Gu Zhixing’s step, the "shuffling" sound it made, was exceptionally clear in the deathly quiet of the factory building. Lu Chenzhou didn’t move. His gaze passed over Gu Zhixing’s shoulder, landing on that small door through which Qin Wangshu had left. The door panel was slightly ajar, the crack revealing deeper darkness beyond. Dust tumbled slowly in the slanted beams of light, like some viscous liquid. A slight twitch flickered at the corner of his left eye, then immediately smoothed away. "What does Lawyer Gu wish to see?" Lu Chenzhou spoke, his voice so steady it betrayed no emotion. He turned around, no longer looking at the door, instead shifting his gaze back to this meticulously recreated room. "Everything here is like a direct tracing from my memory. Even the thickness of the dust has been calculated." He walked to the iron table, his fingers brushing across its surface. The dust was swept away, leaving a clear trail that revealed the dark red paint underneath. "But the tracing is too accurate," he continued. "So accurate it doesn't seem real." Gu Zhixing adjusted his glasses, his gaze behind the lenses following Lu Chenzhou's fingers. "What do you mean, Mr. Lu?" "I mean memory can be faulty." Lu Chenzhou straightened up, brushing the dust from his hands. "The angle of light, the concentration of smells, even the humidity in the air at the time—these details warp, blur, and seep into one another over time. But here…" He looked around. "Everything here is too clear, too complete. Like a neatly organized file, not the messy fragments in a living person's mind." He paused, his gaze falling on the blue plastic lunch box in the corner. "Real memory," Lu Chenzhou said, each word enunciated softly, "has frayed edges." Gu Zhixing was silent for a few seconds. He rubbed the jade thumb ring on his left thumb, the motion slow, once, then again. "Shen Yansheng often said details determine success or failure," he finally spoke, his tone returning to that professional mildness. "Perhaps the person who arranged this place was simply exceptionally meticulous about details." "Perhaps." Lu Chenzhou was noncommittal. He walked towards the only window—or rather, the wall that looked like a window. The "window frame" on the wall was nailed-on wooden strips, behind which were sealed bricks. He reached out and touched the position of the "glass." His fingertips met the cold, smooth surface of an acrylic sheet. Behind the sheet, those miniature LED beads had already gone dark, leaving only a dead blackness. "Three in the afternoon," Gu Zhixing suddenly said, lifting his wrist to look at his watch. "The agreed-upon time is almost here." Lu Chenzhou withdrew his hand. His palm retained the artificial, lifeless coolness of the acrylic sheet. He turned and looked at Gu Zhixing. "Where?" "The main workshop. Shen Yansheng said it's more… open there." *Open.* Lu Chenzhou repeated the word in his mind. Meaning nowhere to hide. Meaning everything was within sight. Walking from this fabricated interrogation room to the main workshop required passing through a corridor piled high with discarded paper rollers. The smell of printing ink in the air grew stronger, mingled with the unique, moldy odor of dampened paper. Light leaked from broken skylights high above, cutting mottled patterns of light and shadow on the floor. Gu Zhixing walked half a step ahead, the sound of his leather shoes on the concrete floor regular and distinct. Lu Chenzhou followed slightly behind and to his side, his gaze sweeping over the mountains of paper rollers piled on both sides. Most of the rollers were already misshapen, their brown paper surfaces split, revealing the curled, yellowed old newspapers inside. The headline of a certain 1987 municipal newspaper was faintly visible, the characters blurred by water stains like smudges of blood. It wasn't fear. It was something else—an instinctive wariness when facing a precision instrument. He knew he was walking towards a designed stage, and the exhibit was the person he had believed dead for ten years. At the end of the corridor was a rusted iron door. Gu Zhixing pushed it open, the hinges letting out a sharp shriek. This space was at least ten times larger than the previous room. The high, vaulted ceiling had several broken steel beams hanging down. Sunlight poured in through countless broken skylights, forming slanted pillars of light. Dust danced within these pillars, slowly, densely, like a silent blizzard. And at the farthest end, against the wall, stood a figure. The man stood with his back to the door, dressed in a dark blue old work uniform, his build slender, his shoulders slightly hunched Not clean, but tidy. The fabric edges showed no fraying, the buttons were fastened meticulously, and even the usual wear marks at the elbows appeared… uniform. Like someone who had just received a new work uniform, deliberately aged it, but overlooked the irregular, natural wear and tear of real use. Old K was left-handed. From years of carrying heavy loads on one shoulder, his right shoulder would be slightly lower than his left, and his center of gravity would unconsciously shift to his right foot when standing. But the person before him stood too straight, his weight evenly distributed between both feet. Like a carefully calibrated statue. Lu Chenzhou stopped about five paces from the man. Gu Zhixing did not follow. He remained at the doorway, leaning halfway against the doorframe, hands in his trouser pockets. The posture of an observer. “Old K.” Lu Chenzhou spoke. His voice was not loud, but it echoed faintly in the empty workshop. The face. It was that face. Square-jawed, thick eyebrows, a small old scar on the left side of the bridge of his nose, left there many years ago when a suspect scratched him with a key during an arrest. The lines at the corners of the mouth, the fine creases at the eyes, even that faint, almost invisible small mole at the tip of the left eyebrow—all matched. Old K’s eyes were turbid, with the bloodshot streaks left by years of staying up late and anxiety, always carrying a wary, ready-to-flee flicker when looking at people. But the eyes before him were too clear. Clear to the point of being vacant. The moment they met Lu Chenzhou’s gaze, there was an extremely brief pause—not an emotional fluctuation, but more like some program recognizing, searching, and then retrieving a suitable response pattern. Then, the man’s mouth pulled into a smile. The curve of the smile, the extent of teeth revealed, even the pattern of wrinkles crinkling at the corners of his eyes perfectly replicated the image in Lu Chenzhou’s memory. “Captain Lu.” The man spoke, his voice hoarse, carrying Old K’s characteristic, rough quality from excessive smoke and drink. “Long time no see.” A handshake. The moment their palms touched, he caught the second flaw: temperature. Old K’s hands were perpetually cold, like a damp stone even in summer. But the hand he was holding now had a standard temperature of 36.5 degrees Celsius—the average human body temperature, neither cold nor hot, just right. And the dryness. Old K, due to neurodermatitis, always had slightly sweaty palms, giving a sticky feeling when shaken. But this hand was dry, smooth, as if coated with a thin layer of hand cream. “Long time no see.” Lu Chenzhou said, releasing the hand. His tone was flat, as if greeting an ordinary old acquaintance. “I thought you were dead.” “Almost.” The man—the mimic—grinned, revealing a bitter smile. This expression was also standard, the downward curve of the mouth, the pattern of furrowed brows, as if printed from a template. “After that incident back then… I hid for a long time. Later, Shen Yansheng found me, gave me a way out.” As he spoke, he subconsciously raised his hand and touched the back of his neck. This was Old K’s habitual gesture when nervous. But Lu Chenzhou noticed he was touching the very center of the back of his neck, whereas the spot Old K would actually touch was the position of the third cervical vertebra on the left side—an old injury there would ache on damp days. “Shen Yansheng is kind-hearted.” Lu Chenzhou said. He made his voice sound as if he accepted this explanation, even carrying a hint of appropriate weariness about the past. “You’ve been working for him all these years?” “Odd jobs.” The mimic lowered his eyes, rubbing his hands together. This gesture was also very similar, but the rhythm was too even, like completing a prescribed procedure. “Running errands, passing messages. Better than the days of constant fear back then.” Lu Chenzhou nodded. He needed the next probe, a detail only the real Old K and he knew, one absolutely impossible to have been recorded in any file. “Remember that time?” He suddenly said, his tone casual as if discussing the weather, “At that abandoned refrigeration plant in the east of the city. You were helping me keep watch, ended up squatting until midnight, shivering from the cold. I told you to go warm up in the car, but you refused stubbornly, said you were afraid of messing things up.” “Later, you pulled something out from inside your coat, said ‘Captain Lu, have a sip of something hot’—guess what it was?” For a very brief moment. His pupils contracted slightly, his eyelids blinked rapidly twice— Because that night, what Old K pulled out wasn't alcohol at all. It was half a bottle of cold ginger tea in a thermos. Old K's stomach had been ruined by drinking years earlier, and doctors strictly forbade him from touching alcohol. Lu Chenzhou remembered this because, after that day, he forced Old K to get a gastroscopy, and he was the one who picked up the report. Files wouldn't record such trivial matters. Even if Shen Yanqing dug into Old K's background down to the last detail, he couldn't uncover these inconsequential snippets of daily life. But the person before him had provided a "plausible" answer—one that fit the "Old K" persona, an answer that could be inferred from the files. He was a counterfeit. A meticulously trained counterfeit, fed vast amounts of data, yet lacking the flesh and blood of real memory. A chill crept up Lu Chenzhou's spine. Not anger, not disappointment, but something deeper, almost a physiological revulsion. Like reaching out to touch a familiar face, only to feel cold, smooth silicone. He let nothing show on his face. Instead, he nodded, as if reminiscing. "Yeah, cheap liquor. You always loved that stuff back then." The imitator relaxed—this microexpression was also standard: shoulders sinking slightly, exhalation becoming a bit more audible. "All in the past," he said, appropriately blending a touch of world-weariness into his tone. "Things are good now. Shen Yansheng treats me well, gives me a steady meal." "That's good," Lu Chenzhou said. He turned his head to look at Fang Mu by the door. Gu Zhixing was still standing there, his figure backlit into a silhouette, his expression unclear. "Attorney Gu." Gu Zhixing straightened up and walked over. "Is Mr. Lu finished talking?" "Just about," Lu Chenzhou said, his tone reverting to that business-like flatness. "Old K is under Shen Yansheng's care now, so I can rest easy. About what happened back then... everyone had their difficulties." He was saying this for Gu Zhixing's ears, and for the imitator's. He was performing "acceptance," performing "letting go," performing the role of a former policeman who, upon learning an old friend wasn't dead and was doing well, chooses not to pursue the matter further. Gu Zhixing adjusted his glasses. "Shen Yansheng has always said Mr. Lu is a reasonable man." "Hardly," Lu Chenzhou waved a hand dismissively. "I just don't want to get entangled anymore. Being alive is what matters most." He took one last look at that "Old K" standing at the edge of the light beam. That face seemed unreal in the mottled light and shadow, like a meticulously painted mask that had forgotten the final touch to bring it to life. "If you ever need help in the future..." the imitator chimed in appropriately, his tone sincere, "Captain Lu, just say the word. I may not have any great skills, but running errands is something I can do." "Alright," Lu Chenzhou nodded. "How do I contact you?" The imitator recited a string of numbers. A local mobile number, sounding perfectly ordinary. Lu Chenzhou memorized it. He knew this number was most likely a disposable SIM card, or simply a relay line. But he still earnestly repeated it back to confirm. "Shall we call it a day then?" Gu Zhixing interjected at the right moment, making a "please" gesture. "Mr. Lu, let me drive you back." Lu Chenzhou said nothing more. He turned and followed Gu Zhixing toward the door. His steps were steady, his back straight, showing no sign of anything amiss. Only after walking out of the factory building and stepping back into the blinding afternoon sunlight did he allow himself to take a deep breath. A deeper, colder chill was slowly spreading through his limbs, following his bloodstream. Gu Zhixing opened the car door and waited for him to get in. The engine started, and the air conditioning vent blew out cool air with a plastic smell. The car left the abandoned industrial area, bumped over potholed concrete roads, and jostled its way onto the main artery of the city's outskirts. His mind replayed the scene just now: those overly clear eyes, that hand with the perfectly measured temperature, that flawless but wrong answer. Old K had been dead for a long time. Dead for ten years, in some unknown corner. And Shen Yanqing, the one controlling everything, not only knew Old K was dead but had also found his body, or at least enough information—appearance, build, scars, habits, voice, handwriting—and then used these fragments to piece together a living counterfeit. An "identity tool" that could be activated at any time, absolutely controllable. Lu Chen Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes, meeting Gu Zhixing's gaze in the rearview mirror. "Satisfied," he said, his voice betraying no emotion. "Thank Shen Yansheng for me. I'll keep this 'gift' well." The car continued forward. The scenery outside the window gradually shifted from the desolate factory area to low-rise residential houses, then to construction sites where skeletal frames of steel and concrete stabbed into the gray, overcast sky. Lu Chenzhou looked out the window, but his mind was racing. It wasn't just to show off, nor merely to mislead. Displaying a "living Old K" could indeed shock Lu Chenzhou's perception, but the risk was too great—once exposed, it would reveal their ability to "forge counterfeits." Shen Yanqing wasn't the type to make a losing deal. Unless... this counterfeit itself was part of the test. Testing whether Lu Chenzhou still held any feelings for Old K. Testing whether he could still be affected by guilt, anger, or lingering trust. Testing his observational skills, his judgment, what flaws he might reveal when faced with something "extremely familiar yet fundamentally false." Then, based on these reactions, adjusting the next steps of manipulation. Lu Chenzhou's fingertips tapped lightly on his knee. One tap, two, three. The rhythm was steady, as if calculating something. If his speculation was correct, then Shen Yanqing should be observing his every expression, every word, every breath right now—perhaps through a listening device on Gu Zhixing, perhaps through hidden cameras in the factory. He had displayed a hint of surprise, a touch of relief, a weariness toward the past, and finally, a compromise of "accepting the status quo." This was a reasonable reaction for someone who learned an old friend was not dead and had defected to the enemy. No excessive anger, no probing questions, no overattachment to the fact that "Old K was still alive." What Shen Yanqing wanted wasn't his "passing grade," but his "authenticity." His most instinctive, deeply buried reactions that couldn't be fully concealed. Those subtle muscle twitches, changes in pupils, tension in the vocal cords—these were the data Shen Yanqing truly wanted to collect. Lu Chenzhou suddenly remembered that fabricated interrogation room. Those overly precise details, that meticulously calculated lighting and scent. Shen Yanqing was replicating his memories, like replicating a famous painting. And today's "Old K" was another replica. In Shen Yanqing's eyes, was he also just a "painting" that could be analyzed, dismantled, and predicted? He forced himself to refocus on reality. The car had already entered the city center. Outside the window were familiar streets, pedestrians, traffic lights. So ordinary it felt almost fake. "Turn right at the next intersection, head to the You'aili Community in the south city." Gu Zhixing glanced at him through the rearview mirror, a flicker of inquiry in his eyes. "Just remembered something," Lu Chenzhou explained, his tone carrying the urgency of work. "The file on Zhao Mingcheng's case mentioned that a week before his death, he had contact with a mobile vendor near You'aili. That vendor later disappeared. I just saw the road sign and remembered—the area is about to be demolished. If we don't go check now, there might be nothing left." He spoke quickly, naturally, like an investigator suddenly struck by inspiration. Gu Zhixing was silent for two seconds. "Do you need me to accompany you?" "No," Lu Chenzhou shook his head, pulling out a folded community map from his pocket—prepared long ago, with several spots circled in red. "The terrain there is complex, lots of alleys. More people might attract attention. Wait for me at the main intersection. I'll go in, confirm a few points, and come right out." Gu Zhixing took it with one hand, unfolded it, and glanced over it. The map was detailed, and the circled locations were indeed spots within You'aili Community suitable for hiding or transactions. He adjusted his glasses, seemingly weighing the situation. "Shen Yansheng instructed me to ensure your safety," he said. "It's just a community, broad daylight, what danger could there be?" Lu Chenzhou smiled, his smile tinged with impatience. "Lawyer Gu, this is how investigations work. Sometimes you have to rely on these sudden inspirations. If you're really worried, you can watch from the intersection. I'll be out within twenty minutes." His tone carried an indisputable decisiveness. It was his usual demeanor as a criminal investigation expert—professional, confident, obsessive about details. Gu Zhixing fell silent again for a few seconds, then nodded. "Alright. I'll wait for you at the south gate of You'aili. Twenty minutes." "Twenty minutes," Lu Chenzhou repeated, starting a The car turned right, entering a relatively narrow street. On both sides were old residential buildings constructed in the 1980s and 1990s, their wall paint peeling, balconies piled high with clutter. You'aili Community was just ahead—a shantytown slated for demolition and redevelopment. Gu Zhixing parked the car by the roadside at the community's south gate. The view here was open, providing a clear sightline to the main access roads in and out of the community. Lu Chenzhou pushed the car door open and got out. The afternoon sun beat down on his back, feeling scorching hot. He glanced back at Gu Zhixing in the car, who was looking down at his phone, seemingly replying to a message. The shantytown was more dilapidated than he had imagined. Most residents had already moved out, doors and windows boarded up with planks, large red-painted "Demolish" characters scrawled on the walls. Narrow alleys crisscrossed, the ground potholed, stagnant with rainwater from a few days ago. The air carried the sour stench of rotting garbage. Lu Chenzhou didn't linger. Following the route from memory, he turned left and right, winding through two alleys until he reached a derelict public phone booth deep within the community. The phone booth was an old-style one, its green paint largely peeled off, several panes of glass shattered. But the phone was still there, its coin slot rusted and stained. He stepped inside, fished a coin from his pocket. The cool, metallic touch steadied his nerves slightly. A long, drawn-out busy tone came through the receiver. One ring, two, three. "Hello?" A voice, processed through a voice changer, indistinct in gender. Lu Chenzhou lowered his voice, speaking quickly. "The reflection is not human, the old shadow has vanished. I need to meet. Midnight, the old place." "Received," the voice said, then hung up. Lu Chenzhou put down the receiver, his palm slick with sweat. He took a deep breath, turned, and walked out of the phone booth. It was enough time for him to circle to another exit of the community, then walk slowly back to the south gate from there, pretending he had just finished an impromptu on-site inspection. He looked up at the sky. Gray and murky, like a piece of dirty glass. Behind that glass, perhaps countless eyes were watching him. Back in the car heading towards the city center, the air felt like congealed glue. Gu Zhixing sat in the passenger seat, his body slightly angled, right hand resting on his knee—a posture both relaxed yet ready to react. His gold-rimmed glasses reflected the gray buildings speeding past the window. His gaze behind the lenses occasionally swept to the rearview mirror, landing on Lu Chenzhou's face. "Mr. Lu," Gu Zhixing began, his voice steady as if delivering a work report, "What did you think of... that person just now?" Lu Chenzhou's gaze fell on his own open palm. His fingertips were pressing lightly, unconsciously, against the fleshy part between his thumb and forefinger, once, then again. It was a habitual action he'd learned in prison to suppress the twitching at the corner of his left eye. Gu Zhixing waited a moment, received no further elaboration, and then gently adjusted the bridge of his glasses. "Just... similar?" "Similar enough to make me want to kill him," Lu Chenzhou lifted his eyes, his gaze colliding with the scrutinizing one in the rearview mirror. "And also similar enough to let me know he is not him." The air conditioning vent emitted a low hum, mingling with the rustle of tires on the road. Sunlight slanted in through the side window, cutting a sharp line of light and shadow across the back of Lu Chenzhou's hand. He felt the change in temperature at the edge of that light—warm, then cool. "Shen Yansheng's meaning is," Gu Zhixing turned his head back, his tone taking on a more official quality, "if you need it, a more in-depth contact can be arranged. That person... is currently considered a 'peripheral consulting advisor' for the group. Regarding some past events, he might be able to provide a new perspective." "For example," Gu Zhixing said, "the specific circumstances when you signed that confession statement back then." His fingers froze, the pressing motion at the base of his thumb stopping dead. The air in the car suddenly turned viscous, each inhalation feeling like swallowing water mixed with sand. "He saw it?" Lu Chenzhou asked. His voice was calmer than he had expected. "He says he remembers," Gu Zhixing did not answer directly, merely pushing his glasses up again. "But memory... over time, there are always discrepancies. Shen Yansheng believes that perhaps "Alright," he said, his tone as casual as if agreeing to an ordinary dinner. "You set the time." Gu Zhixing nodded, pulling his phone from the inner pocket of his suit and starting to type. His fingers moved quickly across the screen, yet his actions betrayed a trained restraint—each keystroke uniform in pressure, no excess emotion leaking through. The street narrowed, flanked by tube-shaped apartment buildings from the nineties, their exterior walls crawling with rusted rainwater pipes and tangled electrical wires. Several elderly people sat on stone benches downstairs, squinting as the car passed. The air carried the scent of incompletely burned coal briquettes from stoves and the oily greasiness of fried dough sticks from roadside snack stalls. According to the pre-planned route, the car would pass through the old community in the southern part of the city slated for demolition. Two hundred meters east of the community entrance, at the second alley corner, there should be an old-fashioned public phone booth with peeling red paint. It was one of the three "secure communication points" marked on the map Fang Mu had given him—an old line, no surveillance, and due to the demolition, even regular maintenance had stopped. "Turn left ahead, into Yongsheng Alley," Lu Chenzhou's tone became urgent, laced with professional focus. "Slow down." The driver glanced in the rearview mirror; Gu Zhixing gave a slight nod. The car decelerated and turned into an even narrower alley. The walls on both sides almost scraped the side mirrors, with discarded furniture and broken bricks piled at the base. Several stray cats darted through the shadows. "The Zhao Mingcheng case," Lu Chenzhou said, his eyes fixed on the window, "the case file mentioned a missing mobile vendor, selling fried cakes. The last known location was this very community." He paused, tapping a finger on his knee—an unconscious gesture emphasizing a point. "It just occurred to me. That vendor's son was detained last year for fighting. The detention record listed his temporary address," Lu Chenzhou turned to look at Gu Zhixing, "in the building ahead, third floor." For an extremely brief, almost imperceptible moment, a glint of assessment flashed. He was judging: Was this a real lead, or was Lu Chenzhou finding an excuse? "More people would only risk alerting him," Lu Chenzhou was already pulling the car door open. "The community layout is complex, with many exits. You guard the main intersection; I'll go up to verify. Ten minutes at most." He spoke rapidly, his tone carrying the unquestionable decisiveness unique to criminal investigators. Simultaneously, he pulled a folded community map from his satchel, unfolded it, and tapped several locations with his finger. "These three spots have the best sightlines. If he slips out another exit, you should be able to see him from these positions." Lu Chenzhou handed the map to Gu Zhixing. "If I'm not out in ten minutes, or if you see any suspicious figures, make the call." His fingers touched the edge of the paper, pausing for half a second. Then he raised his eyes, his gaze lingering on Lu Chenzhou's face for two seconds—two seconds that stretched like a century. The air of the alley immediately enveloped him—damp, carrying the smell of mildew and the sour fermentation of garbage. He strode quickly towards that drab, gray tube-shaped building, his footsteps tapping on the pitted concrete ground with light, distinct sounds. Gu Zhixing was still watching him. Through the car window, through the dim light of the alley, that gaze felt like an icy needle pressed against the back of his neck. He entered the building entrance. Darkness swallowed him instantly. The stairwell had no light, only a faint, pallid sky glow filtering through a small window high up. The walls were plastered with layers of small ads for unclogging pipes and forging documents, the paper edges curled and blackened. He stopped at the first-floor stair landing, turned sideways, and peered out through a hole in the wall. At the alley entrance, the black sedan was still parked. Gu Zhixing had gotten out and was leaning against the car door, holding the map. He looked down at it, occasionally glancing up to scan the alley's several exits. His posture was relaxed, but the line of his shoulders was taut—the stance of someone ready to move at any moment. He turned and squeezed through a narrow crevice on the other side of the stairwell. It was the gap between two buildings, less than half a meter wide, piled with discarded wooden planks and broken glass. He edged forward sideways, bit by bit. The rough concrete wall scraped against his jacket with a rasping sound. The end of the crevice was a low wall. Lu Chenzhou vaulted over it, bending his knees slightly upon landing to absorb the impact. He landed in another, more secluded It stood at the mouth of the alley, its paint peeling like a skin disease. The glass windows were smeared with a thick layer of dust, the inside dark and impossible to make out. The metal frame on top of the booth was rusted, a few wires dangling down, swaying gently in the wind. He crouched in the alley's shadow, waiting for ten seconds. His eyes scanned both sides of the street: in front of the grocery store opposite, an old woman was sorting vegetables; at the bike repair stall kitty-corner, the owner was squatting, patching a tire; further down at the intersection, a few children were chasing a tattered ball. He stood up and walked quickly toward the phone booth. The rusty iron door let out a piercing screech, offering significant resistance as he pushed it open, as if the hinges hadn't been oiled in ages. He squeezed inside and pulled the door shut behind him. The space inside the booth was suffocatingly narrow. The air was stuffy and hot, mixed with the smell of metal rust and a cloyingly sweet fragrance residue—perhaps cheap perfume left by the last user. The phone was an old rotary-dial model, its black plastic body covered in scratches, the receiver smudged with grease. He inserted a coin into the slot; the metal clinked with a soft *clack*. Then he raised his hand, his fingers hovering above the dial. *Thump. Thump.* His heart beat against his ribcage like a drum. In his ears, he could hear the hum of blood flow and the rhythm of his own breathing—inhale, pause, exhale. He closed his eyes, silently reciting the number in the darkness. Only eleven digits, but he had memorized it for three days. Reciting it once before bed each night, again upon waking. He was afraid he would forget, afraid his fingers would tremble and press the wrong key at the critical moment. He couldn't make a mistake. The dial turned, emitting a mechanical *clack, clack*. Each number dialed produced a sound that echoed sharply in the cramped booth, painfully clear. One rotation, two, three... By the seventh digit, the corner of his left eye began to twitch. A slight, but persistent twitch. That muscle seemed to have a life of its own, pulsing rhythmically, pulling at half his face until it went numb. He raised his left hand, pressing his thumb hard against the corner of his eye, the pressure so intense it felt like he was pushing into the bone. The receiver emitted a long series of waiting tones—*beep... beep... beep...*—each one drawn out, as if measuring the thickness of time. Lu Chenzhou's palm began to sweat. The sweat was cold, slick against the plastic receiver. But there was no sound from the other end. No "hello," no breathing, only a dead, electrical hum. "The reflection is not human," he said, his voice low but each word enunciated clearly. "The old shadow is gone." Then, a voice processed through a modulator came through, an electronically synthesized tone, indistinguishable as male or female, but with the crisp decisiveness unique to Qin Wangshu: "Midnight. The old place." *Beep-beep-beep...* A busy signal sounded, urgent, like some kind of alarm. Lu Chenzhou didn't hang up immediately. He held the receiver, listening to the busy signal for three more seconds before slowly returning it to its cradle. The metal hook clicked softly as it settled back. He leaned against the glass wall of the phone booth. The glass was warm, heated by the afternoon sun, the heat palpable even through his clothes. But his spine was cold; cold sweat had soaked through his shirt, the fabric clinging to his skin, damp and cool. Six minutes had passed since he got out of the car. He had four minutes left. No, perhaps less. Gu Zhixing wasn't a fool; ten minutes was the limit. That man might start getting suspicious by the eighth minute, come looking by the ninth. The rusty iron door screeched again. He squeezed out and back into the alley. The sunlight was glaring; he squinted, then started running back. He passed through the crevice, vaulted over the low wall, and ducked back into the stairwell of the tube-shaped building. Darkness enveloped him again. This time he didn't even pause, charging directly up to the third floor. The third-floor corridor was piled with junk: broken bicycles, an old wardrobe, stacks of bundled newspapers. The air carried the smell of stale cooking oil. Lu Chenzhou walked quickly to door 304—the address marked on the map, the former temporary residence of the vendor's son. The door was an old green wooden one, its paint peeling, a rusty padlock hanging from the handle. Lu Chenzhou reached out and ran his hand along "They moved away," Lu Chenzhou said, a trace of professional regret in his tone. "At least three months ago. The place is cleared out, but there are fresh dragging marks on the door frame, maybe from the last batch of furniture." Gu Zhixing nodded without further questions. He opened the car door, gesturing with a polite "after you." The door closed, shutting out the outside world. The air conditioning's cold air wrapped around them again, carrying the distinct smell of car interior leather and the sweetness of an air freshener. The driver started the engine, and the car slowly pulled out of the alley. Gu Zhixing put away the map, took a handkerchief from his pocket, and carefully wiped his fingers—the dust from handling the map earlier. "A pity," he said, his tone as flat as commenting on the weather. "The trail isn't cold." Lu Chenzhou leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. "The dragging marks point downstairs, not upstairs. That means they used movers when they left, and a proper company—private moves aren't that meticulous. Check the moving records in this area for the last three months; we might find something." Then he let out a soft laugh—so soft it was almost inaudible. "Mr. Lu is still the same," he said. "Not letting a single speck of dust slip by." The corner of his left eye was still twitching. Once, then again, pulsing beneath the dark eyelid. He pressed hard against it, his nail almost digging into the skin. The car left the old city district and merged back into the main road traffic. The buildings outside the window grew taller, their glass curtain walls reflecting the afternoon sun in blinding white. Seven hours. He needed to organize his thoughts, to prepare everything he had to tell Qin Wangshu—about the "imitator," about those overly perfect eyes, about that metronome-like rhythm of fingers tapping against a pant leg. About the cold, nauseating wave that rose from his gut when he realized that the guilt, anger, and protective instinct he'd carried for ten years were all built upon a phantom who had long been dead, whose very identity had been stolen. The car turned at the next intersection, heading in the direction of the Shen Group building. Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes and looked out the window. The city sky was a grayish blue, a few wispy clouds drifting past, their shapes indistinct. That voice, processed through a voice changer, electronically synthesized, indistinguishable as male or female. But the intonation was hers. Crisp, calm, without unnecessary hesitation. Lu Chenzhou's fingers curled on his knees, clenching into a fist. His nails dug into his palm, leaving four crescent-shaped, deep impressions. The car slowed, entering the entrance to an underground garage. Darkness swallowed their vision once more, only the yellow indicator lights lining the lane dragging afterimages across their retinas. - Lu Chenzhou successfully contacted Qin Wangshu using a code phrase at the designated phone booth, arranging a detailed talk for midnight. - Gu Zhixing waited across the street, showing no obvious suspicion, but his small gesture of wiping his hands hinted he was not completely relaxed. - Time pressure: Seven hours left until midnight. Lu Chenzhou needed to organize the earth-shattering discovery and prepare for the crucial conversation. - New pressure: The identity trust crisis brought by the imitator began to spread. Lu Chenzhou's understanding of "Old K" was completely overturned from "living traitor" to "dead informant—identity stolen to create a counterfeit." He must re-evaluate the authenticity of all personnel related to the old cases. **[Next Hook]** Midnight approaches. Lu Chenzhou needs to conduct a high-risk, encrypted communication with Qin Wangshu in his own apartment's bathroom (the only location possibly free from surveillance). This may be his only recent opportunity for emotional release and tactical coordination, and a key juncture in deciding whether to execute the dangerous gambit of "reverse baiting." Lu Chenzhou sat on the tiled floor of the bathroom, his back against the cold wall. The shower head was on, the sound of rushing water masking any potential low-frequency surveillance. In his hand was an encrypted communicator modified by Fang Mu, its headphone cord wrapped around his neck like a black shackle. The city outside the window had long fallen asleep. Only the occasional distant sweep of headlights cast brief, shifting spots of light on the ceiling, like the shadows of fish darting underwater. A brief dial tone, the static background noise hissing in the earpiece like the whisper of some deep-sea creature. Then, Qin Wangshu's voice cut in, processed through a voice changer, carrying a slight metallic quality, but Lu Chenzhou could hear the tension in her tone. "Secure line," she said, three words, succinct as a scalpel. "Confirmed." Lu Chenzhou's voice was drier Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. The scene from the printing factory surfaced once more in the darkness, carrying the smell of dust and printer's ink. He began to describe, his tone steady, almost cold, as if delivering an autopsy report. "Appearance, build, scars—all match. Even the slight forward tilt of the left shoulder due to an old injury was imitated to ninety percent accuracy." He spoke slowly, each word as if dredged from icy water. "But there was a 0.3-second delay in eye contact. Not thinking, but a programmed recognition response—scanning facial features, matching the database, retrieving the preset emotional module, then outputting." "Guilt." Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes. The person in the mirror had a slight twitch at the corner of his eye. "He looked at me, his face showing just the right amount of guilt, mixed with a hint of fear, a touch of helplessness. The proportions were precise, lasting 3.7 seconds, then transitioning naturally to the earnestness of 'seeking understanding.' Like a textbook." Qin Wangshu fell silent on the other end. Only the hum of the electric current persisted. Lu Chenzhou continued, his voice dropping even lower, almost merging with the sound of the water. "When we shook hands, the temperature of his palm was 34.2 degrees Celsius. My estimate. Dry, no sweat, no subtle dampness from prolonged nervous tension. The calluses on his knuckles were in positions too standard, concentrated in the conventional areas for holding a pen and gripping a gun. But Old K had an old scar on the webbing between his thumb and index finger of his left hand, from being cut by a piece of iron as a child. It would affect his grip; the distribution of calluses should have been asymmetrical. This one did