The lighter flipped between his fingers, taken apart, reassembled. Lu Chenzhou stared at the high-backed chair in the center of the main table, the torn page of the plan in his hidden pocket burning hot against his ribs. All the clues to Zhao Mingcheng's death rested on the third name on that list—Shen Moqing. He hadn't had time to confirm it before the banquet lights blazed, painfully bright. The crystal chandelier pinned everyone's shadow to the floor like specimens awaiting slaughter. The lights flickered. Not a voltage fluctuation. Refraction. From the direction of the garden, a flash of reflected light glinted for an instant from the roof of the pavilion. Sniper scope. The crystal chandelier exploded. He lunged across the table, grabbed Shen Moqing's collar, and hauled the old man and his chair over. The muffled thud of a bullet piercing the leather of the chairback reached them as they crashed heavily onto the floor. "Stay down! Keep your head down if you want to live!" He snatched up a silver serving tray and held it over their heads. Shattered glass rained down on the metal with a sharp, clattering sound. A shard slipped through a gap and drove deep into the back of his hand, a needle-sharp pain twisting into bone and flesh. Hot lamp oil poured from a toppled candlestick, searing through his sleeve; the sizzle of scorched flesh and fabric filled the air. Shen Moqing's pupils contracted. The jade thumb ring on his left hand gleamed coldly under the emergency lights, the rubbing motion of his thumb against it nearly spastic in its speed. The hall descended into chaos. Screams mingled with the crash of overturned tables and chairs. The smell of gunpowder mixed with the oily scents of perfume and roast meat assaulted the nostrils. The panicked crowd began a disordered stampede, the crunch of glass underfoot grating on the nerves. Lu Chenzhou dragged Shen Moqing firmly behind a load-bearing column, his mind racing through calculations. Two shots. Northeast position. Roof of the garden pavilion. The bullet trajectory covered every seat at the main table—except for Shen Moqing's position. The thickened back of the high-backed chair had created the only blind spot, the only angle from which a shot couldn't land. Blind spot. Blind spot. Someone knew he would be sitting there. Someone had deliberately arranged that chair, created that sole path to survival, then leaked the coordinates so a sniper would fire from the only angle that couldn't hit. A warning? Or a cleansing probe from within the Zhao family itself? "Let go!" Shen Moqing struggled, his voice still unnervingly steady. "Mr. Lu, what are you doing?" "Shut up if you want to live." Lu Chenzhou hauled him toward the service corridor. "The basement." "That position," Lu Chenzhou said in a low voice, not breaking stride. "The thickened back, the only blind spot. Who told you to sit there?" Shen Moqing's breath hitched. The old man's right shoulder was bleeding, unclear whether from shrapnel or a glass cut. His breathing was ragged, but the hand gripping Lu Chenzhou's forearm was like an iron vise. Narrow stairs. The pneumatic hiss of a steel door sealing. The definitive click of an electronic lock engaging. The signal-jamming light lit up. Communications cut off. The emergency light in the safe room cast a stark, white glow. Shelves in the corner held stacks of compressed biscuits and bottled water. Beside them was a set of white porcelain tea things—the spout of the pot still steaming, a single hot teacup placed on the tray's edge, its walls radiating heat as if someone had just brewed it and hurried away. Shen Moqing slid down the wall to sit, pressing a hand to the bleeding wound on his shoulder. The heavy scent of iron filled the sealed space. Footsteps sounded overhead. Not the frantic steps of escape, not the hesitant steps of a search. Thump. Thump. Thump. A precise rhythm, a constant stride. Someone knew this room existed. The sniper was just a pawn on the board. Lu Chenzhou tore a strip of cloth from his sleeve and reached toward Shen Moqing's shoulder. "Foresight, Mr. Lu?" The old man's voice was hoarse, yet each word was clear. "Knowing that position was a blind spot. Even catching the glint of the sniper scope?" Lu Chenzhou didn't move. His knuckles hovered three inches above the wound; he could feel the warm seep of blood. The heavy iron scent saturated the sealed space, clinging thickly to the nasal membranes. "If I wanted you dead, I wouldn't have pulled you down." "Perhaps you just wanted to "...Gu Zhixing." The old man finally spoke, his voice laden with a roughness like crushed porcelain shards. "Before the banquet, he came to adjust my seat. Said the backrest screws were loose, needed tightening." Backrest tightening. The only barrier blocking the bullet's trajectory. The only alteration that made that spot a dead angle. Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. The left corner of his eye twitched. "You need to stop the bleeding. I need a way out. For now, we only have each other." Shen Moqing stared at him for five seconds. That gaze weighed him like an unknown piece of gold—its purity suspect, but there was no other choice now. The gun muzzle shifted away. "The Shen family's emergency contact dossier." The old man pulled a kraft paper envelope from his inner suit pocket, a bloody fingerprint pressed onto its seal. "Only the family head carries it. Take it." Lu Chenzhou took the envelope, first tore the sleeve of his shirt, and quickly wrapped it tightly around the wound. Shen Moqing grunted but didn't pull away. The blood soaked through the cloth faster than expected. He lowered his head to examine the dossier, pages turning under the stark white light—contacts, safehouse coordinates, covert funding lines. On the third page, his fingers stopped. An interleaf. A sheet of paper thin as a cicada's wing, folded and tucked into the binding seam. He unfolded it. Several lines of handwritten small regular script. At the end, a vermilion seal, and— A signature. Lu Chenzhou's breath hitched for half a beat. Zhou Dezhang. Zhou Dezhang. That name was like a rusty nail, driving from the paper deep into the back of his eyes. The courtroom from ten years ago, the dull thud of the gavel falling, the ink bleeding on the confession statement—all the images surged up within half a second, then were forcibly pressed back into darkness. He folded the rice paper, slipped it into a hidden pocket. Two shrapnel pieces, embedded between his ribs, hurting with every breath. The safehouse light flickered. The hum from the ventilation duct changed pitch, like a trapped beast turning over in its iron cage. Shen Moqing sat leaning against the wall, the blood on his shoulder already soaking through the cloth, spreading a small dark stain on the grey-white floor tiles. The old man's eyelids drooped, his thumb still unconsciously rubbing that jade thumb ring—the frequency fast as if counting seconds. Cold. The basement had no heating, dampness seeped in from all sides, creeping into the gaps between bones. Lu Chenzhou walked to the emergency cabinet in the corner, pulled open the rusty iron door—compressed biscuits, bandages, a thermos flask. He shook it. Still warm. He unscrewed the cap, steam rising, the bitter smell of cheap tea leaves hitting his face. A white porcelain cup sat on the cabinet shelf, dusty. He wiped it with his sleeve, filled it to the brim. The scalding heat from the cup wall pierced his palm. Painful. But that warmth was like a thin thread, pulling from his fingertips to his chest, slowly dragging back something frozen solid. He clenched the cup, his fingertips feeling the rough glaze, letting the temperature inch by inch disperse the ice shards in his blood vessels. Outside the door, the footsteps stopped. Silence was more dangerous than noise. Lu Chenzhou closed his eyes. Two sheets of paper in the hidden pocket pressed against his chest, like two keys, inserted into the same lock. Zhou Dezhang's signature. Qin Hongyuan's signature. One signed the verdict, the other carried out the silencing—two lines extending from different directions, destined to converge at a certain point. That point, right now, was leaning against the corner, bleeding. If Shen Moqing died here— The truth of the confession statement would be buried forever underground. Zhou Dezhang would still be alive, still sitting high in some courtroom, still signing, still sending innocent people to prison. And he, Lu Chenzhou, would rot in an unnoticed corner, branded as a "paroled murderer." A dead enemy is the safest enemy. And also the most useless. He opened his eyes. The left corner of his eye twitched again. A living Shen Moqing was a key. A dead Shen Moqing was a tombstone. He didn't want a tombstone. Lu Chenzhou carried the teacup over to Shen Moqing, squatted down. The old man looked up at him. That gaze was turbid, wary, exhausted, like a trapped wolf—teeth still there, but strength mostly drained. "What did you see?" Shen Moqing stared at the spot of his hidden pocket. "Something worth risking your life for?" "A scrap of useless paper." Lu Chenzhou handed the cup over, his voice flat as stagnant water. "Drink something hot. We Shen Moqing leaned against the wall, his left hand pressing against the blood-stained gauze on his shoulder, his right hand gripping the pistol with its magazine removed. His face was as pale as paper. "The door won't hold for more than three hits." Shen Moqing's voice was very low, yet his tone still carried his habitual elegance. "Are you using my life as bait, Mr. Lu?" "A dead man makes the best bait." Lu Chenzhou's finger hovered above the call button. "What matters is—who will come to verify." Another impact. A screw popped from the doorframe hinge, clattering to the floor with a sharp *ding*. "Verify?" Shen Moqing stared at him. "You're betting the mole is in this building?" "I'm betting the mole must see for himself. Only by seeing with his own eyes can he report to his buyer." Lu Chenzhou looked back at him. "If he doesn't come, you'll truly be dead." Shen Moqing's Adam's apple bobbed. He understood the logic, of course. "I need your cooperation," Lu Chenzhou said. "One sound will do." "What sound?" "A dying one." The frequency of Shen Moqing's thumb rubbing against his signet ring suddenly quickened—*tap, tap, tap*—like a silent countdown. He stared at Lu Chenzhou for three seconds, then slowly nodded. Lu Chenzhou pressed the call button. "The Shen family head has breathed his last." His voice was as steady as if reading an autopsy report. No fluctuation, no emotion—a pure statement of fact. "Everyone can close the net." The crackle of static filled the brief silence. He released the button, his gaze locked on the steel door that was deforming. One second. Two seconds. Shen Moqing suddenly let out a muffled groan—coarse, phlegmy, like a man having his throat seized in his final moments. The sound squeezed out from between his teeth, echoed in the cramped safe room, then abruptly ceased. Silence fell outside. The hammering stopped. The footsteps stopped. The entire building, like a living thing choked, suddenly held its breath. A twitch pulled at the corner of Lu Chenzhou's left eye. He counted the seconds: five, ten, fifteen— From the far end of the corridor came the sound of leather shoes crunching on shattered glass. It wasn't a panicked run, but a composed, rhythmic approach. The cadence of heels striking the floor was steady, like someone keeping an appointment long arranged. The footsteps stopped outside the door. "Mr. Shen?" A gentle male voice came from outside. Not searching, but confirming. The steel door was violently pushed open, its deformed hinges shrieking in protest. Gu Zhixing stepped into the safe room. His gaze swept over the bloodstains on the floor and Shen Moqing slumped in the corner, but he walked past them, stopping directly in front of Lu Chenzhou. The gun muzzle rose, not aiming at the wounded family head, but pressing steadily against the center of Lu Chenzhou's forehead. Gu Zhixing smiled, his diction still restrained and elegant: "Mr. Lu, what a pity you didn't die in prison all those years ago."