Zhou Zhengping’s guttural, choking sounds ceased. He slumped in the chair before his workbench, his entire body seeming as if the bones had been pulled out, leaving only skin and clothes piled there. Tears mixed with sweat had dried on his face, leaving a few shiny streaks. Lu Chenzhou looked at him, offering no urging, merely shifting his gaze to the half-disassembled pen lying on the edge of the workbench—the cap and barrel separated, the nib exposed, the rubber tube of the ink sac gleaming with a dull sheen under the light. He walked over, picked up the cap, then picked up the barrel. The corner of his left eye twitched slightly. “Zhao…” Zhou Zhengping finally forced out the name, his voice hoarse like sandpaper grating, “Zhao… Tieshan.” Lu Chenzhou’s fingers stilled. The cap and barrel aligned in his palm with a faint *click*. He did not turn around, merely placing the pen back on the workbench, the nib pointing east, the cap pointing west. “Before that report was submitted back then,” Zhou Zhengping’s voice trembled, but each word was enunciated clearly, as if reciting a confession long since memorized by heart, “Captain Zhao… personally came to the forensics center. He said the case was too impactful, the higher-ups demanded a swift conclusion. He said, some details… could be ‘handled with flexibility’.” Lu Chenzhou turned around. Zhou Zhengping dared not look at him, his gaze fixed desperately on the ground as if a crack might open there for him to crawl into. “I didn’t agree… at least not then. But three days later, my daughter was almost hit by an unlicensed van outside her school. The surveillance was broken, the driver never found.” He took a deep breath, too sharp, making him cough violently, his hunched back like a bow drawn taut then released. “The next day, Captain Zhao came again. He said, thankfully the child was unharmed.” The air in the workshop congealed. Only the old air conditioner’s compressor emitted a dull hum, a sound like some enormous insect slowly crawling inside the wall. Lu Chenzhou walked to the window, lifting a slit in the blinds. The street at three in the morning was empty, the halos of streetlights blurring in the damp air like clusters of hazy yellow fog. In the residential building opposite, the window on the fourth floor, right side, was still lit—the surveillance point he had confirmed three hours earlier. The light was still on. But the gap in the curtains was half a finger wider than before. “They’re still watching,” Lu Chenzhou said, his voice as calm as if stating the weather. He released the blind, the plastic slats clattering softly. “Li Jianguo’s death was a warning. Your daughter was leverage. Now,” he walked back to the workbench, leaning over to look at Zhou Zhengping, “you’ve become a loophole they must clean up.” Zhou Zhengping looked up, his eyes red and swollen, but something deep in his pupils was coalescing again—not courage, but something more primal: the will to survive born of fear. “I… what should I do?” Lu Chenzhou did not answer immediately. He took out a palm-sized black device from his inner coat pocket, its casing matte, devoid of any markings. On the side of the device was a micro-interface. He connected a data cable, plugging the other end into the workbench computer. The screen lit up, a string of rapidly scrolling code appearing. “Your home,” Lu Chenzhou said, his gaze fixed on the screen, “is already under comprehensive surveillance. At least three fixed observation points, covering the front and back doors and main windows. Possibly mobile patrols too.” The code stopped scrolling. A schematic of the residential complex appeared on the screen, several red dots blinking at different locations. “They’re professional. The equipment they’re using isn’t consumer-grade available on the market.” Zhou Zhengping’s face paled another shade. “But professionalism has weaknesses too.” Lu Chenzhou tapped the keyboard. The schematic zoomed in, dotted lines connecting paths between the red dots. “Fixed observation points require stable power, line of sight, and communication backhaul. Mobile patrols have fixed shift changes and patrol routes.” He looked up. “I need to set up a counter-surveillance network in your home. Cameras, sensors, alarms. Not for defense—for capture. I need to know who they are, what they’re listening to, what they’re watching, when they come, when they leave.” “Is… is this legal?” Zhou Zhengping blurted out, immediately realizing how foolish his question was. He covered Zhou Zhengping’s hand slid down from his face, resting on his knee, his fingers still trembling slightly. But he nodded—a small motion, yet firm. Lu Chenzhou took an old enamel mug from a drawer in the workbench—the one Zhou Zhengping usually used, its body chipped in places, the glaze yellowed. He poured a cup of warm water and pushed it over. “Drink it. Then go lie down on the folding bed inside for an hour. Before six o’clock, I want you back in your own home, watering the plants, watching the morning news, making tea—just like usual.” He paused. “The only difference is, don’t draw the living room curtains.” “Why?” “Because I need to get in.” *** At 5:40 in the morning, the sky was still a heavy indigo blue, but a faint, elusive grayish-white had begun to seep along the eastern horizon. Lu Chenzhou stood inside a public phone booth two streets away. The booth’s glass was filthy and mottled, plastered with small ads for drain cleaning and fake certificates. He inserted a coin, dialed, and the receiver emitted a long, drawn-out busy signal. After seven rings, the call was picked up, but there was no sound. “It’s me,” Lu Chenzhou said. A brief silence. Then, Qin Wangshu’s voice came through, her tense professional tone audible even over the phone line: “Location.” “Intersection of Qingsong Road and Fenglin Road. Phone booth opposite the newsstand.” “Ten minutes.” The call ended. Lu Chenzhou hung up the receiver and pushed open the phone booth door. The pre-dawn wind carried a chill and the faint smell of cooking oil from distant breakfast stalls. He tugged his collar higher and walked slowly south along the sidewalk. His pace wasn’t hurried; he stopped occasionally, pretending to tie his shoelaces, his gaze sweeping the empty street behind him. No tail. At least not now. He bought two steamed buns from an early morning food stall, placed them in a greasy plastic bag, and held them without eating. As he turned, a dark gray Volkswagen sedan slid silently to the curb, the passenger window rolling halfway down. Lu Chenzhou pulled open the door and got in. The interior smelled of leather cleaner mixed with coffee. Qin Wangshu was in civilian clothes—a dark jacket, her hair tied back in a neat ponytail. She didn’t look at him, her eyes fixed on the road ahead, hands resting on the steering wheel, her index finger tapping unconsciously. “Zhou Zhengping’s place?” she asked. “Mm.” “Surveillance level?” “Professional grade. At least three parties watching—the Shens, Zhao Tieshan’s people, and one that hasn’t shown its face yet.” Lu Chenzhou placed the buns on the dashboard and pulled out the floor plan from inside his jacket. The red dots and dotted lines glowed faintly in the dim light. “I need four sets of micro-cameras within your clearance, two sets of vibration sensors, and one set of door/window magnetic alarms.” He paused. “Also, I need a non-registered spectrum analyzer, capable of capturing and decoding radio signals on specific frequencies.” Qin Wangshu’s finger stopped tapping. She turned her head, looking at him directly for the first time. The dome light was off; only the dashboard’s faint glow illuminated her face, half in light, half in shadow. “A non-registered spectrum analyzer,” she repeated, enunciating each word clearly. “Do you know what that means?” “It means if it’s discovered, you’ll face an internal investigation, possibly suspension,” Lu Chenzhou met her gaze. “It also means that without it, we’ll never know what frequency they’re using to communicate, whether there are remote detonation devices, or,” he lowered his voice, “if they’re already listening to this conversation right now.” Qin Wangshu’s lips pressed tightly together. It was her habitual gesture when suppressing emotion—Lu Chenzhou remembered. Ten years ago, when she was a rookie newly assigned to the criminal investigation division, every time he pointed out a flaw in her crime scene investigation, she would press her lips together like that, then stay up all night, poring over the case files until they were worn out. “What you’re asking for,” she finally spoke, her voice colder than before, “the last two items, I can’t get. The cameras and sensors, I can pull from the tech department’s loss inventory, but it takes time to go through the process—at least two days.” “We don’t have two days,” Lu Chenzhou said. “Li Jianguo died this afternoon. Made to look like an accidental fall, but Only the low hum of the engine at idle and the faint hiss from the air conditioning vents broke the silence. Lu Chenzhou picked up the steamed buns from the dashboard, the plastic bag rustling softly. He unwrapped one, broke it open. The aroma of the meat filling mixed with steam wafted out. "Know what?" he asked, his tone as calm as if discussing whether the bun filling was too salty. "Know that there's more than one person behind this case. Know there's a problem within the system. Know..." Qin Wangshu drew a sharp breath, "Know that even if you take the fall, this won't end." Lu Chenzhou took a bite of the bun, chewing slowly before swallowing. Then he said, "The bun's cold. The grease has congealed. Not good." He put the remaining half back into the plastic bag, tied it up, and tossed it into the storage compartment on the door. "Captain Qin, I need you to make a choice right now: act as a police officer, follow the rules, and collect Zhou Zhengping's body tomorrow morning; or, act as the apprentice who once followed me learning crime scene reconstruction, and help me gamble on this." Qin Wangshu snapped her head around. Her eyes were terrifyingly bright in the gloom, filled with anger, struggle, and something deeper—Lu Chenzhou recognized it. Guilt. Yes, guilt. Ten years, and she still hadn't let it go. "I am not your apprentice," she said, enunciating each word. "I know." Lu Chenzhou nodded. "So this is a trade. You give me the equipment, I guarantee Zhou Zhengping survives tonight. And at the same time," he paused, pulling a miniature USB drive from his jacket's inner pocket and placing it on the dashboard, "this contains scanned copies of the original appraisal report for that 'false confession' back then—not the final archived version, but the very first draft. It bears the joint signatures of Zhou Zhengping and another appraiser. The other appraiser, named Wang Han, was transferred to the provincial department's technical division three years ago. He's now a deputy director." Qin Wangshu's breath hitched for a moment. "Wang Han's signature," Lu Chenzhou continued, his voice steady as if reading a technical manual, "disappeared from the final report. But the draft is still on Zhou Zhengping's private hard drive, encrypted and hidden. He just remembered it last night." He picked up the USB drive and offered it. "You can verify it. If the appraisal conclusions in the draft and the final version are inconsistent, you know better than I do what that means." Qin Wangshu didn't take it. She stared at the USB drive as if it were some dangerous living creature. The air in the car solidified, leaving only the sound of her breathing—slightly rapid, with a suppressed tremor. Finally, she reached out, not for the drive, but to retrieve a small black toolkit from the storage slot on the inner side of the driver's door. She threw it onto Lu Chenzhou's lap. "Cameras and sensors. Basic models, but they'll do," she said, her voice regaining that professional chill. "No spectrum analyzer. But I can give you this—" She pulled out another device about the size of a cigarette case, with a metal casing and an antenna on the side. "Wide-band radio monitor. Modified from a civilian-grade unit. Sensitivity isn't high, but it can capture anomalous signal transmissions within a five-hundred-meter radius. Fully charged, it lasts six hours." Lu Chenzhou opened the toolkit. Inside, neatly arranged, were six button-sized micro-cameras, four coin-shaped vibration sensors, along with matching receivers and batteries. The equipment was old, the casings worn, but well-maintained. He picked up one of the cameras, his fingertip registering the cold touch of metal. "Thank you," he said. "Don't thank me." Qin Wangshu gripped the steering wheel again, her gaze turning to the gradually lightening sky outside the window. "Which street is Zhou Zhengping's house on? We're running out of time." Lu Chenzhou gave the address. The car slid silently into the lane, turned the corner, and headed towards the old residential area on the other side of the city. No one spoke again in the cabin. Only the low rumble of the engine and the almost inaudible beeps from the radio monitor whenever it caught a signal. The sound was faint, like some insect buzzing in the dark. But Lu Chenzhou knew it wasn't an insect. It was the eye of a watcher, opening somewhere. --- Qin Wangshu's car disappeared around the street corner. Lu Chenzhou stood where he was, letting the night wind rush into his collar. A chill crept up his spine like tiny needles of ice. He He turned, not heading toward the newspaper stand and Fang Mu, but instead ducked into a back alley. The alley was narrow, flanked by the rear walls of residential buildings, piled with discarded furniture and dust-covered bicycles. The air held a damp, musty smell, mingled with the faint sour odor of overnight food wafting from someone's home. His steps were very light, the soles of his shoes brushing against the concrete ground, making only an almost inaudible rustling sound. After walking about fifty meters, he stopped before a rusted iron door. It was ajar, leading to a staircase down to a basement. He slipped inside sideways, pulling the door shut behind him with his backhand, and darkness immediately swallowed him. He didn’t turn on the light. He stood in the darkness for ten seconds, letting his eyes adjust. Then, he crouched down and pried a button-sized device from a hidden layer in his shoe heel. The metal casing was cold, its edges slightly raised. He felt with his fingertip, found the switch, and pressed it. The device emitted an almost imperceptible, brief vibration lasting one second—it was scanning nearby radio signals. Lu Chenzhou held his breath. The darkness amplified all his senses: the stale dust smell in the basement, the damp, earthy moisture seeping from the walls, the steady thumping of his own heart in his chest. And also, the faint vibrations transmitted back to his fingertip from the device. One. Two. Three. Three different frequency bands, all active. Two were civilian wireless networks, their signals weak. The third… had a higher frequency, pulsed, appearing every fifteen seconds, lasting for zero point three seconds each time. Exactly the same frequency used by the disposable phone in his pocket to receive emergency alerts. Someone was transmitting a signal using the same encrypted channel. And the distance was very close. Lu Chenzhou’s muscles tensed. He slowly stood up, his back pressed against the cold wall, his gaze fixed on the thin sliver of light seeping through the gap in the iron door. That light came from the distant streetlamp at the other end of the alley. Within the light, faint, nearly invisible dust motes floated. He waited five seconds. Ten seconds. Footsteps came from outside the iron door. Very light, deliberately suppressed, but the echo on the concrete ground was still clear in the silent alley. One step, two steps, stopping about three meters away from the door. Lu Chenzhou’s left hand moved toward his waist—where a multi-functional tool pliers was clipped, its blade extending twelve centimeters when unfolded. Not a weapon, but enough to create deterrence. His right hand still held the signal scanning device, his fingertip able to feel its continuous, regular vibrations. The breathing outside the door was light, but present. Like some large feline lying in wait in the dark. Then, a voice sounded. Low, hoarse, with a deliberately flattened tone. "Teacher Lu," the voice said, "don't be nervous. I'm just here to pass on a message." Lu Chenzhou didn’t move. His gaze remained locked on the gap in the iron door, trying to catch the outline of the person outside from that sliver of light. But the shadow was stretched long, blurred into a mass. "Whose message?" he asked, his voice equally hushed. "An old friend," the person outside said. "He said, do you remember that rain ten years ago? The rain was heavy, washing away the bloodstains at the scene. But some things, rainwater can't wash away." Lu Chenzhou’s pupils abruptly contracted. Ten years ago. Rainy night. Scene. It was the last crime scene he had examined in his capacity as a police officer—Chen Rui, son of a deputy mayor, found dead in the study of a suburban villa, a paper knife stabbed into his chest. There were no signs of forced entry, no missing valuables, only a document spread open on the desk and beside it, a half-drunk glass of red wine laced with cyanide. The document was an internal report about the irregular approval of a certain plot of land. The signatory was the deputy mayor in charge of urban construction at the time—Chen Rui’s father. The case was classified as a "revenge murder before committing suicide out of guilt," with a complete chain of evidence, causing a public uproar. But Lu Chenzhou had found something off at the scene: the direction of carpet fiber dragging, the overlapping sequence of fingerprints on the wine glass, and in the mud outside the study window, washed by the heavy rain, a half-blurred shoe print that didn't belong to anyone in the villa. He wrote a supplementary report, suggesting the possibility of homicide. Three days after submitting the report, he received that "confession letter." It bore his signature, the handwriting analysis "conclusive That detail, he had never written into any report. At the time, the on-site forensics team used ordinary inspection lights; no one had thought to use a UV light on the soil. It was him, during a subsequent private investigation, who tried it with a portable UV flashlight. In the muddy ground of the villa's backyard, he saw that faint, will-o'-the-wisp-like fluorescence, outlining the contour of more than half a shoe print. But before he could collect a sample, he was arrested. "Who are you?" Lu Chenzhou's voice turned cold. "The messenger," said the person outside the door. "An old friend asked me to tell you, some cases, once past, should stay past. Dig any deeper, and what you might unearth may not just be bones, but other things. For example... the real reason why the chief surgeon of your sister's operation back then was suddenly transferred to a foreign aid medical team." Lu Chenzhou clenched his fist. His fingernails dug into his palm, bringing a sharp pain. "You're threatening me," he said. "A reminder," the person outside corrected. "The old friend also said, the bug on Zhou Zhengping's wall, he installed it. But he meant no harm, only wanted to ensure Teacher Zhou's safety. After all, Li Jianguo died too suddenly; he was worried someone might try to silence witnesses." "So he took the initiative, recording every word Zhou Zhengping said?" The corner of Lu Chenzhou's mouth twisted into a cold arc. "How considerate." "The recording is a backup," said the person outside. "In case... something happens to Teacher Zhou, those recordings can at least prove what he said while he was alive. For you, for the truth, it's a safeguard." "A safeguard?" Lu Chenzhou repeated the word as if chewing on a piece of broken glass. "Using eavesdropping and threats as a safeguard?" The person outside fell silent for a few seconds. From the alley came the distant cry of a stray cat, shrill, brief. "Teacher Lu," the voice sounded again, the amusement gone from its tone, leaving only a weary, almost earnest flatness. "We are not enemies. At least not now. That's all the old friend asked me to convey. Also, the thing on top of the newspaper kiosk... you'd best not touch it. It's not a gift for you, it's a... warning for another group." Footsteps sounded again, this time receding. Light, swift, disappearing into the depths of the alley. Lu Chenzhou didn't move. He leaned against the cold wall, listening to the pounding of his own heartbeat against his eardrums. One beat, two beats, heavy as hammer blows. The sharp pain in his palm remained, but even sharper were the fragments churning in his mind—the rainy night, the fluorescent shoe print, his sister's surgery, the chief surgeon's sudden transfer, the bug hole in the wall, the shadow on the newspaper kiosk's roof. And that sentence, "We are not enemies." Slowly, he relaxed his fist, spreading open his palm. Four deep crimson crescent marks, where his nails had bitten in, were already oozing tiny beads of blood at the edges. He stared at those marks for a long time. Then, he pushed open the iron door and stepped back into the alley. The night wind was colder now. He tightened the collar of his jacket, his gaze sweeping both ends of the alley. Empty. Only the silhouette of the newspaper kiosk under the distant streetlight, still crouching silently in the night. He walked towards that square kiosk. His pace was neither hurried nor slow, like an ordinary, aimless night wanderer. But the hand in his pocket had already grasped the signal scanner again. The vibration frequency transmitted by his fingertips had changed—that high-frequency encrypted signal was still there. But its intensity had weakened. The kiosk... He stopped, looking up. The signal source was moving. Not the newspaper kiosk, but the rooftop of the six-story old residential building behind it. He narrowed his eyes. At the edge of the rooftop, a vague shadow seemed to flash past. Too fast, fast like an illusion. But Lu Chenzhou knew it wasn't. He was too familiar with that style of movement—the posture of a trained person swiftly shifting between obstacles, center of gravity low, steps precise. He withdrew his gaze and continued walking towards the newspaper kiosk. The distance closed to thirty meters. Twenty meters. He could clearly see the peeling paint on the kiosk's sheet metal shell, the rusted hinges, and that unnatural protrusion on the roof—a square object, about the size of a shoebox, its surface matte-treated, almost blending with the sheet metal in the darkness. But its edges were too regular, unlike naturally accumulated debris. Ten meters. He stopped, After a few steps, he turned into another, even narrower side alley. This path led to the backyard of a residential building, cluttered with debris, ending at a two-meter-high brick wall. He walked to the base of the wall, crouched down, and from behind a pile of discarded flower pots, pulled out a dusty canvas bag. The bag was light. He unzipped it. Inside was a dark gray jumpsuit, a cap of the same color, and a pair of grimy work gloves. He changed quickly, stuffed the jacket he'd taken off into the bag, and pushed the bag back into its hiding place. Then, he took a few steps back, ran forward, kicked off the wall, grabbed the top with both hands, used his core strength, and flipped over. He landed softly, with almost no sound. On this side of the wall was the interior of the residential compound, a row of old-fashioned bicycle sheds. He pulled the brim of his cap low and moved swiftly along the shadows of the sheds, his target clear—the entrance to the unit of that six-story residential building. There was no elevator in the building. He took the stairs, his footsteps light but not slow. First floor, second floor, third floor. The motion-sensor lights in the hallway flickered on with his steps and turned off after he passed. The air held the smell of old cooking oil and the faint sound of a television from one of the apartments. On the fourth floor, he paused. From the crack under the door of the apartment on his left, a sliver of weak light leaked out. From inside came a child's crying and a woman's weary, comforting voice: "There, there, don't cry, Mama's here..." Lu Chenzhou stood in the shadows, listening. The crying gradually weakened into sobs. The woman's voice softened too, humming a tuneless lullaby. He continued upward. Fifth floor. Sixth floor. The iron door to the rooftop was slightly ajar, a rusty padlock hanging from it, but the latch was open. He gently pushed the door open a crack and slipped through sideways. The wind on the rooftop was strong, whipping up dust and scraps of plastic bags. In the distance, the city lights spread a hazy orange-yellow across the night sky. Up close, he could see the square outline of the newsstand, like a medicinal plaster stuck to the sheet metal. Lu Chenzhou crouched low, moving along the shadow of the water tank. His gaze swept across the rooftop—piles of discarded solar water heater frames, bundles of rusty rebar, and in the corner, a human-sized pile of miscellaneous items covered with a waterproof tarp. He stopped beside the pile. A corner of the tarp had been lifted by the wind, revealing the tip of a black sneaker beneath it. The shoe was new, the tread on the sole clearly visible, the edges stained with a bit of fresh mud. Lu Chenzhou's breathing slowed. He slowly straightened up and moved around to the other side of the pile. The view here was better; he could see the entire newsstand and the junction of the alley and the street below. A perfect observation point. But now... Inside the car, the scents of leather and electronic equipment mixed with the faint smell of disinfectant from Qin Wangshu. It was stifling, making it hard to breathe. The dashboard's ghostly blue light reflected on her face, her lips pressed into a tense line. She stared at her phone screen, her fingertip hovering over the encrypted communication interface for three seconds before turning the screen towards Lu Chenzhou. "Internal bulletin from the Technical Division." Her voice was very low, as if delivering an autopsy report. "Anomalous high-frequency encrypted signals detected in Zhou Zhengping's residential area. Characteristics... show similarities to certain foreign intelligence tools." Lu Chenzhou took the phone. The waveform on the screen was as sharp as the final struggle before a flatline. Frequency, encryption method, transmission intervals—every parameter screamed "professional." The corner of his left eye twitched slightly. His fingers unconsciously disassembled the spring of an old ballpoint pen in his pocket. "The bulletin advises all field units to be alert." Qin Wangshu took her phone back. "But it doesn't explicitly point to a specific case. That means—" "It means they don't want to startle the snake." Lu Chenzhou finished her sentence, his tone steady, almost cold. "Or, there's internal disagreement about the signal's origin. More likely... someone doesn't want this signal to be investigated deeply." Qin Wangshu's breath hitched. She bit the inside of her lower lip, a habitual action when she was thinking. "What do you want to do?" "Find the signal source." Lu Chenzhou said. "The relay point or observation post. Since they're using the municipal power grid, the equipment must be within physical reach. Streetlights Lu Chenzhou interrupted her. His gaze fell outside the car window, where the shadow of the residential compound's wall stretched long under the streetlights, like an old scar that refused to heal. "Li Jianguo is dead. He's next. Every minute we're doing this now is a race against their cleanup speed. Captain Qin," he used the title for the first time, his tone devoid of sarcasm, only the cold statement of fact, "you're wearing that police uniform; you can wait for procedure. I'm wearing this prisoner's skin; I can only bet my life." The car fell into dead silence. Only the faint hiss from the air vents and their interwoven, equally suppressed breaths. Qin Wangshu's hand moved toward the sidearm at her waist, not to draw it, but habitually checking the safety. *Click. Click.* The soft sound of the metal catch was especially clear in the enclosed space. She finally spoke, her voice dry: "Perimeter reconnaissance. I'm only responsible for remote support and early warning. The moment there's risk of contact, you must withdraw immediately. No direct confrontation, leave no physical evidence—including your fingerprints, hair, skin cells. If they counter with technical measures, I'll sever all communication links. You'll have to judge your own escape route." "Deal." Lu Chenzhou pushed open the car door. The night wind rushed in, carrying the scent of rotting plants and the sour, spoiled odor drifting from a distant garbage station. He pulled up the hood of his hoodie, his figure melting into the shadow of the wall like a drop of ink into a deep pool. Qin Wangshu watched the disappearing figure in the rearview mirror, biting her lip harder, tasting a hint of rust-like blood. *** Lu Chenzhou moved along the base of the wall. His footsteps fell on the border between cement and weeds, the sound shredded by the night wind. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, pupils dilated to their limit, capturing every unnatural contour—extra bolts on the streetlight poles, fresh scratches on the lock of a distribution box, a metal fragment reflecting moonlight in the bushes. The bone-conduction earpiece pressed against his cheekbone transmitted Qin Wangshu's breath, suppressed to its lowest. "Your ten o'clock, second streetlight," her voice came as if from underwater. "Recent climbing marks on the middle section of the pole. Rust has been rubbed off." Lu Chenzhou crouched, took a miniature thermal imager from his tool bag. The screen lit up with an eerie green light, outlining the temperature distribution of the streetlight pole. The middle section had an irregular low-temperature area, shaped like a palm—someone wearing gloves had climbed it. It couldn't have been more than twenty-four hours, otherwise the residual body heat would have dissipated long ago. He put away the device, his gaze sweeping over the coverage area of the streetlight's illumination. At the very edge of the light, a derelict newspaper kiosk leaned crookedly on the street corner. Its sheet metal roof had corroded to a reddish-brown, all the glass windows were shattered, filled inside with construction debris and dead leaves. But its location was perfect—it could simultaneously monitor the residential compound's east gate, the main road intersection, and the side windows of the building where Zhou Zhengping's apartment was. Too perfect. Perfect enough not to be a coincidence. Lu Chenzhou circled to the back of the kiosk. There was a gap in the wall here, broken bricks and cement chunks scattered on the ground, as if it had been rammed by a vehicle and never repaired. He crouched in the shadow of the gap, taking a palm-sized signal detector from his tool bag. The screen lit up. Dense spectral lines grew like wild water weeds, three of them abnormally active—their frequencies precisely matching the notification Qin Wangshu had received. The signal strength climbed as he got closer, peaking directly above the newspaper kiosk. He looked up. At the edge of the sheet metal roof, a nearly invisible black cable crawled down along the rain gutter, disappearing into a crack in the wall. The cable's path was well hidden, but Lu Chenzhou followed it with his eyes, finally stopping at the base of a nearby streetlight. Municipal circuit. They weren't just using the public power grid; they had employed professional-grade camouflage and anti-countermeasure treatment. This wasn't a hastily set-up amateur device; it was a carefully calculated and tested surveillance node. Whoever had this level of access and technical resources... either a special department within the system, or an underground force capable of mobilizing equivalent resources. Lu Chenzhou's breathing slowed. He put away the detector, grabbed the metal supports on the side of the kiosk with both hands. Rust particles covered his gloves, the rough texture transmitting through the fabric. He pulled himself up, body suspended, feet finding purchase in the brick joints, silently scaling The shutter sound was set to silent mode, only a faint vibration barely perceptible. He took three panoramic shots, five close-up detail shots—the antenna connection to the square wood, the model of the power interface, the torque marks on the casing's fixing screws. Each detail could point to the device's origin, or the user's habits. The last photo, he focused on that black cable. The cable emerged from the bottom of the device, crawled along a metal gutter for about two meters, then dropped vertically, disappearing over the edge of the roof. He lay flat at the edge and looked down. The cable ran along the wall and disappeared into the opening of an abandoned air conditioning duct. Emerging from the other side of the duct opening, it directly plugged into a spare interface on the side of the streetlight base. The interface cover had the municipal logo. And a set of stamped numbers—the identifier for the circuit management section. Lu Chenzhou memorized the number in his mind, just as he had memorized every piece of evidence at crime scenes ten years ago. Behind these numbers was a chain of permissions. Following it upwards might lead to the hand pulling the switch in the shadows. He was just about to put away the camera— A faint sound of a car engine shutting off came from the distance. Not turning off, but shutting down. The kind of sound made by deliberately controlling the throttle to let the vehicle glide to a stop silently. Lu Chenzhou's body tensed instantly, like a bowstring drawn to its limit. He withdrew into the shadows, his gaze piercing the darkness, locking onto the source of the sound. Fifty meters across the street, a gray van without its lights on was parked under the shade of a tree. The car door opened. A flashlight beam swept out, first scanning the ground, then lifting, slowly sweeping across the street like a searchlight. The beam swept over trash cans, utility poles, gaps in the wall… finally, it stopped on the side where the newsstand was located. Lu Chenzhou's lungs seemed to forget how to breathe. The beam lingered near the newsstand for a full three seconds. He could see dust particles dancing in the light, and faint reflections from the edge of the metal roof. The other party was observing. Confirming. Judging whether this location was "clean." Then, the beam moved away. A figure wearing a municipal maintenance worker's uniform stepped out from beside the van. The man was not tall, but his shoulders were broad. His walking posture carried a professional wariness—not the lazy gait of an ordinary maintenance worker, but a professional stride where each step calculated footing and blind spots. He walked towards the streetlight control box. Taking a key from the tool belt at his waist, he opened the box door and shone the flashlight inside. He inspected the wiring, his movements as familiar as examining his own palm lines. But Lu Chenzhou noticed a detail—on the man's left hand, at the webbing between thumb and forefinger, an unnatural reflection flashed under the light. Not the reflection of skin. A scar. An old scar, pale white from hypertrophic tissue formed after healing. Shaped like a twisted centipede, running from the webbing all the way to the base of the thumb. Lu Chenzhou's pupils abruptly contracted. The shape and location of that scar overlapped highly with an image in his memory—ten years ago, at the periphery of the crime scene of Deputy Mayor Chen's son, Chen Rui, a "passerby" dressed in sanitation worker clothes, pushing a garbage cart. At that time, the man bent down to pick something up, and the scar on the webbing of his left hand flashed under the streetlight. Lu Chenzhou had noted it then. He had noted the characteristics of every person at the scene, including that sanitation worker. Later, there was no statement from that person in the case file, nor in the interview records of the Criminal Police Division. He had asked; his partner at the time, Zhou Zhengping, vaguely said, "Probably just passing by, didn't leave information." Now, that scar had reappeared. Wearing a different uniform, appearing at a different scene, but the scar's location, shape, even the texture of the hypertrophic tissue… exactly the same. This was no coincidence. It was the same hand. That "passerby" who appeared on the periphery of the crime scene ten years ago was now wearing a municipal maintenance worker's uniform, inspecting the circuit of the signal repeater monitoring Zhou Zhengping's home. What did this mean? It meant the scene back then had been infiltrated long ago. It meant that the so-called "unrelated passerby" might have been an observation post set up in advance. It meant Chen Rui's death had been shrouded in deeper shadows from the very beginning. And that scar had become physical evidence connecting two points in time. The man in uniform finished inspecting the control box, closed the door His gaze was unfocused, as if he were spacing out, or perhaps waiting for something. The red glow of the cigarette butt flickered in the darkness like a malevolent eye. Lu Chenzhou held his breath. His fingers found a miniature hydraulic cutter in the tool bag—it could become a weapon if necessary. But he couldn't move now. The slightest sound might be detected by the other man. He could only wait, like a corpse buried in rubble, waiting for the gravedigger to leave on his own. Thirty seconds. One minute. The cigarette was half-smoked when the man suddenly threw the butt on the ground and crushed it under his shoe. He turned and walked back to the van, pulled open the door, but didn't get in immediately. Instead, he stood by the vehicle, took out his phone, and pressed a few keys. He was sending a message. To whom? Reporting what? "Location secure"? "Anomaly detected"? Or... "Target has entered the trap"? Cold sweat seeped from Lu Chenzhou's spine. He realized something—if the other side had already set up this monitoring node, they likely had also monitored all activity near Zhou Zhengping's home. Including a private car parked at a street corner late at night, lingering for a long time without leaving. Including Qin Wangshu. And also including himself, lying prone on top of the newsstand at this very moment. This thought stabbed into his spine like an ice pick. He almost immediately wanted to warn Qin Wangshu to evacuate through the bone conduction earpiece, but reason firmly suppressed the impulse. Communications might already be monitored; any signal would expose his location and intent. He had to gamble. Gamble that the other side hadn't fully confirmed his presence yet. Gamble that the own