The light from the phone screen was like a piece of red-hot iron in the dim alley. Lu Chenzhou stared at the photo. A street. A mailbox. A tricycle. The shooting time was 7:45—right before he left Zhou Zhengping's hideout to head to West Mountain Park. They had been watching him long ago, only now baring their fangs. His thumb swiped across this line of text, the pad of his finger feeling the coldness of the screen glass. The stench of decay from deep within the alley surged over, mixing with the uniquely damp, fishy smell of fabric soaked through by the water on the wound on his left arm. His stomach twisted into knots, a sour, burning sensation pushing up from deep in his throat. The probing by those two at West Mountain Park had been too direct, too much like a warning on the surface. But this text message... it was sinister, precise, carrying the playful cruelty of a cat toying with a mouse. This was another faction. Or perhaps, the darker blade in Shen Moqing's hand. Lu Chenzhou turned off the screen. Darkness swallowed the alley once more. In the distance, the dull sound of a night-shift bus passing by, tires rolling over the wet road surface. Zhou Zhengping could no longer stay in the original place. But going to pick him up directly would be walking into a trap—the other side might be waiting for him to appear. He needed a new location, a place that could temporarily block out prying eyes and also allow him to complete the appraisal. Zhou Zhengping himself had mentioned it earlier—he had privately rented a studio years ago, one even his family didn't know about. Lu Chenzhou fished the old Nokia phone from his pocket and turned it on. The screen's blue light was piercing. He scrolled to Zhou Zhengping's number and dialed. It rang three times before being answered. No "hello," only suppressed breathing sounds. "Old Zhou." Lu Chenzhou's voice was very low, but his speech was steady. "That studio you mentioned—do you still have the key?" Silence on the other end of the line for a few seconds. The sound of the old man swallowing could be heard. "Yes... it's in the toolbox's hidden compartment. But I haven't been there in a long time. It's dusty, the equipment is old—" "Send me the address. Now." Lu Chenzhou cut him off. "I'll pick you up downstairs in twenty minutes. Bring only the toolbox. Don't touch anything else. Leave the curtains as they are. Don't turn off the lights." "Something's happened?" Zhou Zhengping's voice began to tremble. "Someone took a photo of downstairs from your building." Lu Chenzhou paused. "We need to change locations to work." A longer silence. Then, Zhou Zhengping said hoarsely, "Alright." The call ended. Lu Chenzhou stuffed the Nokia back into his inner pocket and turned to walk out of the alley. The streetlight stretched his shadow long, slanting across the damp brick wall. The graze on his left arm burned fiercely, but his footsteps didn't stop. The car was stolen—a dusty silver Jetta parked in an old residential area. Lu Chenzhou pried open the car door with a wire, connected the wires, and the engine coughed twice dully before coming to life. He drove slowly, taking three detours through the streets to confirm there was no tail. 2:47 a.m. The city was like a slumbering giant beast, only a few scattered windows still lit. The rain had stopped, but the air was still thick with moisture, a thin layer of fog coating the windshield. The building where Zhou Zhengping lived came into view. The entrance to Unit Three was lit by a dim yellow motion-sensor light. Lu Chenzhou parked the car in the shadows across the street corner and turned off the engine. No suspicious vehicles. No loitering figures. Only a stray cat darting out from behind a trash can, disappearing deep into the green belt. Lu Chenzhou got out of the car and crossed the street. The stairwell was filled with the smell of mildew and spoiled leftovers. He walked up to the third floor and knocked on the door—three long, two short. The door opened a crack. Zhou Zhengping's face appeared behind it, pale, with puffy bags under his eyes. He was clutching a dark green old toolbox tightly in his hand, its metal buckles somewhat rusted. "Let's go." Lu Chenzhou stepped aside to let him out, casually pulling the door shut behind him. The lock bolt clicked shut. The two went downstairs one after the other. Zhou Zhengping walked very slowly, his steps somewhat dragging. The toolbox swayed in his hand, tools inside The signboard of the cultural creative park had long since faded, the iron gate left slightly ajar. Lu Chenzhou drove the car inside, rumbling over the pitted concrete ground. The park was a dead silence, only a few surviving street lamps emitted a ghastly white light, illuminating the mottled graffiti on the walls. The building at the very end was only three stories tall, the red brick of its exterior walls already blackened. Zhou Zhengping pointed to a rusted iron door on the side. "There… up the stairs, the far right on the third floor." Lu Chenzhou parked the car and cut the engine. He got out first, scanning the surroundings. No surveillance cameras—at least none with blinking red lights. From the distance came the roar of a passing train, the vibration of the tracks rumbling over dully. He opened the passenger door. Zhou Zhengping climbed out holding the toolbox, his legs a bit weak, staggering slightly. Lu Chenzhou steadied his arm. The old man's arm was trembling, his skin cold. Zhou Zhengping fumbled open the toolbox's inner compartment and pulled out a brass key, already covered in green patina. Lu Chenzhou took it and walked to the iron door. The keyhole was stiff; he turned it several times before it unlocked. The door hinges let out a piercing screech, especially jarring in the silent night. The stairwell was pitch black, the smell of dust assaulting their nostrils. Lu Chenzhou turned on his phone's flashlight, the beam slicing through the darkness. The stair railings were covered in a thick layer of dust, their footprints on the steps clearly visible—only theirs. Third floor. The door at the end of the corridor, deep green, its paint peeling. Insert the key, turn. A dull *click* came from the lock cylinder. An aged air, mingling with the smells of paper, dust, and metal, rushed out. Lu Chenzhou shone his flashlight inside. The room wasn't large, about twenty square meters. Against the wall stood two old wooden desks, covered with yellowed dust covers. Several cardboard boxes, their edges collapsed, were piled in a corner. The window was tightly sealed by heavy curtains. He walked in, raising tiny dust motes that danced in the flashlight beam. Zhou Zhengping followed, closing the door behind him. Cut off from the outside, the silence in the room gained weight, heavy enough that one could almost hear their own heartbeat. Lu Chenzhou walked to the window and lifted a corner of the curtain. Beyond the glass were iron bars, and beyond that, the empty park and the distant city lights. The view was open; if anyone approached, it would be easy to spot. He let the curtain fall and turned around. "Can we turn on the light?" Zhou Zhengping groped his way to the wall and pressed a switch. A hum came from above as two old-fashioned fluorescent tubes flickered several times, their pallid light barely illuminating the room. The light was unstable, trembling slightly, emitting a continuous, irritating low-frequency noise. "Voltage's unstable," Zhou Zhengping said softly, as if explaining, or perhaps just talking to himself. He walked to one of the desks and lifted the dust cover. Dust billowed up, and he coughed twice. On the desktop were some instruments: an old-fashioned comparison projector, its lens capped; several magnifying glasses of different magnifications, their metal rings having lost their luster; also tweezers, a ruler, a box of faded filter lenses. Zhou Zhengping wiped the desktop with his sleeve, his movements slow, meticulous. Lu Chenzhou took a folder from his backpack and opened it. Inside were high-resolution enlarged printouts of two documents—one was the signature of "Secretary Sun" from the case file ten years ago, the other was the handwriting from the threatening letter found at the scene of Zhou Zhengping's daughter's kidnapping. The paper was thin, but the print quality was extremely high, even the texture of the paper fibers clearly visible. He laid the two printouts side by side on the desktop, weighing them down with a paperweight. Under the light, the black ink strokes looked like some kind of living pattern. Zhou Zhengping didn't move immediately. He stared at the two signatures, his breathing becoming shallow and rapid. Several seconds later, he finally took out a leather roll pouch from his toolbox, unrolled it to reveal a row of precision tweezers, probes, and a miniature ruler. He put on his reading glasses, then rummaged in a drawer and pulled out a ring-light magnifier, plugging it in. The ring light lit up, its cold white beam focusing on the paper surface. Zhou Zhengping leaned over, the magnifier almost touching the paper. The sound of his breathing vanished, his whole body frozen into a posture of intense concentration. Only his right index finger and thumb, holding the twe Lu Chenzhou took a folder from his backpack and opened it. Inside were high-definition, enlarged printouts of two documents—one was the signature of "Secretary Sun" from the case file a decade ago, the other was the handwriting from the threatening letter found at the scene of Zhou Zhengping's daughter's kidnapping. The paper was thin, but the printing precision was extremely high, making even the texture of the paper fibers clearly visible. Lu Chenzhou leaned in closer. The paper surface gleamed with a cold light under the ring lamp, the subtle differences in the ink strokes magnified to an almost ferocious degree. "Can it be quantified?" "Requires a measuring instrument." Zhou Zhengping dragged a cardboard box from under the desk, opened it, and pulled out an electronic measuring device the size of a palm, connected by a data cable. He plugged it in, powered it on, and the screen lit up with a blue glow. Using the tweezers, he picked up an extremely fine probe, calibrated it, then gently touched it to the hesitation point on the authentic signature. A string of numbers jumped onto the screen. "Peak pressure 0.3 newtons, duration 0.08 seconds," Zhou Zhengping said. The probe moved to the same position on the forged document. "Here... 0.15 newtons, duration 0.15 seconds. Force halved, but prolonged. This is a common mistake in imitating 'lightness'—thinking that slowing down equals being light." Lu Chenzhou's left hand unconsciously reached for his pocket, where a pen was. He pulled it out, spun it between his fingers, unscrewed the cap, then screwed it back on. The spring inside the pen made a faint clicking sound. Time ticked by second by second. The hum of the fluorescent light was the only sound in the room. Then, the old man suddenly drew in a sharp breath, urgent, as if choking on something. "Here..." Zhou Zhengping's voice began to tremble, "this curve... the curvature of the authentic one is formed by the natural rotation of the wrist, with a slight flattening at the top—when Secretary Sun wrote, his little finger would unconsciously press against the paper, causing a slight pressure at the curve's peak. But this one..." The tweezers' tip tapped on the forged document. His hand was shaking, the metal tip leaving faint, almost invisible marks on the paper. "This curve is too perfect. Like it was drawn with a compass." Zhou Zhengping lifted his head, his eyes behind the reading glasses bloodshot, staring straight at Lu Chenzhou. "The forger... he was too fixated on 'resemblance.' He used an aid. A real person can't draw a curve like this." The air in the room seemed to solidify. The hum of the fluorescent light became piercing. Lu Chenzhou stopped spinning the pen. The pen barrel pressed a deep imprint into his palm. "So, the conclusion is?" Zhou Zhengping opened his mouth, but no sound came out. He took off his reading glasses, wiped the lenses with his sleeve, his movements slow and heavy. After putting them back on, he finally spoke: "The two signatures were not written by the same person. The forger is highly skilled, familiar with Secretary Sun's early writing habits, even aware of his old injury. But he relied too much on technical aids, which gave him away. And..." He paused, his throat moving. "And he was imitating the handwriting characteristics of Secretary Sun from before 1996. After 1996, Secretary Sun's old injury worsened, and that hesitation actually became more pronounced. But the forger didn't know—or, the sample he obtained only went up to 1996." Lu Chenzhou stared at him. "Did you include these details in the appraisal report back then?" Zhou Zhengping's body stiffened. He slowly straightened up. The ring lamp on the magnifying glass was still on, casting a stark white halo on his face. His lips began to tremble, and fine beads of sweat broke out on his forehead, glistening under the light. "I..." His voice was hoarse, "I did... the first draft did." "And then..." Zhou Zhengping closed his eyes, his breathing becoming ragged. "And then... the call came. It was... it was the Deputy Director in charge of technical work at the time. He said... he said, 'Old Zhou, this case has significant impact, the conclusion needs to "I changed it..." he murmured, to the air, to the dust filling the room. "I fucking changed it... just to... to retire safely... for..." Lu Chenzhou did not move. He watched the old man's trembling back, looked at the two documents on the table that resembled evidence of guilt under the cold light. His left eyelid began to twitch slightly, once, then again, like a nerve pulsing beneath the skin. He waited a few seconds, waited for Zhou Zhengping's breathing to settle a little, then spoke. His voice was flat, without blame or comfort, merely stating: "The person who made you alter the report back then, and the person trying to silence you now, might be the same people." "If you don't speak, we'll always be in the dark." Lu Chenzhou took a step forward, standing by the table. He picked up the enlarged copy with the forged signature, holding it up to the light. "But now, we have this. You have a chance to write down clearly the conclusion you didn't include back then. Write it on a new report." Zhou Zhengping slowly turned around. Tear tracks were on his face, mixed with dust, smearing grimy lines across his aged skin. But the collapse in his eyes was being replaced by something else—something murky, heavy, yet exceptionally sharp. "Pen," he said, his voice hoarse but clear. Lu Chenzhou took a kraft paper envelope from his backpack, pulled out a blank forensic report form, and spread it on the table. Then he handed over a black ballpoint pen. Zhou Zhengping took the pen. His hand was still trembling, the tip hovering over the paper, hesitating to land. He stared at the blank space as if staring into an abyss. Lu Chenzhou did not rush him. He walked to the window and lifted the corner of the curtain again. Outside was still that empty industrial park, the distant city lights still sparse. But at the horizon, the deepest darkness had begun to fade, revealing a faint, almost imperceptible line of grayish-white. Right then, the old-fashioned cellphone Zhou Zhengping had placed on the toolbox suddenly blared. The ringtone was the old-fashioned telephone "ding-a-ling," sharp, piercing, like a knife stabbing into the silent room. Zhou Zhengping shuddered violently, the pen dropping onto the table and rolling to the edge. Lu Chenzhou spun around sharply. He saw Zhou Zhengping staring at the phone screen, his face instantly turning ashen, his lips losing all color. Zhou Zhengping reached out a trembling hand, pressed answer, then pressed speaker. A woman's weeping immediately burst out, hoarse, broken, carrying desperate sobs: "Old Zhou... Old Zhou... Old Li, he... he's gone... last night, going downstairs... fell... the light in the stairwell was broken... he... just like that... the police say it was an accident... an accident..." Zhou Zhengping's body swayed. He reached out to grip the edge of the table, his fingernails digging into the wood, producing a creaking sound. Lu Chenzhou had already stepped over in one stride, taking the phone from Zhou Zhengping's rigid hand. His voice was terrifyingly calm: "Sister Li, I'm an old colleague of Mr. Zhou. What was the exact time of the incident? Location? Were there any witnesses? Did Forensic Examiner Li mention anything unusual recently, or meet anyone?" The crying on the other end of the line paused, turning into suppressed sobs. "Last night... past ten last night... right in his apartment building... the turn between the fourth and third floors... no one saw... he's been... been muttering about the past a lot lately... said he couldn't sleep well... said someone... someone was watching..." He placed the phone back on the table. The soft click of the plastic shell touching wood was abnormally clear in the deathly silent room. Zhou Zhengping still maintained his posture of gripping the table, his eyes staring straight ahead, his pupils unfocused. His teeth began to chatter, a *ge-ge-ge* sound squeezed from deep in his throat. The whole man resembled a plaster statue beginning to crack. Lu Chenzhou turned to him, word by word, his voice like ice-tempered steel: Zhou Zhengping jolted violently, his scattered gaze focusing on Lu Chenzhou's face. "They're coming for everyone who knows the details from back then," Lu Chenzhou said, each word hammering into the air. "You just now, almost became the next one." As the words fell, outside the window, that line of grayish-white in the sky was expanding, devouring the darkness. It wasn't Lu Chenzhou's. That sound was sharp, monotonous, carrying the distinctive plastic resonance of an old-fashioned phone, like a rusted needle, abruptly piercing the fragile Lu Chenzhou's left eyelid twitched slightly. He didn't move, his gaze shifting from Zhou Zhengping's rigid profile to the canvas bag. The ringing continued, stubbornly sounding, drowning out the low hum of the fluorescent light tubes. The cold scent of old paper and metal instruments mixed in the air seemed stirred by the sound, becoming thick and oppressive. "Answer it," Lu Chenzhou said. His voice was flat, not urging, merely stating a fact. Zhou Zhengping's hand trembled even more violently. The tip of the tweezers made a faint *ding* as it touched the edge of the metal workbench. He straightened up slowly, his movements like a rusted machine, turned, bent over, and reached deep into the canvas bag to grope around. What he pulled out was a black flip-phone for the elderly, with a small screen that was now lit up, displaying an unsaved number. He stared at the screen, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. Then, his thumb pressed the answer button, slowly, as if fighting against some invisible resistance. He brought the phone to his ear. The voice from the other end immediately leaked out—even from a few steps away, Lu Chenzhou could hear the unrestrained, broken sobs and gasps, an elderly woman's voice, incoherent, shattered by immense grief and fear. "...Old Zhou... Old Zhou... Something's happened... Old Li... he's... he's gone..." Zhou Zhengping's face drained of color in an instant. His lips parted, but no sound came out. His eyes widened, his pupils dilating within the cloudy eyeballs, losing focus, staring fixedly at the cold metal surface of the workbench. The knuckles of his fingers gripping the phone turned deathly white, veins bulging on the back of his hand, his entire arm beginning to tremble uncontrollably. "You... what did you say?" His voice was as dry as sandpaper rubbing together. "Old Li... Li Jianguo? Which Old Li?" "Which other Old Li is there?!" The weeping on the phone suddenly rose in pitch, carrying a desperate sharpness. "Last night... last night he said he was going downstairs to take out the trash... and never came back... The neighbors found him this morning... at the corner of the staircase... he fell... hit his head on the concrete steps... so much blood... The police came, said it was... said it was an accidental fall..." Zhou Zhengping's body swayed. His other hand shot out to brace against the edge of the workbench, preventing himself from collapsing. The canvas bag was knocked over by his movement, falling to the ground with a *clang*, tools scattering out—metal rulers, magnifying glasses, tweezers rolling across the cement floor, colliding in a chaotic, grating cacophony. Dust was startled into the air, dancing frantically under the light. In two strides, Lu Chenzhou crossed over. He didn't go to support the teetering Zhou Zhengping but directly snatched the still-leaking-voices elderly phone from his stiff fingers. The action was crisp and decisive, without any hesitation. He pressed the phone to his own ear. "I'm a friend of Zhou Zhengping's," he said quickly and clearly, overriding the continued sobs from the other end. "Take your time and tell me. The time, the exact location, what the police said, and was there anyone else present?" The old woman on the phone seemed stunned by this sudden, calm—almost cold—male voice. Her sobs hitched, then she answered haltingly, "Last night... around nine-something... in his old building, Unit Three... the landing between the fourth and fifth floors... The police said they didn't see any signs of a struggle, nothing else on the stairs... just said it was an accidental fall... But Old Li... he was always quite steady on his feet... how could..." "Did he mention anything unusual to you recently? About his past work, or meeting someone?" Lu Chenzhou pressed, his gaze sweeping over Zhou Zhengping. The old man had now slumped into his chair, hands gripping the workbench edge so tightly his knuckles were white, his body shaking like a sieve, teeth chattering with a faint *click-clack*, his eyes unfocused, staring at some point in the void as if his soul had been ripped away. "No... not really..." The old woman's voice carried bewildered pain. "Just the past couple of days... he seemed a bit unsettled, muttered a few things... said something like 'after all these years, they still won't let go'... I asked him what he meant, but he wouldn't say..." Lu Chenzhou's breath hitched for half a second. It felt like a cold hand had clenched his stomach, twisting it into knots. He looked up. Through the workshop window, thick with dust Silence flooded back, but it was utterly different now. The silence before had been a focused, possibility-filled vacuum; the silence now was a heavy, viscous sludge left behind after death had seeped in. Dust settled slowly. The fluorescent light tubes continued their faint, maddening hum. Lu Chenzhou threw the cold plastic phone back onto the canvas bag beside Zhou Zhengping's leg. It hit the scattered tools with a hollow clatter. He turned, facing Zhou Zhengping. Zhou Zhengping looked up, his clouded eyes filled with a vast, childlike terror and confusion. He stared at Lu Chenzhou, his lips trembling, but not a single word came out. Beads of sweat on his forehead merged into thin streams, tracing down his quivering cheeks. "Not an accident," Lu Chenzhou said. His voice wasn't loud, but in the dead silence of the room, each word hammered into the air like a nail—clear, cold, with a metallic edge. "Li Jianguo. The forensic expert who participated in the peripheral handwriting characteristic comparisons for the old case back then. Retired for three years. Correct?" Zhou Zhengping sucked in a sharp breath, the sound like a torn bellows, hoarse and painful. He nodded, the movement slight, but it seemed to take all his strength. "They're targeting everyone who knows the details from back then," Lu Chenzhou continued, his tone steady, but his gaze scraped over every minute twitch and tremor on Zhou Zhengping's face like a scalpel. "Cleaning up. Systematic. Starting from the periphery, sweeping away any possible loose ends. You," he leaned forward slightly, his shadow enveloping Zhou Zhengping's deathly pale face, "almost became the next one just now." A choked, guttural "heh-heh" sound escaped Zhou Zhengping's throat, as if his windpipe were being squeezed. His hand on the workbench began to spasm violently, fingers curling and splaying, nails scraping against the metal surface with a teeth-grating screech. Tears welled up abruptly from his clouded eyes, mingling with sweat, rolling down the deeply lined gullies of his cheeks. They weren't tears of sorrow; they were the body's spontaneous, uncontrollable physiological breakdown after fear had shattered its limits. "I... I back then..." His voice was shattered, each word squeezed out like bloody foam between clenched teeth. "That report... that phone call... it was... it was Zhao..."