The fibers of the gloves rubbed against the mahogany desktop, emitting a faint, continuous rustling. The sound was like a kind of timer, reminding Lu Chenzhou that every movement of his was being watched. Gu Zhixing stood at the study door, his posture relaxed, hands clasped in front of his lower abdomen. The gaze behind the gold-rimmed glasses rested steadily on him, neither urging nor shifting away. The monotonous hum of a garden trimmer drifted in from outside the window, mingling with the slightly musty scent of pulp emanating from the old books on the shelves, and the lingering, heavy odor of cigar and leather that hung in the room. This scent weighed heavily in his nostrils, like an invisible layer of velvet, wrapping around this world of the deceased. Lu Chenzhou’s movements were slow. He moved along the edge of the desk, his left hand hovering over it, fingertips feeling the constant, faint coolness of the wood transmitted through the glove. His right index finger, clad in a white cotton glove, slid over the wood grain with a pressure almost imperceptible. His gaze was parallel to the desktop, capturing the faint bands of reflected light on the lacquered surface. Any anomaly—uneven dust distribution, minute scratches or dents in the lacquer, the angle of an object conflicting with the user’s habits—could become a clue. But the study was too clean. Unnaturally clean. The desktop gleamed like a mirror, the pens in the holder arranged in a precise radial pattern, the books on the shelves categorized by height and color scheme, like museum exhibits. Gu Zhixing spoke, his voice as steady as if reading legal statutes: “Mr. Lu, do you need me to provide any assistance?” “Not for now.” Lu Chenzhou did not look up, his voice equally steady, his Adam’s apple rolling slightly as he enunciated the words. “Routine inspection. Need to establish a baseline state.” “Baseline state?” “The deceased’s habitual environmental layout during his lifetime, traces of item usage, daily movement patterns.” He paused, then added, the tip of his tongue tasting the faint astringency of aged leather in the air. “Any deviation from this baseline could be a marker of external intervention.” As he spoke, his fingers had already slid to the lower right side of the desk’s wooden frame. This position was very hidden, occasionally brushed by a knee when sitting, easily obscured from view by the desk edge when standing for inspection. His fingertip stopped. Not completely smooth. There was a set of extremely shallow, parallel grooves. Three sets, each about two centimeters long, evenly spaced, forming a subtle angle tilting to the left. The edges of the grooves were sharp, not like the rounded wear from long-term friction, but more like marks left by a tool with a serrated edge, pressed and scraped with force in a short period. The depth was shallow, so shallow that one could almost not detect it without pressing skin directly against it. Lu Chenzhou’s breath caught in his chest for half a second. He felt a slight twitch begin at the corner of his left eye, the muscle involuntarily tightening and relaxing. *Not now. Not now.* He forced his lungs to continue expanding, inhaling the heavy air mixed with cigar and leather, then slowly exhaling. Yet his fingertip seemed glued to that set of grooves; his fingernail subconsciously, very lightly, scraped along their direction. The wood grain offered slight resistance, and there was an almost inaudible, sharp, grating sound, like chalk on a blackboard. That sound was like a needle, piercing his eardrum. The floodgate of memory was pried open. Not a flood, but an ice pick. A cold, rust-covered pick from a decade ago, abruptly stabbing inward from inside his skull— The interrogation room. A stark white fluorescent tube hung overhead, its filament emitting a nauseating sizzle of current. The air smelled of sweat, cheap cigarettes, and the pungent odor of some metal cleaner, choking his throat. The table was a gray sheet-metal desk, its edges curled, paint peeling. That “confession”—a thick stack, bound with saddle staples—was slammed onto the table with a *smack* by a hand wearing half-finger gloves. The impact reverberated, making his eardrums buzz. “Look, Lu Chenzhou, look at what you wrote!” The voice was loud, filled with a performative anger. “The evidence is irrefutable! You still want to deny it?” His gaze was forced onto the last page. Near the edge of the paper, by the binding, there was a similar set of fine, parallel indentations. The forensic examiner responsible for the “evidence” pointed there with tweezers, the metal tip glinting coldly under the light, his But now, across the span of ten years, through these white cotton gloves, the brand new yet startlingly familiar set of grooves beneath his fingertips felt like a bolt of lightning cleaving through that murky chaos. Not struggle. But creation. Someone had used the same tool, or the same technique, to leave on Shen Yan’s desk traces that were nearly identical to the “evidentiary wear” at the binding of that “confession letter” from back then. Cold sweat seeped from his hairline, slowly trickling down his temples, bringing with it a chilling, clammy sensation. The inner lining of the gloves grew damp, clinging tightly to his fingers. Lu Chenzhou felt a wave of intense dizziness, his stomach contracting violently, a sour taste rising in his throat. He had to move, had to say something, had to get this frozen body functioning again. He straightened up, his spine emitting a faint crackle as he turned toward the bookshelf, speaking to Gu Zhixing in the most neutral tone possible: “Just some ordinary wear here. I need to examine the bookshelf, compare the dust deposition patterns.” The words came out. Steady, even carrying a hint of routine dullness. He was surprised by his own body’s acting ability. Gu Zhixing did not respond immediately. Lu Chenzhou could feel that gaze still stuck to his back, like a tangible weight. He walked over to the bookshelf, starting from the top shelf, pretending to inspect the dust accumulation on the tops of the books. His fingers brushed over the spines, the movements standard, but his fingertips trembled slightly. He clenched his fist hard, nails digging deep into his palm, using the sharp pain to suppress the trembling. “Mr. Lu seems particularly interested in that desk,” Gu Zhixing’s voice came from behind, unhurried, his footsteps almost silent on the carpet, but Lu Chenzhou could tell he had taken half a step closer. “Find something?” The fish had seen the closing net. Lu Chenzhou did not turn around, his gaze fixed on the spine of a set of *Comprehensive Mirror to Aid in Government*, the texture of the leather cover clearly discernible under the light. “Preliminary survey,” he paused, choosing a more technical term, his Adam’s apple bobbing again. “Establishing a contact point map. The desk is a high-frequency use area. Any abnormal wear could be related to user habits or external intervention.” “So, any abnormalities?” “Requires further analysis.” He turned around, his face expressionless, but he could feel the cold sweat at his temples slowly gathering. “From what I see now, the wear is consistent with long-term use characteristics. But the specific cause requires instrumental testing—like a stereo microscope, or trace casting. You must have done these during the on-site investigation, right?” He threw the question back, taking two steps forward simultaneously. The soles of his shoes made a muffled compression sound on the carpet, closing the distance between him and Gu Zhixing. It was a subtle adjustment of posture, an attempt to reclaim a sliver of initiative in the conversation, even if just a tiny bit in physical space. Gu Zhixing pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. The lenses flashed with a reflection, briefly obscuring his eyes. “The police conducted a preliminary investigation. The report indicates no signs of forced entry or struggle in the study.” He sidestepped the specific technical details, his voice still steady. “Mr. Shen Moqing’s intention is that he hopes Mr. Lu can provide some insights from… a different perspective.” “A different perspective.” Lu Chenzhou repeated the phrase, the tip of his tongue pressing against his palate. His gaze swept across the full view of the study—the expensive rosewood furniture glowing with a dull luster, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves casting heavy shadows, the potted plant with its thick, fleshy leaves in the corner emitting a faint earthy smell, the ink wash landscape painting on the wall with its desolate artistic conception, the ink seeming about to drip. “What kind of person was Shen Yan?” “Why does Mr. Lu ask that?” “Environment reflects personality. Orderly, restrained, with a tendency toward classification compulsion.” Lu Chenzhou pointed at the bookshelf. When he raised his arm, he could feel the sweat soaking through his shirt under the armpit. “The books are arranged by height and color scheme, but on the third shelf from the right, those foreign-language art history monographs—the spine colors clearly stand out, yet they are still kept in sequence. It means he pursued order, but there was a part of him unwilling to be fully disciplined. The drawer handle on the right side of the desk is noticeably more worn than the left—he was right-handed. But the crystal paperweight in the center of the desk is positioned slightly to the left, and there are extremely faint ring-shaped water stains under its base "These details," Lu Chenzhou continued, feeling his throat go dry, "are they from the same person described in the police report as 'nothing unusual' in the study? Or did someone, after his death, meticulously arrange a study that 'should belong to Shen Yan'?" The air froze for several seconds. The hum of the lawnmower outside the window had stopped at some point. The only sound left in the study was the heavy, rhythmic ticking of the old clock's hands, each tick striking the eardrums. A hairline crack appeared in the layer of professional calm on Gu Zhixing's face—not panic, but a kind of scrutiny triggered by an unexpected touch to the core. He pushed his glasses up again, this time more slowly, his knuckles turning faintly white. "Mr. Lu is very observant," he finally said, his tone regaining steadiness, though with an almost imperceptible tightness at the end. "But arranging the study... what would be the motive? Mr. Shen Yan died of illness, which is supported by hospital documentation." "Died of illness," Lu Chenzhou repeated in a low voice, his gaze falling back to the desk, to that invisible set of grooves on the right lower side of the wooden frame. His fingertips could still almost feel their sharp edges. "If the cause of death is clear, why do you need me to 'provide insights from a different angle'?" Gu Zhixing did not answer. Lu Chenzhou did not need him to. The question itself was a probe, and the other's silence was already an answer. He walked back to the desk. This time, he did not crouch but stood, sweeping his gaze over the entire desktop. The lacquered surface reflected the daylight from the window, stinging his eyes. "I need a copy of the complete police on-site investigation report, including all original photos and data from trace evidence examinations. Also, Shen Yan's schedule, communication records, and visitor logs from the week before his death." "Those involve privacy, and some of the content may be part of the police investigation file, not easy to obtain." "Then obtain it," Lu Chenzhou turned and looked directly at Gu Zhixing, feeling his pupils constrict. "Mr. Shen Moqing didn't hire me to sniff around a scene that's already been swept clean. If you want me to look from 'different angles,' I need to see all the materials from every 'angle.' Otherwise, my conclusions won't be any more valuable than the police report." He spoke bluntly, even with a hint of cold pressure, his jawline tense. This was a risk, but also a necessary performance—a hired, arrogant expert should make harsh demands, should show impatience with obstacles. More importantly, he had to lay the groundwork for what might come next, actions that could go beyond "investigating Shen Yan's death," by providing a seemingly reasonable, highly professional pretext. Gu Zhixing met his gaze for two seconds, his eyes narrowing slightly behind his glasses, then slowly nodded, his neck bones emitting a faint creak. "I will convey this to Mr. Shen Moqing. It may take some time to gather the materials." "By noon tomorrow," Lu Chenzhou set the deadline, his voice decisive. "Also, this study must remain exactly as it is until I complete my preliminary analysis. No one is to enter, including cleaners." "Agreed." "That's all for today," Lu Chenzhou removed his gloves, his movements brisk, though his fingertips trembled slightly as they left the fabric. He rolled the white cotton gloves into a ball, clutching them in his palm. The damp lining clung tightly to his skin, transmitting an uncomfortable warmth. "I need to go back and organize my preliminary observation notes. Once the materials are ready, we can arrange a second inspection." He gave Gu Zhixing no chance to ask further questions or follow, heading straight for the study door. As he passed Gu Zhixing, he caught a faint, clean scent of aftershave mixed with the barest hint of tobacco—not cigar, but cigarette, the cheap, pungent kind. Gu Zhixing stepped aside to let him pass, offering no obstruction, but Lu Chenzhou could feel his gaze like a needle pinned to the back of his neck. Lu Chenzhou left the study, walking down the corridor with its thick carpet that completely absorbed his footsteps. Only the sound of his own heavy breathing echoed in his ears. Portraits of generations of the Shen family hung on both sides of the dimly lit corridor, the painted gazes seeming to watch him from every angle, the oil paint gleaming faintly in the shadows. He could feel Gu Zhixing's eyes still following him until he descended the stairs, the wooden steps groaning softly under his feet. He passed through the oppressively empty living room, a gust of cold air hitting his face, and finally stepped out through the heavy oak door, its hinges emitting a He squinted, his retinas stinging from the intense light, and slid into the backseat of the black sedan provided by the Shen family. The leather seat was cold. He gave the driver the address of his hotel in a hoarse voice. The car started smoothly, leaving the Shen family estate's territory encircled by high walls and green trees, the tires crunching softly over the gravel road. Only when the wrought-iron gate completely disappeared from the rearview mirror did Lu Chenzhou slowly unclench his tightly held right hand. The white glove was thoroughly soaked with sweat from his palm, crumpled and stuck together, emitting a faint, salty dampness. He stuffed it into his coat pocket, the fabric rustling, then leaned back against the seat and closed his eyes. The city noise outside the window blurred in—traffic sounds, human voices, the distant thudding from a construction site. But all these sounds were separated by a thick membrane. In his world, only two things remained: the tactile memory lingering on his fingertips—sharp, parallel, slanted to the left—and the recollection of the scratches on the interrogation room's metal table, scratches declared as "ironclad evidence" ten years ago, and the blinding glare reflected off the tweezers' tip. Not a coincidence. It absolutely could not be a coincidence. The car stopped at a red light. Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes and looked out the window. Across the street was a stationery store, its display window filled with various notebooks, fountain pens, and paper knives. His gaze settled on an old-fashioned, metal-edged paper knife, its back etched with fine anti-slip grooves. A hypothesis, cold and clear, surfaced in his mind: During the process of fabricating the "false confession" back then, there existed a fixed pattern—using a specific tool to create "physical evidence of wear" at key locations on the document to solidify the narrative of "the suspect's fierce struggle." This pattern, this technique, or perhaps the tool itself, had now appeared in Shen Yan's study. Why? Had Shen Yan come into contact with this tool? Or with someone who used this tool? Or... was Shen Yan's death related to this "pattern" he might have discovered? The car started moving again. Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes once more. This time, not to escape the sunlight, but to allow the dangerous hypothesis that had just broken ground to send out its first cluster of roots in the jostling compartment, in the darkness where no one was watching. The roots dug deeper. They entwined themselves around the bones of the wrongful conviction from ten years ago and stretched towards the fog-shrouded swamp before him. He knew that from this moment on, the path beneath his feet had forked. On the surface, he was walking towards the mystery of Shen Yan's death; in secret, a narrower, steeper, thornier path was quietly revealing itself. And the fuse had been lit the moment his fingers touched the grooves on the desk. Burning silently. But it would never stop. Lu Chenzhou's steps were steady. Walking down Shen Yan's corridor, he even remembered to give a slight nod to the servant leading the way. No abnormality showed on his face, only the line of his jaw was drawn tighter than when he had arrived, like a fully drawn bow, its string hidden within the flesh. Gu Zhixing escorted him all the way to the main entrance. The gaze behind the gold-rimmed glasses was as placid as a mirror, as if the brief silence in the study moments ago had been merely a routine pause during an inspection. "Mr. Lu, thank you for your efforts." Gu Zhixing pulled the heavy oak door open for him, his tone betraying no emotion. "Please contact me anytime if you need anything." "Thank you." Lu Chenzhou uttered two words, the syllables short and crisp. The afternoon sun outside was blinding, shining on the neatly trimmed lawn with a false, glossy sheen. He descended the steps, his back straight. Only after rounding the garden fountain and completely moving out of sight from the main house did he allow his breathing to deepen slightly. His palm still felt numb. It wasn't fear, but something colder—like grabbing a piece of bare iron in the dead of winter, the skin sticking to it, tearing away with a stinging sense of separation. The inner lining of the glove had long been soaked through with cold sweat, clinging damply to his skin. Now, as the wind blew, the chill seeped in through his pores. He returned to the black sedan provided by the Shen family, closed the car door. The sound of the engine starting seemed especially muffled in the enclosed space. His fingers rested on the steering wheel. A slight twitch began at the corner of his left eye. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and when he opened them again, he had suppressed the involuntary nerve tremor. The car smoothly left the The cheap motel room was on the fifth floor, with no elevator. The stairwell was thick with the oppressive smell of disinfectant mixed with stale cooking fumes. The white paint on the walls was peeling and mottled, revealing the dark yellow putty underneath. Lu Chenzhou walked up the stairs step by step, his footsteps echoing hollowly in the empty stairwell, each step planted firmly. The key slid into the lock and turned. The door opened. He closed the door behind him, turned the deadbolt, and drew the curtains. The room was instantly plunged into a dim, isolated quiet. Outside the window was the city's never-tiring, low-frequency clamor—the sound of traffic, distant construction site pounding, faint murmurs of urban life—all filtered through the glass and thick velvet curtains into a vague background noise that, in turn, made the room's silence feel even more profound. He stood behind the door, without turning on the light. In the darkness, he slowly removed his gloves. The subtle sound of leather peeling away from skin was amplified, like some process of molting. He placed the gloves on the nightstand, then unbuttoned his coat. His movements remained methodical, but the tremor in his fingertips could no longer be fully suppressed. It wasn't the cold. It was the floodgate of memory being rammed open, the torrential flood surging forth, battering against the dike he had spent ten years building. He walked to the bed and sat down. The mattress groaned under his weight with a sound of protest. From the inner pocket of his coat, he pulled out the notebook—newly bought after his release, with a hardcover and rough, thick paper. He also took out a common blue ballpoint pen, its body slightly warmed by his body heat. He opened it to a blank page. The pen tip hovered above the paper for a full three seconds. Then it descended. Lines flowed from the pen tip. First, the outline of the desk—a simple rectangle. Then the edge of the desk, where he marked the location of the groove—on the right side, near the bottom, approximately twelve centimeters from the corner. The pen tip moved, sketching that set of grooves: three parallel short lines, each about two millimeters long, spaced almost perfectly equidistant, forming a subtle, roughly fifteen-degree angle of inclination. At the end of the lines, the pen tip pressed down slightly, dotting the faint, deepened mark. Finished. He stared at the simple diagram on the paper, his breathing in the dark becoming light and slow. He closed his eyes. Not to forget, but to return—to return to the place he had spent ten years trying to bury, yet revisited every night in his nightmares. *** Memory was not a continuous picture; it was fragments, with sharp edges and distorted, discolored patches. Sound rushed in first. The incessant, sizzling hum of the old fluorescent lamp ballast in the interrogation room. That sound wormed its way into the ears, stuck to the eardrums, like countless tiny insects crawling inside the skull. Accompanying the electrical hum was the rough rustling of papers being turned, and the *tap, tap, tap* of leather shoe heels striking the cement floor, a rhythm so regular it was nauseating. Then came the light. Pallid, cold light, pouring down from overhead, illuminating every pore on a person's face until there was nowhere to hide. In that light, dust motes danced slowly, like a silent, miniature avalanche. Across from him sat two people, their faces blurred into two shifting dark shadows against the backlight. Only when they leaned forward occasionally could he glimpse the meticulously buttoned collars of their uniforms and the thick, open case file on the table. "Lu Chenzhou, this is your last chance." The voice came from within the shadows, transformed by the room's hollow echo into a buzzing drone. It didn't sound like a person speaking to another person, more like some machine reciting a program. He didn't answer. His gaze was fixed on the case file, on the open page. The edges of the paper were already frayed from repeated handling. Near the binding, there was a strange mark—not a stain, but a slightly indented, worn area where the paper fibers had been repeatedly scraped by something hard. The shape of that wear... The pen tip descended again onto the blank space of the notebook. This time, it wasn't drawing the desk. It was drawing the binding area on the last page of the "confession" from his memory. Again, three parallel short lines. The same angle of inclination. The same, slightly deepened pressure at the end of the lines. Only, the mark in his memory was older; the paper fibers had darkened and frayed from dampness and repeated touching. But the **pattern**—that damnable, rigid, machine-stamp-like, precisely repeated **pattern** He raised his hand, pressing his knuckles hard against the socket of his left eye, trying to stop the twitching from starting again. But this time, the twitch didn’t come. Instead, a deeper, colder shudder crawled up from the base of his spine, exploding into a fine rash of goosebumps at the nape of his neck. It wasn’t a coincidence. It absolutely could not be a coincidence. Natural wear could not create such perfectly regular, parallel short lines, much less present the exact same angle of tilt and the characteristic deepening at the ends on two completely different objects separated by a decade. This was a mark left by a tool. A distinctive "signature" left by some hard object with specific tooth spacing or edges—perhaps the tip of a screwdriver, or the slot of some specialized tool—when pressure was applied and it was dragged slightly. And on his "confession," this mark had been submitted as "evidence" to prove that during his "violent struggle," his fingernail or a ring he was wearing had scratched the paper near the binding. A fabricated piece of physical evidence. A tiny, yet fatal detail, meticulously implanted to enhance the credibility of the "confession." Then what about this mark on Shen Yan's desk? It was newer, the edges sharp, clearly not formed long ago. It appeared in a highly private location, a spot typically only Shen Yan himself or someone extremely close to him would have access to. It was also a set of parallel, slightly angled grooves with deepened ends. The same kind of tool. Even the same **technique**. Lu Chenzhou set down the pen, placing both hands on his knees, his fingertips turning slightly white from the pressure. The smell of disinfectant in the room grew sharper, mingling with the faint, musty odor wafting from the old carpet, flooding his nostrils all at once. Outside the window, the city's nighttime clamor seemed to draw closer, the occasional sweep of headlights across the curtains casting fleeting, flowing shadows on the wall. He needed logic. He needed to piece the fragments together. First: Within the process that manufactured his "false confession" back then, there existed a fixed "evidence fabrication" pattern. This pattern included using a specific tool to create physical damage at a specific location on the document, damage that fit the logic of "struggle marks" or "use marks." The operator was skilled, perhaps even to the point of muscle memory. Second: This pattern, or the person operating this pattern, had become associated with Shen Yan. The point of connection could be Shen Yan himself, or it could be a person or object from the parties with vested interests in the old wrongful case that Shen Yan had come into contact with. Third: The mark on Shen Yan's desk was highly likely another "application" of this pattern or this operator. The purpose was unclear. It might be related to Shen Yan's death, or it might simply be an unintentional "fingerprint" left behind in some larger scheme. Fourth, and most importantly: This discovery provided him with an unprecedented, concrete, material leverage point to pry open that ironclad wrongful case. No longer just a vague "feeling something was off," no longer an unverifiable "memory discrepancy." This was a "material evidence anomaly" that could be observed, described, and traced. It connected the past and the present, the interrogation room and the study of a wealthy family, the crime he was forced to bear and the death he was forced to investigate. Lu Chenzhou picked up the pen again. Below the two side-by-side sketches, he began to write. The characters bit deep into the paper fibers from the force of his hand: **Hypothesis: In the process of fabricating the 'false confession' years ago, a fixed evidence fabrication pattern (tool/technique) existed. Pattern characteristics: parallel short lines ×3, tilt angle approx. 15°, ends deepened under pressure. This pattern may have become associated with Shen Yan (and the Shen family) through the operator or the tool itself.** **To Verify: 1. Within Shen Yan's pre-death sphere of contact (people, objects, activities), does a specific tool capable of leaving such marks exist (e.g., special stationery, repair tools, collectible accessories)? 2. Personnel list from back then involved in the evidence appraisal, custody, or 'evidence supplementation' of the 'confession,' and their intersections with the Shen Group (or related interested parties). 3. The formation time of the mark on Shen Yan's desk (requires cross-referencing Shen Yan's last known activity time with the mark's condition).** **Action Adjustment: Overt task (investigating Shen Yan's cause of death) remains unchanged. Covert line added—utilize access to the Shen family's internal information flow, material evidence, and personnel gained through the Shen Yan case to secretly screen for the existence of the aforementioned 'pattern.' Priority: locate the The risks, of course, existed, and they were enormous. This lead was as fragile as a spider's thread, easily snapped with a single pull, and it could even be bait deliberately laid by the opponent. Investigating Fang Mu pointed directly to the core of Shen Yan. Any misstep could alert Shen Moqing, leading to all previous efforts being wasted, or even endangering his sister's safety. He was still alone, conducting this dangerous reasoning in absolute solitude, without any support, without any margin for error. But— Lu Chenzhou lowered his pen and drew a firm line under the word "risk." *The price has already been paid, there is no further retreat. This lead is the first substantive anchor point seen in ten years. It must be seized.* He closed the notebook. The metal clasp made a crisp *click*, startlingly loud in the silent room. Outside the window, daylight had completely faded. The city lights came on one after another, casting flickering light and shadow across his face through the gap in the curtains. He sat on the edge of the bed, motionless, letting the darkness and the distant, muffled clamor envelop him. His palm still seemed to retain the icy sensation of touching those grooves, and the searing pain that followed, tearing open old wounds. But now, deep within that pain, something entirely different was taking root—not hope, hope was too extravagant. It was something harder, colder, like roots buried deep underground, silently turning in the darkness, driving towards the cracks in the rock. The strategy had changed. From passively accepting the shackles, to finding hidden points of leverage within them. From simply investigating a case for his enemy, to turning the enemy's case into a touchstone to verify his own wrongful conviction. Every step would be a dance on the edge of a blade, every breath could betray his intent. But the dance steps had to begin. He picked up the hotel phone on the nightstand, then set it down again. He couldn't contact anyone from here; the room might not be safe. He needed a new, unmonitored method of communication. He needed to contact that anonymous Fang Mu who had left the tin stationery box in the shadows. He needed to verify Shen Qinghuan's past in the "L"-shaped area. He needed... too many things. And time was slipping away, second by second. The deadline given by Shen Moqing hung over his head like a guillotine blade. The opponent in the shadows was like a closing net. He himself was like a chess piece thrown into a complex game, having just glimpsed the first, hidden line on the board related to himself. Lu Chenzhou stood up, walked to the window, and pulled the curtain open a little wider. The street below was a river of traffic, neon lights flashing. This vast city continued its noisy, indifferent operation under the night sky. Countless secrets were born, hidden, traded, and obliterated within it. And now, he held a secret as minuscule as a speck of dust, about "traces." Where would this secret lead him? A faint light illuminating the darkness? Or bait leading him into another inescapable trap? He didn't know. But he knew that after dawn tomorrow, he had to return to Shen Yan, return to that study, return to Gu Zhixing's calm gaze. He had to play his role as the "hired expert" perfectly, while simultaneously, with utmost caution and skill, begin verifying the newly born, extremely dangerous hypothesis in his notebook. The first fulcrum had been found. The long struggle to pry open the lever of fate had only truly begun at this moment.