Lu Chenzhou stopped when his knuckle had rubbed against the cold metal edge of the tablet for the thirty-seventh time. Outside the window, the city's glow was thinning. It wasn't dawn; it was the neon lights extinguishing one by one, the clamor belonging to the night beginning to recede, while the noise of daytime had yet to surge forth. This was the most ambiguous hour of the day, the interlude when some people began to stir, and others prepared to hide. He needed to move before this interlude passed. The canvas bag contained only a few changes of clothes, a faded old jacket, and a few characters Zhou Zhengping had scrawled on a greasy tabletop with liquor-stained fingers during their last meeting: "Old Liang… alcoholic… left leg limp… west side… odd jobs." The handwriting was scrawled, the information fragmented like glass crushed under a wheel. But this was the only thread he could grasp for now—Liang Guofu, the other person present at the warehouse "accident" back then, a key witness who had vanished into thin air after being released from prison. Lu Chenzhou changed into the old jacket. The rough texture of the fabric rubbed against his skin, carrying a faint odor of mothballs mixed with dust. He checked his belongings: a non-metallic folding knife, a few small bills, a prepaid feature phone with a full battery. He didn't carry anything that could be linked to his current identity or residence. He opened the door. The motion-sensor light in the hallway was broken, the darkness thick. He listened intently for over ten seconds—the clanging of the stove rack being set up by the breakfast stall downstairs, the dull rumble of a garbage truck in the distance, the indistinct muttering of a man dreaming in the next room. No unusual breathing, no rustle of clothing, no footsteps deliberately lightened yet still jarringly out of place with the surroundings. At least not at this moment. He went down the fire escape stairs, avoiding the main entrance, and emerged from a narrow alley behind the building, piled high with discarded construction materials. The alley mouth connected to the west-side district locals called the "Three-No-Care" zone. The sky was on the verge of brightening but not yet there, a layer of grayish mist hanging in the air, mixed with the greasy smell of overnight fried food, the sour stench of garbage piles, and the complex odor steaming from damp clothes and weary bodies, something countless cheap laundry detergents couldn't cover. Sound rushed in before the sights. Hawkers' cries in various dialects, the screeching brakes of pedicabs, the precise, enunciated broadcast of morning news from televisions, the tireless wailing of infants, the clattering cascade of mahjong tiles from a game room… all these sounds stirred together, forming a boiling, dizzying soup of noise. Lu Chenzhou turned up the collar of his jacket, burying half his face in it, and his steps naturally merged into the increasing flow of people on the street. His gaze was like a slowly sweeping brush, passing over every face coming towards him, every figure squatting by the roadside waiting for work, every shop doorway illuminated by dim yellow lights. Characteristic one: around sixty years old. Characteristic two: slight limp in left leg. Characteristic three: possibly alcoholic, may often carry the smell of cheap liquor. Characteristic four: does odd jobs, meaning his comings and goings might relate to labor demands—morning hauling, afternoon loading and unloading, nighttime cleaning or guarding. Too little information. The environment was too chaotic. He avoided the main thoroughfare and turned into an even narrower alley. On both sides were densely packed "handshake buildings," laundry dripping water overhead, potholes in the ground filled with unidentifiable, oily-looking stagnant water. Several men were gathered smoking at the entrance of a roadside game room, their eyes sweeping over his unfamiliar face warily through the haze of smoke. Lu Chenzhou didn't pause, continuing forward. He needed to find a vantage point where he could observe without being too conspicuous. An old newspaper stand appeared at the alley's corner. The vendor was a man in his fifties, wrapped in a thick military coat, sitting on a small stool, squinting at a crumpled newspaper by the light of a small desk lamp on the stand. The stand was piled with outdated magazines, cheap lighters, cigarettes, and prepaid phone cards sealed in plastic film. Lu Chenzhou walked over, his fingers idly flipping through the magazines a couple of times before picking up a local evening newspaper from a few days ago. "One fifty," the vendor said without looking up, his voice hoarse. Lu Chenzhou handed over two yuan. While waiting for the change, his gaze swept over the layered job postings and rental notices plastered on "I have a distant uncle," Lu Chenzhou rolled up the newspaper, tapping it lightly in his palm, "his legs aren’t too good, but he’s hardworking and wants to find some light work. I wonder if there’s any suitable work around here for an older master?" "Legs aren’t good?" The stall owner snorted and buried his gaze back in the newspaper. "In this place, who cares about anyone else. Go look around yourself." The refusal was blunt, even a bit impatient. But Lu Chenzhou noticed that when the stall owner said, "Go look around yourself," the hand holding the newspaper tilted almost imperceptibly toward the right—toward the alley that led deeper in, from which the faint smells of vegetables, soil, and the clamor of voices drifted. It wasn't a direction. More like a subconscious, default acknowledgment that "there might be opportunities over there." Lu Chenzhou thanked him and turned to leave. He didn’t immediately head toward that alley. Instead, he circled around the vicinity for a while longer, bought two steamed buns from a breakfast stall, and leaned against a wall to eat slowly. The hot steam warmed his face, the scents of flour and cheap meat filling his mouth. His gaze, however, never left that newspaper stall. In ten minutes, three people came to buy cigarettes or newspapers. The stall owner’s attitude toward them was largely the same: brief, perfunctory, tinged with a numb wariness honed by life. Until a middle-aged man in grimy overalls, walking with a slight drag, approached, tossed down a few coins, and picked up a pack of the cheapest Hongmei cigarettes. The stall owner took the money without a word, but as the man turned to leave, he muttered very quickly under his breath: "Old Liang drank too much again last night, almost didn’t get up this morning at the vegetable market." The man in overalls grunted indistinctly, his steps not pausing as he disappeared into the crowd. Lu Chenzhou swallowed the last bite of his bun, crumpled the greasy paper into a ball, and tossed it into a nearby trash bin. With food in his stomach, his body seemed to feel the pressure of the surrounding environment even more clearly—the unfamiliar streets, the mixed crowd, the countless potential pairs of eyes, and that target, possibly fleeting, hidden behind the noise and smells. He stepped forward, heading toward the alley that emitted the smell of vegetables and damp earth. The further he went, the wider the alleyway became, eventually connecting to a sizable open-air wholesale vegetable market. The sky was a bit brighter than before, but most areas of the market still relied on scattered hanging light bulbs for illumination. In the dim yellow light, shadows moved about. Tricycles and small trucks were jammed together. The bare or thinly-clad backs of porters gleamed with sweat. Heavy crates thudded dully as they hit the ground. The air was thick with stronger smells: the green, sharp scent of fresh vegetables as their stems snapped, the earthy pungency of soil, the salty, fishy odor wafting from the fish stalls, along with sweat, smoke, and the greasy scent of cheap breakfasts. All these smells were stirred and fermented by the damp air, forming an almost tangible atmosphere that seemed to cling to the skin. Lu Chenzhou found a relatively clean step at the edge of the market and sat down, pulling out the cigarettes he had bought earlier—he didn’t usually smoke, but right now he needed a prop. He lit one, took a drag. The harsh smoke stung his throat. He suppressed a cough, letting the smoke slowly escape through his nostrils. His posture was relaxed, his gaze downcast, as if he were just a casual laborer resting here, utterly spent. But his peripheral vision was like the most precise radar, sweeping over every moving figure within sight. He saw him. Over by the inner side of the market, next to a tricycle loaded with potatoes. Gray hair, hunched back, wearing a dark blue, old work uniform stained with grime at the cuffs and chest. He was bending over, lifting a basket of potatoes from the vehicle. His movements weren’t agile, even somewhat slow, but steady. He set the basket down, straightened up, wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, then staggered slightly. His left leg seemed unable to bear weight properly, causing his whole body to tilt that way before he steadied himself again. Limping. Age matched too. Lu Chenzhou unconsciously pinched out the cigarette butt with his fingertips. The ember burned his skin. He let go, the stub falling onto the damp ground with a faint hiss. The old man continued moving goods. Another basket. Occasionally, familiar stall owners or porters greeted him, calling out vaguely, "Old Liang" or "Uncle Liang The old man finished moving a basket and raised his left hand, using his sleeve to wipe the sweat streaming down his cheek. The cuff slipped down. Under the dim yellow light, Lu Chenzhou clearly saw, on the inside of that withered, thin wrist, a twisted scar, lighter in color than the surrounding skin, lying there like an ugly centipede. The edges of the scar were irregular, showing fine serrations. That was it. His heartbeat thudded once in his chest, steady and forceful. It wasn’t nervousness, but a kind of cold focus beginning to coalesce upon confirming the target. Lu Chenzhou stopped walking, no longer approaching. Now was not the time for contact. The market was too crowded, too chaotic. Any unusual contact could draw unnecessary attention, even startle this already thoroughly frightened "old bird." He retreated back into the shadows and continued observing. The old man—Liang Guofu, or "Old Liang"—worked for nearly another half hour until the cart of potatoes was unloaded. The stall owner handed him a few small bills. He took them, counted them carefully, stuffed them into the inner pocket of his work clothes, then pushed the empty tricycle, walking unsteadily toward another exit of the market. That exit connected to an even denser shantytown. Lu Chenzhou maintained a safe distance and followed. The sky brightened a little more, a grayish-white morning light beginning to seep into the narrow alleys. But deep inside the shantytown, it remained dark. Messy electrical wires crisscrossed like spiderwebs cutting up the sky. On both sides were low, dilapidated brick houses or makeshift shacks piled with all sorts of old furniture and junk. The smells grew even more complex and indescribable. Liang Guofu stopped at a fork in the road, locked his tricycle to an electric pole, then turned into a narrower alley on the left, piled high with broken sofas and rotten wooden planks. Lu Chenzhou stopped at the corner, turning sideways, revealing only half an eye. He saw Liang Guofu walk up to a rusty sheet-metal door and take out a key. He opened the door, went in, and the door closed. No light came on immediately inside. The target had returned to its nest. Lu Chenzhou didn't leave right away. He leaned against the cold brick wall and slowly let out a breath. The fatigue of a sleepless night and the feeling of exhaustion after intense concentration now washed over him like a tide, seeping into every limb. A familiar, faint twitching sensation came from the corner of his left eye. He had found him. But finding him was only the first step, and the simplest one. How to make contact? When? After contact, what would this old man, who had been hiding for seven years with fear carved into his bones, offer? And what new risks would it bring? More importantly—Lu Chenzhou's gaze passed over the tangled wires and rooftops, toward that dusty old building of Fang Mu in the direction of the vegetable market. In the shadow of a window on the second floor with no glass, there seemed to be a blurry figure that had also been looking in this direction just moments ago. Was it an illusion, or… He withdrew his gaze, tucking himself deeper into the shadow of the corner. The morning wind blew through the alley, carrying a biting chill, whipping up scraps of paper and dust from the ground. The bait was ahead. And behind him, the ripples on the water surface seemed never to have settled. ... Lu Chenzhou crouched in the shadows at the edge of the market, like a forgotten stone. He held half a cold fried dough stick in his hand, but his gaze pierced through the dim light, locked onto that limping figure thirty meters away. The earthy smell of vegetables, the salty fishy odor from the fish stalls, and the steaming sweat of the porters mixed into a thick current of air, slowly churning in the three a.m. atmosphere. The lights were old-fashioned yellow sodium lamps, casting a dim, yellow glow that made everything blurry, yet threw heavy shadows on everyone's faces. Small insects fluttered in the halos, bumping into the hot lamp covers with faint crackling sounds. The old man called "Old Liang" was unloading the last basket of potatoes from the tricycle. His movements were steady, but each time his left leg bore weight, his body would involuntarily tilt slightly to the right, like an old tree bent by the wind for years. His graying hair was damp with sweat, stuck to his temples. He lifted his right hand and wiped his face with his dirty sleeve. In that instant. Lu Chenzhou's pupils contracted slightly. The inside of the wrist. An old scar. Under the dim yellow light, that scar showed an irregular, serrated shape, the edges whitish, as if something rough "Most likely him." The clamor in the market was beginning to wane. The wholesale peak had passed, stall owners were starting to clean up, and porters squatted in small groups by the roadside smoking, waiting to collect their day's wages. Old Liangtou pushed his empty tricycle to a corner and locked it, accepted a few crumpled bills from a short, stout man, and stuffed them into his pants pocket without counting. He turned and limped toward the denser cluster of shanties on the west side of the market. Lu Chenzhou stood up. He had squatted for too long; a familiar, dull ache spread from the old injury on his left leg. He subtly flexed his ankle, tossed the oil paper wrapping into a nearby trash bin, then strode forward, maintaining a distance of about twenty meters as he followed. The alleys of the shantytown were like a maze. Self-built houses on either side leaned haphazardly against each other, overhead a dense, tangled mess of electrical wires. The road surface was pitted, puddles of stagnant rainwater from days before shimmering with an oily sheen in the gloom. The air had changed; the fragrance of fried food faded, replaced by the stench of rotting garbage, the ammonia smell of public toilets, and the musty odor of damp laundry that wouldn't dry. Old Liangtou didn't walk fast, but his route was familiar. He turned into an even narrower alley, both sides piled high with discarded furniture, broken wooden planks, and rusty metal drums. At the far end of the alley, a faint, dim yellow light was visible, as if someone's home still had a light on. Lu Chenzhou quickened his pace, closing the distance to fifteen meters. Right then, the figure ahead suddenly paused. A very slight pause, almost imperceptible. But Old Liangtou's shoulders tensed. He didn't turn his head, but his steps noticeably sped up, even becoming somewhat unsteady. He ducked into an even darker side path on the right. He'd been spotted. Lu Chenzhou didn't hesitate and immediately followed him in. The side path was narrower, the piled debris blocking almost half the passageway, forcing them to squeeze through sideways. Dust hung thick in the air; each step stirred up fine particles, causing a prickly itch in the nostrils. "Old Liang!" he called out in a low voice, using the local accent. The figure ahead shuddered violently. Not only did he not stop, he shot forward like a startled hare! His limp became an advantage now — he knew every bump and hollow here, stumbling but moving with surprising speed. Lu Chenzhou gave chase. Footsteps echoed in the narrow alleyway, mingling with the heavy panting of both men. Old Liangtou fled blindly, turning into a dead-end alley. At its end was a brick wall nearly three meters high, the top embedded with shards of glass. He rushed to the base of the wall and turned back in despair. Lu Chenzhou blocked the only exit. "Don't come closer!" Old Liangtou's voice was hoarse, trembling violently. He pressed his back against the wall, hands fumbling desperately behind him, grabbing half a brick and raising it in front of his chest. "I... I don't know anything! I'll give you the money! Don't..." "Liang Guofu," Lu Chenzhou interrupted him, his voice steady but rapid. "Zhou Zhengping sent me." Old Liangtou — Liang Guofu — froze completely. The hand holding the brick stopped mid-air. The terror on his face solidified, then slowly twisted into a deeper, almost despairing kind of fear. His lips quivered, but no sound came out. "It's about the warehouse that night, seven years ago." Lu Chenzhou took a step forward, closing the distance to three meters. The alley was too narrow; at this range, he could see every deep wrinkle on the other man's face, and the tumultuous storm raging in those murky eyes. "Uncle Zhou says you owe him the truth." The brick in Liang Guofu's hand clattered to the ground with a thud, raising a small puff of dust. He seemed to have all the bones pulled out of him, his back sliding down the wall until he collapsed onto a pile of discarded cardboard boxes. "You... you are..." his throat made a gurgling sound, "Lu...?" "That night at the warehouse." Lu Chenzhou gave him no time to think, his questions sharp as knives. "Besides you, me, and the keeper who 'accidentally' fell into the cooling pool, who was the fourth person?" Liang Guofu jerked his head up, his eyes bulging as if about to split open. "N-no... impossible! How could you... didn't you already..." He babbled incoherently, hands clutching his Lu Chenzhou's heart sank violently. But his face betrayed no expression, only a faint twitch in the muscle at the corner of his left eye. "Lin Xiuyun," he finished for him, his voice dropping even lower, almost becoming a breath. "She's not dead, is she?" Liang Guofu shuddered as if struck by lightning, his entire body trembling violently. He stared fixedly at Lu Chenzhou, the last trace of hope in his eyes extinguishing, leaving only a naked, animal-like fear. Several seconds of deathly silence passed, broken only by the faint barking of a dog in the distance and the two men's breaths, suppressed to the extreme. Finally, Liang Guofu tremblingly reached into the greasy inner pocket of his work clothes. He pulled out an old cigarette case, crumpled and rolled up, its metal shell rusted and blackened at the edges. Like tossing a hot potato, he shoved the cigarette case into Lu Chenzhou's hand. "The thing... is inside," his voice was so hoarse it was almost inaudible, every word trembling. "Don't... don't come looking for me again. Please. They're watching... always watching..." His fingers were icy cold, touching Lu Chenzhou's palm like a damp, cold stone. Right at that moment— From the direction of the alley entrance, sudden, hurried footsteps sounded! Not one person. At least two, moving fast, their steps heavy, approaching from that direction. The footsteps were exceptionally clear in the silent early morning alleyway, each step like a tread on taut nerves. The last bit of color drained from Liang Guofu's face. He shoved Lu Chenzhou violently, with startling strength. "Go! Go now!" Lu Chenzhou clenched the greasy cigarette case, its metal edges digging into his palm. He glanced at Liang Guofu slumped on the ground, then looked toward the alley entrance—the footsteps were getting closer, and now he could hear low, brief snatches of conversation, the content unclear, but the tone icy. There was no time. He turned, took two running steps, kicked off a stack of discarded cardboard boxes, used the momentum to leap up, both hands grabbing the top of the brick wall—broken glass pierced his palms, sending a sharp, stabbing pain. He grunted, his core muscles contracting, and he flipped over, landing on the other side of the wall. Almost simultaneously, the light at the alley entrance was blocked by two tall figures. Lu Chenzhou didn't look back. He landed, rolled to dissipate the impact, then scrambled to his feet and sprinted in the opposite direction from the alley. The places on his palms cut by the glass burned fiercely, warm blood seeping out, sticky on the cigarette case. He crossed another, more disorderly shantytown area, climbed over two low walls, and ducked into a small street where the morning market was already setting up. Only after blending into the gradually increasing flow of people did he slow his pace, shoving his bleeding hand into his jacket pocket, pressing the wound with the fabric. The greasy old cigarette case was clenched tightly in his other hand. Like holding a bomb about to detonate. Lu Chenzhou didn't leave immediately. He bought two bottles of the cheapest mineral water at a grocery store on the edge of the park, unscrewed one, and gulped down most of it. The cold water washed over his parched throat, temporarily suppressing the knot of tension twisting in his gut. He used the other bottle to rinse his hands, scrubbing away the residual oil and grime from the cigarette case in his fingernails. The water, mixed with dirt, dripped onto the muddy ground, soaking a small, dark patch. He needed time. Time to let the information just poured into his mind settle, time for his body to recover from the heightened state of the nighttime chase. More importantly, he needed to assess—to assess whether the man in the grey jacket, and any eyes possibly lurking further away now, had confirmed his identity and the true purpose of his trip here. Elderly people began to appear in the park for morning exercises, wearing loose kung fu clothes, slowly practicing Tai Chi in the open spaces. The sound of operatic tunes crackled from a radio, mixing with birdsong, creating a false, morning-like tranquility. Lu Chenzhou chose a bench from which he could see the park entrance and the old locust tree, sat down again, keeping a neither-close-nor-far distance from the elderly. He looked like an ordinary, idle loiterer, killing time on a morning. His fingers unconsciously reached into his jacket pocket, touching a rusty screw—a small object he'd picked up at some point and forgotten to discard. He took it out, placed it in his palm. The screw's threads were mostly worn down, its head slightly crooked. He began disassembling it, using his That sentence echoed in his mind, each word like a stone dropped into a deep pool, stirring layer upon layer of ripples. Lin Xiuyun. He tried to recall her face. Seven years ago, he had only seen her in a photo from the case file. A very ordinary ID photo, young, with short hair, a somewhat restrained smile, and the naivety of someone who had just entered society in her eyes. An ordinary assistant in the finance department, diligent at work, with simple interpersonal relationships. After the incident, she was questioned twice as one of the witnesses who had handled some suspicious fund transfers. Her testimony was nothing special, merely confirming the compliance of certain procedures. Then, just as the investigation seemed about to touch the core, she "committed suicide." It was too coincidental. So coincidental that Qin Wangshu, who was responsible for the peripheral investigation at the time, had privately raised questions. But the on-site evidence was "conclusive," the pressure from superiors was immense, and the case needed to be closed quickly. That doubt, along with many other small inconsistencies, was ultimately crushed under the iron curtain of "the bigger picture" and "a complete chain of evidence." If she hadn't died... then who staged the suicide scene back then? Who forged the suicide note? Who arranged for the witnesses? A massive, meticulous project of silencing and fabrication. This required resources, required an inside man, required complete control over a young woman's social relationships. Shen Moqing had that capability. Gu Zhixing had the skill to execute such precise operations. But why leave her alive? Wouldn't silencing her be cleaner? Unless she was more valuable alive than dead. A hostage? A bargaining chip? Or... did she possess something that couldn't be simply destroyed, necessitating her "imprisonment" to secure her silence, or using time to wait for her to hand over that thing? Lu Chenzhou's fingertips pressed hard. The rusted nut made a faint *click* and finally loosened half a turn. He stopped, gripping the screw tightly in his palm again, the metal's chill penetrating his skin. The convalescent home. A perfect hiding place. Isolated, quiet, with limited contact with the outside world. Medical staff had professional ethics, but they were also more accustomed to obeying management. With a plausible identity (like a distant relative suffering from severe mental illness requiring isolated rest) plus sufficient funds and certain "special considerations," it wasn't impossible for a person to live there silently for seven years. Even, if handled properly, letting her "die a natural death" in the convalescent home would be more concealed and more reasonable than staging an "urban suicide scene" back then. Why now? Why did Liang Guofu choose now, in this way, to throw this bomb at him? Fear. Liang Guofu's fear was real, almost overflowing from his murky eyes. He had hidden for seven years, like a rat in a sewer, trading the most menial labor for the roughest survival, just hoping not to be noticed. Lu Chenzhou's search was like a sudden beam of light shining into the sewer, startling the rat and also disturbing the cat that might have been prowling outside the sewer all along. Liang Guofu knew he couldn't hide anymore. Whether Lu Chenzhou found him or "they" found him, his outcome likely wouldn't be good. Handing the secret to Lu Chenzhou was perhaps the only method he could think of to stir the stagnant water, hoping to find a slim chance of survival in the ensuing chaos. It was a desperate entrustment, and also an attempt to divert the disaster. Lu Chenzhou had become the one holding the heavy secret, standing under the spotlight. Liang Guofu might have temporarily retreated into the shadows, but were the shadows still safe? He slowly exhaled a breath, the white mist rapidly distorting and dissipating in the crisp air. The old injury in his ribs still throbbed faintly, rising and falling with his breath like a silent reminder. This body had experienced imprisonment, interrogation, long-term malnutrition, and immense mental pressure. It was no longer at its peak from seven years ago. But it could still run, still jump, still muster enough strength to scale a wall in a crisis. It could still endure more. It had to endure more. Next step, Ci'an Convalescent Home. He couldn't go directly. Too reckless. He needed information, needed to understand the convalescent home's current operations, the specific layout of the Kangning Building in the south wing, the security level, the visitation system. More importantly, he needed to confirm whether Lin Xiuyun was really there, and under what identity she existed. Fang Mu. That technical ghost hiding behind the network might be able to provide some peripheral information. But infiltrating the convalescent home's internal systems was too high-risk, likely to alert the enemy. Zhou Zhengping He needed a new identity, a plausible reason to enter Ci'an Convalescent Home, get close to Building Kangning, third floor, room 307. The sunlight grew warmer, dispelling the last traces of morning mist, fully spreading across the park. The temperature on the bench rose, the wood emitting the dry scent of being warmed by the sun. The elderly practicing Tai Chi in the distance had already finished their forms and were chatting in small groups as they left. For the moment, he was the only one left in the park. This emptiness did not bring relaxation, but a clearer sense of exposure. Lu Chenzhou stood up, stretching his somewhat stiff limbs. He tossed the half-disassembled screw into a nearby trash can, producing a soft *clang*. Time to go. Staying here too long was a risk in itself. He walked along the path he came from, neither hurriedly nor slowly, heading towards the park exit. His steps were steady, his gaze naturally sweeping the front and sides, like any ordinary person finishing a morning stroll and heading home. Yet his senses were like a spread spiderweb, catching any trace of abnormality: the frequency of vehicles on the distant street, the sound of wind through the treetops, even the echo of his own footsteps in the empty surroundings. Reaching the rusted iron gate, he stopped again, as if just casually glancing back into the depths of the park. The arc of his gaze, however, steadily captured the gray car parked on the street diagonally across, firmly within his field of vision. The car was still there. The person in the driver's seat still wore sunglasses. The window was still half-open. The person seemed to have adjusted their posture slightly, but their fingers still rested on the steering wheel. The tapping of the index finger had stopped; now it just lay there quietly. But in the instant Lu Chenzhou's gaze swept past, he saw the person's head seem to turn, almost imperceptibly, a tiny, nearly undetectable angle towards his direction. Not a coincidence. The other party was observing him. And they weren't making any special effort to conceal that observation. Lu Chenzhou's heartbeat rhythm didn't change, but the air in his chest seemed to stagnate for a moment. He withdrew his gaze, turned around expressionlessly, and stepped out of the park's iron gate. He didn't choose the direction opposite the gray car, but instead walked along the street parallel to it, separated by a row of sidewalk trees and a narrow green belt. It was a subtle distance: neither showing obvious evasion nor giving the other party an easily tailed straight-line path. He blended into the gradually increasing flow of people. Residents out early to buy groceries, office workers rushing to work, delivery guys on electric bikes. The daytime pulse of the city began to beat strongly, noise, smells, and colors mixing into an effective cover. Lu Chenzhou maintained an even pace, occasionally stopping at roadside stalls, picking up an item to look at, then putting it down. Each pause, each turn, was a clearing and confirmation of the view behind him. The gray car did not follow. It remained parked where it was, like a silent coordinate. But Lu Chenzhou knew that tracking didn't necessarily require a car. In this just-awakening urban area, there were too many ways to conduct a relay tail. A motorcycle, a pedestrian, even another car that might appear at the next intersection. What the other party displayed was patience, and a kind of confidence in their own concealment. This style was indeed different from the surveillance Gu Zhixing often employed, which carried a hint of legal professional's superiority. This was colder, harder, more... pragmatic. Had Shen Moqing mobilized people from another line? The shady forces under Lei Hu? Or did there truly exist a third party that understood Gu Zhixing's behavioral patterns, even deliberately imitating the details to confuse his judgment? Whichever it was, it meant the vortex beneath the surface was more complex and turbulent than he had estimated. He originally thought he was the one tossing a stone to test the waters, but now he found that the stone he threw might have disturbed an entire hidden reef beneath the deep water, tangled and wary of each other. After walking two blocks, he turned into a breakfast shop, ordered a bowl of soy milk and two fried dough sticks. He sat in the innermost seat, back to the door, eating slowly. The hot soy milk going down brought some real warmth, temporarily soothing his empty stomach. As he ate, he sketched the next steps of his action map in his mind. Ci'an Convalescent Home had to be visited, but not as Lu Chenzhou, and not without preparation. He needed cover, an identity that could reasonably enter and have a chance to access patient or resident information. Medical equipment salesman? Volunteer? Maintenance worker? These identities all required preliminary preparation and corresponding props. Time was tight. The risk of Liang Guofu being exposed increased every minute Perhaps... starting from the sanatorium's supply channels? Food, medicine, daily consumables? These all require regular deliveries. Delivery personnel have the opportunity to enter the interior, even access information about some non-core area rooms. He quickly finished the rest of his food, paid, and left. Outside the breakfast shop was a noisy small street, various stores just opening, the sound of rolling shutters being pulled up echoing all around. He walked along the street, his gaze sweeping over the shop signs: hardware store, general store, small supermarket... Then, he stopped in front of a somewhat aged-looking "Kangjian Medical Equipment Sales Department." The shop wasn't large. Inside the glass display window were products like wheelchairs, crutches, and home oxygen tanks. The interior was dimly lit. A man in his fifties was squatting on the floor organizing cardboard boxes. Lu Chenzhou pushed the door open and walked in. The bell on the door let out a crisp ring. The man looked up, his face carrying the weariness of chronic sleep deprivation and the caution of a businessman. "Need something?" Lu Chenzhou didn't answer immediately. Instead, he walked over to a pair of crutches, picked them up, looked at them, and put them down. His movements were casual, but his eyes quickly scanned the store: some product license copies hung on the wall, and a pile of empty cardboard boxes printed with the words "Ci'an Sanatorium" were stacked in a corner. "Boss," Lu Chenzhou spoke, his tone calm, with a touch of appropriate inquiry, "do you deliver to Ci'an Sanatorium?" The man paused, his vigilance noticeably increasing. "Why are you asking?" "Looking for some work," Lu Chenzhou said, a trace of a helpless bitter smile appearing on his face. "Just got out, jobs are hard to find. Heard that sanatorium often needs temporary laborers, moving equipment, supplies, that sort of thing. I used to work in logistics, still got some strength." The man sized him up, his gaze lingering for a few seconds on his faded jacket and his slightly tired but upright posture. "Ci'an... they have a fixed contracted transport company. Temporary workers? They usually don't hire externally, it's all internal referrals." "Not even a little chance?" Lu Chenzhou pulled out a crumpled cigarette pack (another empty one) from his pocket and offered one over. The man hesitated, then accepted the cigarette, his tone softening a bit. "It's not completely impossible. Their south wing area, seems like they're doing some building maintenance lately, more miscellaneous workers going in and out. But they manage it strictly. Need to register ID, and have someone inside vouch for you." He lowered his voice, "If you really want to try, you can go wander around the back gate of the south wing area. Around seven or eight every morning, some people looking for odd jobs gather there. But..." he shook his head, "competition is fierce. And, I've heard some floors inside, especially the Kangning Building over there, ordinary people can't get in at all. They keep a tight watch." Kangning Building. A flicker passed through Lu Chenzhou's eyes, but his expression didn't change. "Kangning Building? Is that the special care area?" "Who knows," the man lit the cigarette and took a drag. "Anyway, it's very mysterious. We only deliver to the first-floor warehouse. Further in, their own orderlies take over. Ah, that place just has a lot of rules." He seemed unwilling to say more, waving his hand. "If you want to try your luck, go early. If you're late, the good jobs are all taken." "Thanks, boss."