The iron gate closed behind him with a heavy, dull thud, its rusty metal scraping together in a hoarse, lingering rasp. Wind rushed into his throat, choking his breath. It wasn't the stagnant, lifeless air of the prison, heavy with the smell of disinfectant and mildew. This wind was vast, cold, carrying the distant, muffled roar of the city. The rough collar of his prison uniform scraped against the thin layer of callus on his neck—ten years, and the callus was still there, but the sensation felt as alien as someone else's skin. He narrowed his eyes. The prison's outer wall was a worn gray-white; clumps of foxtail grass at its base were half-withered, rustling and trembling in the wind. A stretch of asphalt road extended into the distance, its surface bleached white by the sun. On either side lay harvested, bare fields, the stubble of crop stalks mottled yellow and brown. A few scattered passersby hurried past, bundled in their coats. No one glanced his way. In the distance, a faded dark blue Santana was parked, its windows tinted dark, impossible to see inside. No one in a suit got out of the car. No formulaic words: "Mr. Shen sent me to pick you up." None of the cold, coercive "cooperation agreement" he had rehearsed countless times in his mind. The corner of his left eye began to twitch, faintly, as if tugged by an invisible thread. He raised his hand, pressing the spot with his fingertip. His knuckles felt stiff. Ten years without direct sunlight like this; his skin looked pale under the light, the blue veins beneath visible. His shoulders had hunched up near his ears. He slowly forced them down. His breathing adjusted to a steady rhythm, the rise and fall of his chest suppressed to near invisibility. This was something he'd learned inside: never let anyone read emotion from your breath. He stood like an old wooden stake driven into the ground. Only his eyes moved, scanning the ends of the road in both directions, assessing the outline of the Santana, judging whether any passerby's gait held hidden intent. The Santana's door opened. A man got out, wearing an old, faded police training jacket, no cap. He wasn't young, his back slightly hunched, his left leg dragging almost imperceptibly as he walked. He came straight over, a bulging kraft paper file folder in his hand. Lu Chenzhou's fingers curled slightly at his side, then relaxed. He maintained his stance, watching the man approach until he could see the ravines carved by time and alcohol on his face, see the frayed edges of the jacket cuffs, see the tiny fibers raised along the edges of the folder from repeated friction. The man stopped about three paces away. He held out the folder. "Lu Chenzhou?" The voice was hoarse, smoke-scorched, the tone not questioning but confirming. Lu Chenzhou didn't take it. His gaze shifted from the folder to the man's face, lingering on his turbid yet abnormally clear eyes, then slid down, past where his epaulettes had once been—now empty, only the faint imprint left on the fabric from long wear—finally landing on the old numbered badge on his chest. Some of the paint had peeled. "Who are you?" Lu Chenzhou asked. His voice was even, dry, like the autumn air. "Zhou Zhengping." The man gave his name crisply, but his hand holding the folder didn't withdraw. "Retired. Someone asked me to bring you something." "Who asked?" Lu Chenzhou's gaze locked onto the other man's eyes. "Shen Yan?" Zhou Zhengping shook his head. The movement was slight, but definite. "Not Shen Yan." He paused, jerked his chin slightly toward the prison's gate, then quickly turned back, lowering his voice. "Someone... who thinks your case back then was wrapped up a little too cleanly." The rough surface of the kraft paper almost brushed against the sleeve of Lu Chenzhou's prison uniform. He could smell the faint scent of printer's ink on the folder, mixed with a hint of warehouse dust. Zhou Zhengping's knuckles were thick, covered in calluses, a long-faded scar on the inside of his thumb. Besides the smell of cigarettes, the old police jacket carried a faint, lingering odor, a mix of machine oil and sweat. "Not a good place here," Zhou Zhengping added, his voice dropping further, his eyes quickly sweeping the empty road on either side. "Find a place to talk. Or..." He gave the folder a gentle shake. "Just take it. Pretend you never saw me." Lu Chenzhou raised his hand. He didn't take it immediately, his fingertips first brushing the edge of the "It's clean as a textbook," Zhou Zhengping said, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might or might not have been a smile. "Every step is compliant, every piece of evidence forms a closed loop. Even the emotional turning points in your confession statement hit just right." He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing. "But a textbook won't tell you... some internal procedural signatures can't be imitated that well by an outsider. A discrepancy of one millimeter is a flaw." The wind swept up dust, rustling through the withered grass. Lu Chenzhou's fingers closed, gripping the file folder. It was heavy. Not just the weight of paper. Zhou Zhengping's shoulders slumped slightly. "Take a right at the intersection ahead, walk about five hundred meters. There's an abandoned bus stop, and behind it, a small grove of trees." His tone returned to that weary flatness. "I'll wait for you there. If you don't come in half an hour..." He shrugged, leaving the sentence unfinished, turned, and walked towards the Santana, the dragging of his left leg more pronounced as he pivoted. Lu Chenzhou stood in place, watching Zhou Zhengping pull open the car door and settle into the driver's seat. The Santana's engine coughed to life with a dull rumble, a puff of faint blue smoke from the exhaust pipe as it slowly pulled away, turned onto the main road, and vanished. The presence of the file folder in his hand became sharp, burning. He looked down at it. The kraft paper envelope was sealed with ordinary cotton string, no stamps, no markings, only the fine wrinkles left by repeated winding. Sunlight fell on the paper surface, highlighting the crisscrossing texture of the fibers. The distant roar of the city seemed to grow louder, a low, rumbling backdrop reminding him of the emptiness and exposure of where he now stood. He turned around, facing the heavy iron gate of the prison, already closed. Then he began to walk, heading in the direction completely opposite to the one Zhou Zhengping had indicated. His pace was neither hurried nor slow, footsteps landing on the dry asphalt with a regular, faint sound. The prisoner's uniform was baggy, pressed against his body by the wind, outlining an overly gaunt frame. He did not look back. Not once. After walking nearly a kilometer, confirming no vehicles or pedestrians were following behind, he stopped at a fork in the road. There was a crooked old road sign, the arrow pointing towards "County Town" already rusted and blurred. He turned onto a narrower dirt path leading towards a poplar grove. Inside the grove, it was quiet. Only the mournful sound of wind through the treetops and the crisp crackle of dry leaves underfoot. The light was sliced into fragments by the bare branches, dappling the ground in shifting patterns. He stopped behind a thick poplar tree, leaning back against the rough bark. The chill of the trunk seeped through the thin prisoner's uniform. He undid the cotton string, his movements slow, fingertips feeling the tension of the thread. The seal was pulled open, and he withdrew the contents. It wasn't Shen Yan's financial scandals. Not any record of power-and-money transactions he had anticipated might be related to the political murder case from back then. They were photocopies. The paper quality was ordinary, edges marred by the black specks typical of copy machines. Seven or eight pages in total, all photocopies of internal case file materials from his own case ten years ago—evidence transfer lists, forensic report receipt records, interrogation transcript summaries. On each page, handwritten red circles and arrows pointed to specific entries. It was the circulation receipt form for the physical evidence forensic report. In the "Received By (Signature)" column, a name was tightly circled in red: **Lin Guodong** Beneath the name, someone had written in small red characters: "Former Head of the Municipal Bureau's Criminal Technical Identification Section. Died in a traffic accident three months after Lu Chenzhou's arrest. Hit-and-run vehicle fled, case unsolved." In the margin of the page, another line of even smaller, printed Songti font notes read: "Upon comparison, the outline of the seal stamp ink on this signature exhibits an approximately 0.8mm horizontal offset from the standard internal template of the same period. Not caused by normal wear of the official seal or stamping pressure. Characteristic of high-precision forgery. Conclusion: The seal on this key evidence node is forged. The forger possessed an extremely detailed familiarity with internal procedures and seal details." **"The framing originated from within the system overseeing the case investigation, and possesses the capability to eliminate key witnesses."** Lu Chenzhou's finger pressed down on the three characters "Lin Guodong." The paper was cold. Lin Guodong. He remembered the name. A taciturn technical bureaucrat Zhou Zhengping didn't get out of the car. He merely rolled down the driver's side window and looked over. Lu Chenzhou tucked the photocopies back into the file folder and retied the cotton string. His movements remained steady. Then he walked out of the woods, heading towards the Santana. His footsteps fell on the leaves and soil, making a dull, steady sound. *** The Santana took him to a back alley behind a privately-run hotel on the outskirts of the county town. Half of the neon tubes on the hotel's sign were broken; only one side of the character for "inn" was still lit, flickering faintly in the fading light. Zhou Zhengping didn't turn off the engine, just pointed towards an inconspicuous side door deep in the alley. "Second floor, the room at the very end. I booked an hourly room." He paused. "I paid. You've got two hours." Lu Chenzhou pushed the car door open and got out. The file folder was tucked under his arm, shielded by his body. The alley smelled of swill and damp lime. The side door wasn't locked. He pushed it open, entered, and climbed a narrow staircase with peeling paint. The wooden steps creaked under his feet. The door at the end of the second-floor corridor was slightly ajar. He pushed it open and went in. The room was small: a bed, an old wooden table, two chairs. The curtains were drawn, and only a bedside lamp was on, casting a dim yellow light. Zhou Zhengping was already sitting at the table. In front of him lay the bulging file folder and an old enamel teacup. No steam rose from the cup. Lu Chenzhou closed the door and turned the lock. The sound was sharp in the silence. He sat down opposite Zhou Zhengping. The smell of cheap black tea hung between them, mixed with the musty odor of an old wooden cabinet. The partition curtain was drawn, and half of Zhou Zhengping's face was lost in shadow. "I've looked at what's inside," Zhou Zhengping began, his voice raspier than before. He pulled the teacup from his pocket, unscrewed the lid, didn't drink, just placed it by his hand, his fingers unconsciously rotating the cup. "Your case. The chain of evidence for conviction... perfect." Zhou Zhengping wasn't looking at him; his gaze was fixed on the rusted lid of the teacup. "But perfect things," he paused, his Adam's apple bobbing, "often can't withstand close scrutiny. Some signatures... only insiders would know how to imitate them so accurately." A slight twitch flickered at the corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye. He controlled it. His voice was level, each word measured as if with a ruler: "You're saying the people who forged my confession and the physical evidence report were police officers?" Zhou Zhengping's hand, which had been rotating the cup, stopped. He lifted his eyes. Something flickered in those murky orbs, then quickly died. "I'm retired." He evaded the question, pushing the file folder another half-inch forward. "This is my personal gift to you. Look at it, then burn it. Don't implicate me." The frayed edges of the file folder scraped against the tabletop with a faint, sandy sound. Lu Chenzhou smelled the scent of paper and ink, mixed with the faint, ingrained smoke smell from Zhou Zhengping's police uniform, and... something deeper, akin to rust and the stale air of an old archives room. His fingertips could feel the outline of something hard inside the paper folder. More than just paper. "Who asked you to do this?" Lu Chenzhou asked, his gaze unwavering. Zhou Zhengping shook his head. "Someone who thought the case back then was too clean." He spoke faster now, with a kind of urgency chased by time. "I don't know them. The stuff was slipped into my mailbox, along with my wife's grocery receipts — they knew what time I pick up the newspaper every day." "They know you." "Yes." Zhou Zhengping finally took a sip of tea, the gulp loud. "They know who I am, where I live, even my wife's habits. Lu Chenzhou, this thing is hot. I could have thrown it away, but..." He sighed, a breath carrying the smell of alcohol and something deeper. "But I read the contents. I couldn't sleep." Lu Chenzhou's fingers closed, pressing gently on the file folder. The movement caused his sleeve to ride up, revealing a faint, old white scar on the inside of his wrist — not from prison, but from earlier, cut by broken glass during some scene investigation. His skin could feel the hard edges of the photocopies beneath the paper folder, shaped like a key. "What's inside?" he asked. "Photocopies of your case “Yes.” Zhou Zhengping finally took a sip of tea, his swallow heavy. “They know who I am, where I live, even my wife’s habits. Lu Chenzhou, this thing is hot to handle. I could have thrown it away, but…” He sighed, the breath carrying the smell of alcohol and something deeper. “But I read the contents. I can’t sleep.” "The conclusion?" Zhou Zhengping tugged at the corner of his mouth, the smile as dry as cracked bark. "The conclusion hinted that the framing came from within the system. And with enough power to silence witnesses." He stared at Lu Chenzhou. "You understand what I mean? Not the kind of 'arrangement' Shen Yan could buy with money, but something more... more institutional. Like a machine. One gear turned, and you were crushed." Lu Chenzhou's fist clenched beneath the table. His nails dug into his palm, the pain sharp and concrete. He needed this. For ten years, he had survived on his hatred for Shen Yan. That hatred was like a rusted steel nail driven into his spine, propping him up so he wouldn't collapse. Now, someone was telling him the nail was in the wrong place. "Evidence?" His voice remained steady, but his pace slowed by half a beat. "Where's the original? Who prepared the analysis report? Millimeter-level deviation—verification would require high-resolution scans of the original, even specialized comparison software. An ordinary person couldn't get those." "I don't know." Zhou Zhengping shook his head and began spinning his cup again, spinning it fast. "All I know is, the person who gave me this thing was either another gear in that machine from back then, or... someone who wants to dismantle the machine." He raised his eyes, his gaze meeting Lu Chenzhou's directly for the first time. "Your former apprentice, Qin Wangshu. She's now the deputy head of the Municipal Criminal Investigation Division. Not a low position." Lu Chenzhou felt as if a basin of ice water had been poured over him from head to toe, the cold crawling down his spine. Qin Wangshu. The name struck a chord in his chest, bringing with it the memory of a cup of warm water in the interrogation room ten years ago, and the complex, indecipherable look in her eyes when she handed it to him. "Your case back then," Zhou Zhengping's voice seemed to float in from a great distance, "she was involved in the periphery. Evidence collation, file archiving... the kind of unnoticed but essential work." "Is she problematic?" Lu Chenzhou asked. He realized he had repeated the word "problematic"—a habit under pressure. "I don't know." Zhou Zhengping said it again, but this time he added, "But her current position gives her access to many 'clean' procedures. Too clean." The folder beneath Lu Chenzhou's hand grew heavy. It was no longer just a stack of papers; it was a fissure, leading into a darkness he had never imagined. The enemy he had believed in stood in the open: the powerful, money, blatant oppression. But now, someone was telling him the real knife might have come from behind, from the system he had once sworn to uphold, from someone he had personally taught, perhaps even trusted. "Why give it to me?" Lu Chenzhou finally asked the core question, his gaze locking onto Zhou Zhengping. "You could have burned it, acted like you never saw it. A retired cop, drawing his pension in peace and quiet, wouldn't that be better?" Zhou Zhengping's hand, which had been spinning the cup, stopped completely. He looked down at the murky tea in his cup, looking for a long time. From outside the booth came the sound of the proprietress greeting customers, the clatter of porcelain, the buzz of voices—all muffled as if through thick glass. "My partner," Zhou Zhengping began, his voice so soft it was almost inaudible, "Old Liu. Many years ago, we wanted to investigate an old case, indirectly connected to Shen Yan. It wasn't even officially filed, just some private digging." He paused, his Adam's apple bobbing violently. "Later, he was 'retired.' Three months later, a car accident. Also at night, also on a provincial highway. The car burned too." He raised his eyes, the whites threaded with red veins. "The autopsy report said it was fatigue driving. Too clean, like something out of a textbook." He tugged at the corner of his mouth again, the expression uglier than a cry. "I said nothing. Drank for a few years, drank myself into this state. But some things... you can't swallow them down." Lu Chenzhou remained silent. He heard his own heartbeat "I'll take it." Lu Chenzhou finally spoke. He picked up the document folder, his fingers feeling its weight and firmness. "Everything you just said, I didn't hear it. You didn't see me today." Zhou Zhengping's shoulders slumped, as if a heavy burden had been lifted. He nodded, didn't speak, just screwed the enamel teacup tight and tucked it back into his pocket. His movements were a little shaky. Lu Chenzhou stood up. The astringent taste of the cheap tea leaves still clung to the back of his tongue. He pulled open the curtain of the booth, and the afternoon light from outside flooded in, glaring. He looked back at Zhou Zhengping one last time. The old man sat in the shadows, head bowed, hands gripping his knees, spine hunched. The street outside was noisy with traffic, the autumn sun carrying a false warmth. He tucked the document folder under his arm, shielding it with his body, and stepped steadily into the crowd. Zhou Zhengping's words, "Your disciple Qin Wangshu is in a very high position now," echoed repeatedly in his ears. Each word was like a fine needle, pricking into the worldview he had just rebuilt. The documents under his arm emitted a faint heat, like a time bomb that hadn't yet been activated. *** The curtains in the hotel room were drawn tight, leaving only a crack. Lu Chenzhou sat on the edge of the bed, the document folder spread open on his lap. He took out the photocopies again, laying them out one by one on the faded bedsheet. The light from the bedside lamp was dim and yellow, shining on the papers, making the red circles and annotations stand out like wounds. His finger traced over the name "Lin Guodong," stopping on the date of death. Three months. Ninety-three days after he entered prison, this head of the technical division responsible for physical evidence identification drove his grey Volkswagen, crashed through the guardrail on a curve of the eastern elevated highway, and plummeted into the construction pit below. The accident report was as concise as a template: excessive speed, slippery road in the rain, sole responsibility. No drunk driving, no mechanical failure, no traces of dispute witnessed. A full stop. There were other things in the folder. The edges of several case file photocopies were already worn and yellowed, as if they had been repeatedly taken out and examined. What was highlighted wasn't financial records or call logs—the evidence he had originally expected to see, pointing to Shen Yan's manipulation of the judiciary—but several standard-format internal police documents. Evidence transfer registration forms, chain of custody records for physical evidence, delivery receipts for appraisal reports. Every place requiring "Lin Guodong's" signature seal had been circled in red pen, with handwritten analysis notes beside them, the handwriting as neat as printed text. "The ink color of the seal impression shows a discernible color difference to the naked eye compared to other documents from the same day, inferred not to be from the same batch of stamping." "Handwriting pressure analysis shows that the lifting and pressing habit of the final stroke of the surname character 'Lin' in the signature deviates vertically by 0.3 mm from the personal sample of Lin Guodong retained in the archives. This deviation falls within the 'acceptable copying error' range stipulated internally." "Key point: The direction of this deviation matches the common error pattern when a right-handed writer deliberately imitates left-handed writing pressure characteristics. Not signed by the person, but the imitator is intimately familiar with the internal tolerance standards for handwriting appraisal." A slight twitch started in the corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye. Very faint, like a leaking electrical wire buried under the skin. He closed his eyes. The astringent taste of cheap tea still stuck to the back of his tongue, mingling with the hotel bedsheet's odor of bleach and mildew. Zhou Zhengping's eyes, unable to meet his when he spoke, surfaced in the darkness—evasive, murky, suppressing something even heavier. The frame-up came from within the system. When this thought first clearly formed, it was like a basin of ice water poured from head to toe. Not the behemoth he had prepared for ten years, fed by the hatred chewed from every bite of prison food. Not the hideous talons of power he was certain existed beneath Shen Yan's refined mask. It was something colder. It was procedure. It was stamps. It was signatures. It was those internal rules he had once also obeyed, also executed, also regarded as natural and right, sharpened into a knife and thrust precisely into his back. And Qin Wangshu… that disciple of his who once had clear, bright eyes, chasing after him asking about key points of crime scene investigation, now sat in the position of deputy squadron leader. She had access to all the "clean" procedures. Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes. He picked up a photoc The sky outside the window had completely darkened. Scattered footsteps echoed from the alley, and the distant noise of a motorcycle passing by. Lu Chenzhou gathered the photocopies one by one, stuffed them back into the file folder, and tied the cotton string tight. He shoved the folder under his pillow, then lay down, hands folded over his chest, and closed his eyes. His breathing was steady. His heartbeat, steady. But the machine in his mind had already started. Gears meshed, levers turned, every component emitting a cold, precise grinding sound in the darkness. Ten years. For the first time in ten years, he felt his objective was so clear, yet so unfamiliar. It wasn't revenge. It was disassembly. He had to return to that city, return to the interior of that system which had once devoured him, find that machine, find that turning gear, and then— Pry it loose. The file folder under his pillow felt like a branding iron gradually cooling, pressed against the back of his neck.