Lu Chenzhou shook off the last tail at the alley entrance and turned into the red-brick building from the nineties. The motion-sensor light in the stairwell was broken. He groped his way up to the third floor in the dark, inserted the key into the lock, and turned. The door opened. The smell of mildew mixed with the cool, damp chill of the night air hit him. He didn’t turn on the lights, walking straight to the window and lifting a corner of the curtain. The silver sedan was still at the street corner. The passenger window was lowered a crack, a flash of lens reflection glinting past. Still there. He drew all the curtains tight. The room plunged into complete darkness, only the faint red glow of the computer’s standby indicator in the corner. He switched on the low-wattage energy-saving lamp, its dim yellow light barely pushing back a small patch of the dark. From a hidden compartment in his backpack, he took out the metal thumb drive. Cold. Heavy. When Gu Zhixing gave it to him, he had said, “It contains filtered materials. There are some distractions; you’ll need to judge for yourself.” His tone was steady, as if assigning ordinary homework. Lu Chenzhou inserted the drive into the computer. The fan immediately sped up with a low hum. The screen lit up, a new encrypted drive letter popping up. He ran the decryption program he had written himself. A command-line window opened, characters scrolling rapidly. Third layer of encryption, commercial-grade RSA hybrid… Self-destruct threshold set for three incorrect attempts. His fingers tapped on the keyboard. Bypass it. Outside the window, the red light flashed again. The indicator light of a vehicle dashcam, roughly eighty meters away, angle slightly elevated. He kept half his attention on the sounds outside—a motorcycle starting up and driving away downstairs, the neighbor’s TV playing the midnight news, the rhythmic drip of a faucet at the end of the hallway. The keyboard clicked, crisp and rapid. The screen’s blue light reflected on his face, casting his features in a somewhat cold, hard outline. A faint twitch started at the corner of his left eye. He raised a hand and pressed it. The program breached the final barrier. The thumb drive’s contents appeared. A single folder, named “Audit-Clear Current.” Inside were two files: one PDF titled “Project Clear Current - Final Audit Report (Internal Draft).” The other, an encrypted compressed file named “Communication Log Fragments_2023.” Lu Chenzhou double-clicked the PDF. The file was large, taking three or four seconds to load. The first page was the cover, the logo of the Shen Group, with the words “Top Secret - For Board Members’ Eyes Only” written below. He scrolled. Abstract. “…Conducted a special audit on the ‘Clear Current’ series of overseas investment projects (Nos. QL-001 to QL-007) under the responsibility of Ms. Shen Qinghuan. The following issues were identified: 1. Fictitious supplier transactions, involving approximately twenty-three million USD; 2. Use of offshore companies for profit shifting, with complex fund flows ultimately linked to shell companies personally controlled by Ms. Shen Qinghuan; 3. Project progress reports severely inconsistent with actual conditions, indicating systematic falsification…” His blood ran cold instantly. Not a distraction. This was ironclad evidence enough to send someone to prison. Data tables, screenshots of bank statements, scanned contracts, even confirmation letters bearing Shen Qinghuan’s signature—the handwriting of that signature, he knew it all too well. He immediately switched windows, opening the scanned images of the old case files stored on his encrypted drive. Placed side by side. Two signatures. The characters for “Shen Qinghuan” on the “Supplier Confirmation Letter,” and the “witness” signature on that forged “Witness Interrogation Transcript” from years ago, both had an unnatural hesitation at the end of the downward stroke. A flaw left subconsciously by an imitator, as unique as a fingerprint. Exactly the same. The light from the screen stung his eyes. The thud of his heartbeat pounded in his eardrums. His palm, gripping the mouse, was slick with cold sweat. He leaned back in his chair. The leather of the chair was cold, seeping through his shirt. He closed his eyes. The afterimage of those two overlapping signatures lingered on his retinas. The tight knot in his stomach spread to his chest, as if a hand were squeezing his heart. This wasn’t an investigative report on Shen Qinghuan. This was an offering of allegiance to him. Gu Zhixing was testing him: Would you hand over this “ironclad evidence” to protect yourself, or to take revenge on the Shen family? Would The blue glow from the screen cut across Lu Chenzhou’s tense profile in the darkness. He opened his eyes again, his gaze sweeping over the spreadsheets, scanned documents, and bank statement screenshots like a scalpel. The data was staggering in its volume, a chain of falsification stretching from the first offshore company three years ago to the last cross-border remittance just last month. Each entry was accompanied by contracts, signatures, official seals, and even a few blurry screenshots from surveillance footage, pointing to scenes of Shen Qinghuan meeting with a foreign agent in a hotel café. It was forged with professional precision. Professional enough to send her away for ten years. Both are dead ends. As if the pen tip had caught on something at that very moment. His stomach twisted into knots. Without hesitation, he switched back to the images from the old case. In the three characters of “Lu Chenzhou,” the final horizontal stroke of the “zhou” character ended with an identical, subtle hesitation. Exactly the same. Even the flaw meant to disguise it was exactly the same. The room was silent except for the low hum of the computer fan and the sound of his own blood rushing to his eardrums. Thump. Thump. Thump. His palm, gripping the mouse, was slick with cold sweat, the metal casing turning slippery. He stared at the two images side by side, his retinas burning with afterimages of blue light. Secretary Sun. No. Gu Zhixing. Gu Zhixing had been involved back then. This “ironclad evidence”… wasn’t meant to frame Shen Qinghuan. At least, not entirely. It was aimed at me. Lu Chenzhou leaned back in his chair. The cool touch of the leather seeped through his shirt against his spine. He closed his eyes, pressing his fingers hard against the bridge of his nose, trying to suppress the churning mix of anger and a cold, creeping dread rising within him. The pain of the old scar being torn open was sharp and clear, carrying with it the memory of the fluorescent lights in the interrogation room. The red light outside the window flickered again. Still there. Now he understood. The USB drive Gu Zhixing had given him contained not “selectively filtered and misleading material.” It was a meticulously prepared “letter of allegiance” test. The test was simple and fatal: Lu Chenzhou, how will you handle this “ironclad evidence” that can destroy Shen Qinghuan? Choose “Justice”—submit the evidence through proper channels, or at least report it to Gu Zhixing—Shen Qinghuan falls. He proves himself “dutiful,” willing to sacrifice his only ally to “uncover the truth.” He passes the test, becoming a more qualified pawn. The cost is the complete severance of the Shen Qinghuan lead, the clues to the old case sinking into deeper darkness. Simultaneously, he personally sends someone to prison based on evidence he knows is forged. Choose “Concealment”—suppress the report, or alter it—he exposes his “injustice” and personal bias. Choosing to protect Shen Qinghuan equals admitting an alliance with her that goes beyond the scope of the investigation. Gu Zhixing would know immediately. Then, charges of “dereliction of duty,” “harboring,” and “collusion” would fall like a guillotine. Both paths led to death. But beside the corpse on the latter path, perhaps a weapon for counterattack could still remain. Lu Chenzhou’s left hand unconsciously disassembled the ballpoint pen on the corner of the desk. Cap, spring, refill, end plug. The metal components clicked softly between his fingers. His mind raced, coldly arranging all variables. The chain of submitting evidence: Report → Gu Zhixing → Shen Moqing or the Board Audit Committee → Internal disciplinary review → Transfer to judiciary. Shen Qinghuan loses everything. Gu Zhixing is satisfied. He gains temporary safety, or deeper control. Clues to the old case are severed. The Secretary Sun lead is buried deeper. The risks of hiding evidence: Must forge a “decryption progress report,” claim the USB drive is corrupted or the encryption cannot be fully cracked, buying time. Simultaneously warn Shen Qinghuan, letting her prepare in advance. Gu Zhixing will notice the delay, may activate a backup plan—such as directly “anonymously reporting” to Shen Moqing. He would immediately become a target. But Shen Qinghuan is temporarily safe, the alliance continues. Time is bought to investigate the source of the forged report in reverse, follow the trail, Lu Chenzhou released his grip, the disassembled ballpoint pen parts scattering across the desk. He took a deep breath, the air turning stagnant for a moment in his chest, carrying the faint chill of night dew and the smell of dust. Then he straightened up, placing his fingers back on the keyboard. First, suppress the evidence. Buy time. The decision was made quickly, the gavel falling almost the instant rational deduction concluded. But after the hammer’s sound, a cold sense of emptiness immediately seized him. It wasn’t fear or hesitation, but something deeper—the poisonous sprout of self-doubt, emerging from the cracks of old scars, beginning to spread silently. To overturn the case, would he have to cover up a piece of “evidence”? Even knowing it was forged. Was he protecting Shen Qinghuan because she was innocent, or merely because she had value to exploit? If one day, to overturn the case, he needed to personally fabricate false evidence to frame another person… Where was that line? There were no answers. Only the screen’s blue light reflecting off his expressionless face. He moved the mouse and began to operate. First, he made a copy of the “audit report” PDF, encrypted it, and hid it deep within multiple layers of nested folders in the hard drive. He cleared the decryption software’s history, fabricating several error logs. Then, he created a new document, typing the title: “Preliminary Analysis Briefing on USB Drive (Draft).” Outside the window, a distant street echoed with the sharp screech of tires against asphalt, briefly slicing through the silence. Lu Chenzhou did not look up. His fingers tapped on the keyboard, composing a “progress report” sufficient to handle Gu Zhixing’s first round of inquiries. The wording was cautious, leaving ample room. When the report was about one-third complete, he stopped. He needed to contact Shen Qinghuan. He had to warn her. And, he needed to obtain crucial information from her—about the vulnerabilities in the group’s internal audit procedures, about what else Secretary Sun was good at besides calligraphy. He needed to know through which channels Gu Zhixing might have “compliantly” inserted this forged report into the system. He also needed to confirm whether Secretary Sun’s computer graphics skills were sufficient to produce the precise scanned copies and image manipulations in the report. This phone call was extremely risky. It could be monitored, traced, directly exposing his contact with Shen Qinghuan. But there was no choice. Lu Chenzhou closed the document and took out a newly purchased prepaid phone from the drawer. The plastic casing was cheap and thin. He stood up and walked to the corner of the room with the weakest signal—the narrow hallway between the bathroom and bedroom. Dust piled in the corner floated slowly in the extremely faint predawn light seeping through the curtain gap. He input the number. Pressed the call button. The receiver emitted a long waiting tone, each *beep* drawn out. It connected. The background noise was quiet, only faint electrical static. Then, a woman’s voice, heavy with sleep yet instantly tense, came through, hushed and slightly trembling: “…Hello?” Lu Chenzhou also lowered his voice, sounding unusually hoarse in the silence: “Miss Shen, it’s me.” A half-second pause, letting her confirm. “Listen carefully, don’t ask unnecessary questions.” His pace was measured, but each word was like a nail. “Gu Zhixing is preparing an audit report about you. The evidence will appear very solid. The source may involve the late Secretary Sun.” A distinct intake of breath came from the other end of the line. “I need to know,” Lu Chenzhou continued, his gaze sweeping over the floating dust in the corner, “Regarding the group’s internal audit reports, before finalization, besides Gu Zhixing, who else must be involved? Besides calligraphy, did Secretary Sun have any involvement with electronic document processing and image editing?” Shen Qinghuan was silent for two seconds. When she spoke again, most of the sleepiness and trembling were suppressed, but the tension remained. “…Mr. Lu? The report… must be handled by? Old Wang from the board’s audit committee, and… the system backup administrator at the finance center. Uncle Sun… before he retired, he helped my father handle many electronic archives. He knew how to use Photoshop, an old version. Why are you asking this?” “That’s enough,” Lu Chenzhou said. “Be careful yourself. In the near future, double-check any document you sign. Remember, you haven’t heard anything.” He prepared to hang up. “Mr. Lu.” Shen Qinghuan’s voice suddenly followed, soft but clear. “Why are you telling me all this?” The leather of the chair felt cold, seeping through his shirt into his spine. Lu Chenzhou gazed at the faint dust particles floating in the darkness of the corner, flickering in and out of existence under the occasional sweep of car headlights from outside the window. The dead silence in the room amplified the sound of his every breath, the heaviness of his every heartbeat. He could almost hear the sound of blood rushing against his eardrums. Submit this "evidence": a performance that conforms to procedural justice. It might buy temporary safety, or deeper control. Shen Qinghuan falls, losing an internal source of information; the clues to the old case are completely severed. Gu Zhixing is satisfied, the test passed. He becomes a more qualified, more obedient pawn. Suppress this "evidence": expose his "unfairness" and personal motives, immediately become a target. But Shen Qinghuan remains safe for now, the alliance can continue. He buys time, can investigate the forgery chain in reverse, aiming straight for the heart of the old case. 3:07 AM. Lu Chenzhou dialed the memorized number. The plastic receiver of the prepaid phone pressed tightly against his ear, emitting a hollow ringing tone, each ring seeming to measure the depth of the silence. The faint, inherent current hum of the cheap circuitry hissed. The call connected halfway through the fourth ring. No "hello," only suppressed, slightly hurried breathing came from the other end of the line, carrying the tension of being startled awake late at night. "Miss Shen, it's me." Lu Chenzhou's voice was very low, his throat somewhat dry, sounding hoarser than usual. "Listen carefully, don't ask unnecessary questions. Call time is limited." The breathing on the other end paused for a moment, followed by the faint rustle of fabric, as if she had sat up in bed. "Mr. Lu?" Shen Qinghuan's voice was equally low, carrying lingering sleepiness and abruptly tightened vigilance. "At this hour—" "Gu Zhixing is preparing an audit report about you." Lu Chenzhou interrupted her, his pace steady but each word clear. "The evidence will appear very solid. The source may involve the late Secretary Sun." A very soft intake of breath came through the receiver. "I need to know two things." Lu Chenzhou continued, his gaze fixed on the shadows where dust floated in the corner. "First, regarding the group's internal audit report, before finalization, besides Gu Zhixing, who else must handle it? What are the process nodes? Second, besides calligraphy, did Secretary Sun have any contact with electronic document processing and image editing during his lifetime? To what specific extent?" Silence. Only the hiss of the line and suppressed breathing. Three seconds later, Shen Qinghuan's voice came again, devoid of sleepiness, each word seeming squeezed through gritted teeth. "The report... the final version must be signed by Old Wang of the Audit Committee. But before finalization, the system backup administrator at the Finance Center creates a full disk image, timestamp locked. It's a safety latch to prevent post-facto tampering." She paused for half a second, her breathing even lighter. "Uncle Sun... before he retired, he helped my father handle all electronic archive filing. He could use Photoshop by the late '90s, version 3.0. He was responsible for processing all scanned documents that needed 'enhancement.'" A tiny muscle near Lu Chenzhou's eye twitched slightly. "Why ask this?" Shen Qinghuan pressed, the tremor in her voice no longer suppressed. "That report... what is its content?" "The content isn't important." Lu Chenzhou said. "What's important is that it will appear, and it will seem flawless. Old Wang and the backup administrator—which of these two nodes must Gu Zhixing bypass for the report to take effect?" "...Both." Shen Qinghuan's voice turned cold. "Old Wang's signature is procedural justice. The timestamp on the backup image is technical ironclad proof. Both are indispensable." "But what if the timestamp itself can be forged?" Lu Chenzhou asked. "What if the 'original' file of the image was replaced before it was locked?" Complete silence on the other end. A full five seconds. "Then someone would need to obtain administrator privileges in advance." Shen Qinghuan spoke again, her voice carrying a kind of icy understanding. "Or... the administrator themselves is part of the link. Mr. Lu, have you already seen something in your hands?" "I've seen a document that requires your signature." Lu Chenzhou avoided a direct answer, speeding up his speech. "Any document requiring your signature recently, especially finance and audit-related, must be repeatedly cross-checked against original attachments and system logs. Remember, you haven't heard anything, but you must suspect everything." "Why is Gu Zhixing suddenly targeting me?" Shen Qinghuan asked. "Because The darkness outside the window was thick as ink, with occasional headlights sweeping by in the distance, fleeting in an instant. He tightened his grip on the phone, the edge of the plastic casing pressing uncomfortably against his palm. “I stand on the side of ‘things shouldn’t have happened this way,’” he finally said, his voice calm without a trace of fluctuation. “End of call. Take care, Miss Shen.” He didn’t wait for a response, his thumb pressing the end call button. The dial tone sounded, like a blunt knife severing the last faint hum of electrical current. The world returned to an even deeper silence. Lu Chenzhou held the phone, cold sweat seeping onto his palm, making the plastic casing slick. The receiver seemed to still hold the residual warmth of Shen Qinghuan’s final question, and beneath that question, the unspoken, deeper layer of fear—you choose to stand on my side? He didn’t know. He only knew the choice had been made. He had already stepped onto the tightrope. Prying open the back cover, his fingernail dug into the seam. The plastic made a soft *click*. The SIM card slot popped open. Inside, the brand-new, unregistered card gleamed with a cold, hard metallic sheen under the faint screen light. He pinched it out between his thumb and forefinger and walked to the bathroom. No light was turned on. Only the shifting light from the advertisement board on the opposite building filtered through the frosted glass, casting blurred red and blue shadows on the tiles. Lighter. *Click.* The flame leaped up, its orange-yellow light instantly pushing back a small circle of darkness, illuminating the lower half of his expressionless face. He brought the chip area of the SIM card close to the flame. The acrid smell of melting, curling plastic mixed with the faint, almost imperceptible metallic tang of overheated metal wafted into his nostrils. The fine circuitry on the chip blackened and charred rapidly under the high heat. Three seconds. Flame extinguished. He folded the card in half. The brittle chip part snapped and shattered with a crisp sound. He walked to the toilet and pressed the flush button. The water roared, creating a vortex that swallowed the two fragments, swirling them down into the darkness of the sewer. The phone body was stuffed into a pre-prepared black plastic bag, the opening tied in a tight knot. Tomorrow morning, it would appear at the underground garbage collection point of a large shopping mall three streets away, mixed with thousands of its kind, awaiting compaction, landfill, and eventual transformation into unrecognizable electronic waste. After completing all this, he returned to the computer. The screen was still lit, its cold blue light the only source of illumination in the room. The two side-by-side signature comparison images still occupied the center. That unique flaw—the unnatural pause at the end of the *na* stroke—stared back at him like a silent eye. Ten years. It had crawled out from the files of the old case, burrowed into Shen Qinghuan’s “evidence of guilt,” and now, it lay between him and Gu Zhixing, an abyss he must cross, one that might completely swallow him. He moved the mouse and closed the image window. Opened a new blank document. In the title bar, he typed: “Preliminary Briefing on Decryption and Analysis of Encrypted USB Drive Data (For Attorney Gu).” Font: Song typeface, size 12. Standard, proper, utterly devoid of personality. He began to write. The *tap-tap* sound of his fingers hitting the keys resumed in the silence, slower and steadier than before, each word falling as if measured with precision. He described the “technical difficulties” encountered during decryption (commercial-grade RSA hybrid algorithm with anti-cracking traps), emphasized that he had “successfully breached the outer layer of protection and entered the core data area.” He mentioned discovering a PDF file named “Project Clear Stream - Final Audit Report” but noted that “due to the large file size and complex structure, a comprehensive content review has not yet been completed.” After a “preliminary browse,” he “noted several points in the data correlation logic that require clarification” and “discovered slight contradictions between the timestamps on some scanned attachments and the narrative in the main report.” The language was cool, professional, full of uncertainty and caution. He resembled a dutiful but limited technician, faithfully reporting progress while tossing out enough “points of suspicion” and “aspects requiring further verification.” He requested “more time for cross-verification and comparison with original data” and, “based on the currently incomplete information, recommended temporarily refraining from drawing preliminary conclusions or taking action against any parties involved as referenced in the report.” This was a smokescreen. A delaying tactic. A chronic poison coated in honey offered to the hunter—superficially cooperation and He wrote with intense focus, trying to suppress completely, crush, and dissolve into these cold, dry, emotionless words before him—the subtle emotional fluctuations brought by that phone call just now, the slight tremor in Shen Qinghuan's voice, that question, "Why are you telling me all this?" Outside the window, through the gap where the heavy curtains weren't fully drawn, a stubborn grayish-white light seeped in. Like diluted ink, slowly bleeding into the deep blue night sky. It was past midnight. The deepest part of the night was passing, but dawn was still far off. He had reached about two-thirds of the report, just finishing a section discussing "suggesting the retrieval of server raw logs for timestamp verification." He stopped, rubbing the sore corner of his eye. The muscle at the left corner of his eye twitched almost imperceptibly, a subtle spasm. Just as he was about to continue typing the next paragraph— In the lower right corner of his screen, the icon for his usual encrypted email client suddenly flashed without warning. It wasn't the usual notification sound or pop-up animation for a new email, but the icon itself, like a flickering bulb with a bad connection, brightened and dimmed once, very quickly. Then, a narrow, undecorated new mail notification box silently slid out. No sender name. The sender address field was a string of seemingly meaningless, garbled characters: x7j#kL9*pQ@mxsrv.****.onion (the latter part automatically hidden by the client). A deep web relay address. The subject line contained only two Chinese characters, in bold black type: **「Progress？」** No punctuation. Just a cold question mark, hanging at the end of the subject line. Lu Chenzhou's breath caught. His gaze dropped to the send timestamp. 03:14. His brain instantly retrieved the precise memory of time: hanging up Shen Qinghuan's call, destroying the SIM card, returning to the computer... The time he sat down and began fabricating the report was approximately 03:11. And the send time for this email was 03:14. Exactly about three minutes after he ended the call and made the "decision action" to suppress the evidence and begin fabricating the report. Not a coincidence. It absolutely could not be a coincidence. A chill, sharper and more thorough than when he saw the forged signature, shot up from his tailbone, instantly crawling up his spine and spreading across his entire back, finally exploding into fine, prickling numbness on his scalp. His blood seemed to truly freeze in his eardrums, the thudding sound becoming distant and muffled. They weren't just monitoring his residence, monitoring the red dot of that car outside the window. They might be monitoring his computer. Not physical screen-peeking, but something more fundamental—process monitoring? Network traffic analysis? Did the decryption tool trigger some hidden callback signal when it ran? Or even... had they pre-installed something on the network equipment in this temporary residence? Or, worse. What they were monitoring was his "decision point in time." They knew what was on the USB drive. They had calculated when he "should" discover the key content. They might even have estimated several possible reactions he could have after "discovering the truth" and their corresponding time windows. Was this email a "reminder" sent after he "overdue" failed to submit any report of "finding ironclad evidence"? Or was it an "inquiry" sent after he made an "abnormal" move (the late-night call)? **「Progress？」** Two words, one question mark. Elegant, concise, full of control. Like a cold needle, precisely puncturing the soap bubble he had just woven, named "procrastination" and "misleading." He sat in what he thought was safe darkness, believing he was setting up a reverse layout, believing he had found a new balance point on the tightrope. And this email told him that the other end of the tightrope...