhage, passed away.” She added, “No immediate family. His funeral was handled by his work unit.” Lu Chenzhou’s fingers tightened on the steering wheel. “Got it,” he said. He raised the window. The glass cut off the sound of the wind, the water outside, and Qin Wangshu’s final, wind-torn words of “Take care.” The headlights cut through the gloom as the tires rolled over the pitted concrete, leaving the abandoned dock. In the rearview mirror, Qin Wangshu’s figure grew smaller and smaller, eventually becoming a dark gray dot merging into the heavy twilight of the riverbank. Lu Chenzhou did not look back. He drove onto the riverside road, merging into the sparse traffic. The needle on the instrument panel held steady at sixty kilometers per hour. The cabin was quiet, only the low hum of the engine. He reached out, took the small black box Qin Wangshu had given him earlier from the glove compartment, and opened it. Inside was an ordinary SIM card and a folded note. He unfolded the note. On it was only a single handwritten line, unsigned: *Jing’an Nursing Center, medical records from before 2009 might still be in the Qin Wangshu was momentarily stunned, her exhaled breath forming a small white cloud in the cold air. Lu Chenzhou looked at her, his gaze calm as a frozen lake. "Thank you for your bottom line, Qin Wangshu," he said, using her full name, each word enunciated clearly. "And thank you for your... help." He turned, opened the car door, and got into the driver's seat. The engine roared to life with a low growl, the headlights slicing through the deepening dusk as the "clean car" drove away from the dock. Qin Wangshu stood rooted to the spot, unmoving. Only when the red taillights had completely vanished around the corner did she slowly unclench her fist. The key had pressed deep red marks into her palm, throbbing faintly. She lifted her head and looked towards the pitch-black river surface. A cold fog seemed to rise from the depths of her chest, choking her breath. *** The safe house was on the top floor of a six-story residential building in the old city. There was no elevator, and the motion-sensor light in the stairwell was broken. Lu Chenzhou felt his way up in the dark, step by step. His footsteps echoed in the empty hallway, lonely reverberations, each step seeming to measure the distance between him and his past identity. The key slid into the lock and turned. The door opened, releasing a stale odor of dust and faint mildew. The room was small, one bedroom and one living room. The only furniture was a plank bed, an old desk, and a chair. The faucet in the bathroom dripped slightly, the *drip-drip-drip* sound unnaturally clear in the silence, like a countdown. Lu Chenzhou closed the door, didn't turn on the light, and went straight to the window. Outside was the city's nightscape. In the distance, the neon lights of the commercial district formed a blurred sea of light. Closer by were large swathes of old residential buildings, sporadic dim yellow lights glowing from their windows like dull beans scattered on black velvet. Further away, towards Beishan, there was only a heavy, all-devouring darkness. He stood there for a long time, until his legs grew somewhat numb. Then he walked to the desk, pulled out the chair, and sat down. The wooden chair legs scraped against the floor with a grating sound. He took his phone from his pocket. The screen lit up, its cold white light illuminating half of his face and the thin layer of dust on the desktop. In his contacts, Zhao Tieshan's number was near the top. He tapped it, his finger hovering over the green call button, pausing. His heartbeat was steady, not accelerating. His breathing was even. But a string in his mind was pulled taut, emitting a continuous hum only he could hear. He exited, scrolled down, his fingertip leaving faint traces of sweat on the screen. He found another name and dialed. The phone rang five times before it was answered. Zhou Zhengping's indistinct, heavily sleep-laden voice came through: "...Who is it? What time is it?" "Uncle Zhou, it's me, Chenzhou." There was a rustling sound, as if Zhou Zhengping was sitting up in bed, fabric rubbing. "What's wrong?" His voice became mostly alert in an instant. "Something happened?" "No." Lu Chenzhou looked at the darkness outside the window. "I've decided. I'm not going back." Silence on the other end for a few seconds. Then Zhou Zhengping let out a long, slow sigh. The sound came through the receiver, carrying a raspy texture and the bitter, burnt smell of tobacco. "Have you thought it through?" "I have," Lu Chenzhou said, his tone as calm as if stating a long-established fact. "Some truths, wearing that uniform, might never be uncovered. Some doors, wearing that uniform, can never be knocked on." "The cost?" Zhou Zhengping asked, his voice dropping. "I'll pay the cost," Lu Chenzhou answered quickly, without hesitation. "Identity, protection, resources, a way out. I understand it all." Zhou Zhengping fell silent again. This time longer. Lu Chenzhou could hear the faint *tick-tock* of an old wall clock from his end, regular, slow, mercilessly measuring time, and the weight of this phone call. "Lin Shouye's son, Lin Xiaofeng," Zhou Zhengping finally spoke again, his voice completely clear now, carrying a dry exhaustion. "I asked around some more through connections, took a few detours. There's no record of him leaving the country in 2015. But someone saw him that fall, near the old site of City Third Hospital, in the urban village. He didn't seem right in the head, asking everyone 'where's my "Cut the crap." Zhou Zhengping's voice held suppressed anger and an even deeper weariness. "What's your plan now? Going solo, unarmed, charging into the dragon's den and tiger's lair of Shen Moqing and Gu Zhixing's crew? What do you think you are? A lone hero?" Lu Chenzhou didn't answer immediately. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the stone chess piece he'd carved in prison—rough, irregular, its edges even sharp enough to cut skin, painstakingly ground over countless nights with a sharpened toothbrush handle. It represented the 'general,' and was also the tombstone he'd once carved for himself. He placed the piece on the table. The stone meeting wood made a faint yet distinct *click*. "I have a car," he said, his voice low but each word nailed into the air. "A 'clean car' from Qin Wangshu. Her promised, 'invisible help.' I have Lin Shouye, this broken thread. And," he paused, his Adam's apple moving, his voice dropping lower and heavier, "seven years, and a life not yet repaid." Zhou Zhengping cursed softly on the other end of the line, but Lu Chenzhou heard it. There wasn't much anger in it, more a sense of powerlessness. "Madman," Zhou Zhengping said, the end of the word trembling. "Just like your old man back in the day. Once you set your mind on something, ten oxen couldn't pull you back, you'd never turn around even if you hit a wall." Lu Chenzhou didn't respond. He hung up. The screen's light faded, and the room was swallowed by darkness again. Only scattered, distant lights from outside the window faintly outlined the blurred, ghost-like silhouettes of the furniture. He sat in the darkness, motionless, like a stone statue. The cold, hard feel of the stone chess piece in his palm gradually warmed from his body heat, but that warmth couldn't penetrate his heart. Then he stood up, his joints emitting slight cracks. He walked to the corner, picked up the old, almost empty suitcase, and opened it. Inside were only a few changes of clothes, neatly folded; a set of toiletries; a fully charged power bank. He tossed the rough stone chess piece inside. It landed on the clothes with a dull thud. He closed the suitcase. The sound of the zipper sliding shut was particularly sharp in the deathly silence, like tearing open a gash. The next destination was already clear in his mind, cold and hard. Luo Jiawan. That urban village that had already vanished from the map. The last place Lin Xiaofeng was seen, and also the possible final trace of Lin Shouye—the chief engineer technically erased from the 1996 group photo, Wu Guohua's old partner—the end point. A flattened place, possibly burying something beneath. He picked up the suitcase. It was light, so light it felt unreal. He walked to the door, his hand gripping the cold metal handle, his movement pausing for a moment. Every muscle in his body tensed in an instant. From the hallway came extremely faint footsteps, almost masked by breathing and heartbeat. Not the dragging, life-worn steps of a resident. These were deliberately lightened, rhythmic, each step controlled in placement and force. Trained steps. More than one person. The sound stopped right outside the door, very close, right at the threshold. Lu Chenzhou released the door handle and silently took a step back, his shoulder and back pressing against the cold, rough wall. His heart beat steadily in his chest, once, then again, but its rate had dropped to freezing point—a poised, intensely calm slowness. He held his breath, tilted his head, focusing all his hearing on the narrow, dark space beyond the door. Outside, a faint metallic friction sound. A key, being inserted into the lock. Slowly, turning. The lock's internal mechanism emitted a soft *click*. The door was pushed open a crack.