The dial tone. Third time, it connected. No one answered. Lu Chenzhou stared at the phone screen until it automatically dimmed, reflecting his own expressionless face. The dull ache from his dislocated left shoulder surged like a tide, wave after wave battering the embankment of his reason. He clutched the blood-stained surveillance film negative, its edge cutting into his fingertip. The fresh, sharp pain instead brought a sliver of clarity. Qin Wangshu's police badge number. Gu Zhixing's tip-off, fifteen minutes early. The report on Zhao Tieshan's desk. These three points connected into a cold, hard line in his mind, pointing to a conclusion he was unwilling, and currently unable, to touch. But there was a fourth line, more concealed, more lethal—the serrated copper-nickel alloy fragment from Shen Yan's wound, from the same batch number as the bullet that killed his partner ten years ago. This wasn't a frame-up. It was an echo. He needed evidence, definitive biological evidence, not these interlinked shadows. Shen Yan's study. Lanshan Villa. Right now, Shen Yan was lying in the operating room, his life hanging by a thread. Shen Moqing had just been stripped of his authority seal, still reeling from the shock. The entire security system of the Shen residence was in a brief vacuum during this power transition. The window of opportunity might only be twenty minutes. Lu Chenzhou carefully slipped the blood-stained negative into his inner pocket, against his skin. He flexed his uninjured right arm and pushed open the door Gu Zhixing had left through. The corridor was empty, wall lamps casting a dim yellow light, the thick carpet absorbing all footsteps. The air carried a faint scent of disinfectant, mixed with the slightly bitter aroma of simmering ginseng soup wafting from the distant kitchen. His brain automatically mapped the layout. East wing, third floor of the main residence, Shen Yan's private study. Regular patrols crossed every thirty minutes, but there was a seven-minute blind spot during shift changes. The hard drive array for internal surveillance was in the main control room, but when Shen Moqing surrendered the seal, he also handed over the temporary password for the highest authority—Lu Chenzhou had forced him to write it on a slip of paper, the handwriting scrawled, trembling with humiliation. Password validity: twenty-four hours. It was enough. He avoided the main staircase, slipping into the servants' passage. The narrow stairwell smelled of old wood and cleaning agents. His footsteps were light, like a cat's, but his heartbeat was heavy, pounding against his chest like a drum. Not fear. It was the cold excitement of blood rushing faster as he approached the prey's lair. Third floor. East wing corridor. The heavy double doors of rosewood stood before him, the handles carved with intricate intertwining lotus vines. Lu Chenzhou stopped, listening intently. The faint sound of a TV program came from the end of the corridor, a resting room for some on-duty bodyguard. Estimating the time, he pulled out the crumpled slip of paper from his pocket, bearing a twelve-digit alphanumeric code. He took out his own phone—not the usual one, but a thick, old-fashioned device with physical buttons. The screen lit up with an eerie blue light. He quickly entered a few lines of commands, connecting to the Shen residence's internal network. Authorization verified. Passed. The screen displayed a simplified architectural floor plan. A red dot represented him; another green dot moved slowly in the eastern part of the third floor. Patrol guard. Four minutes until the crossing point. He pushed the door. The door hinge let out an extremely faint creak, amplified tenfold in the silence. Lu Chenzhou froze for half a second, then slid sideways inside, silently closing the door behind him with a backward motion. Darkness. Then his sense of smell took over first. The faint mustiness of old book pages, mixed with the tannin scent of high-quality leather. Underneath, the warm fragrance of expensive sandalwood accumulated over the years, and a trace of the very faint, characteristic tail note of the cigar Shen Yan often used—not the smokiness after lighting, but the mellow sweetness of the tobacco itself. The scents outlined the space. Lu Chenzhou didn't turn on the light immediately. He stood by the door, letting his pupils adjust to the dark. A sliver of moonlight leaked through a gap in the heavy velvet curtains, illuminating a wide rosewood desk in the center of the study and the blurred outline of a high-backed chair behind it. That chair. He needed skin flakes, sebum, any trace of shed cells containing Shen Yan's DNA. The inner side of the armrests, the area where the chairback contacted the neck. Time remaining: three minutes and ten seconds. Lu Chenzhou He turned off the ultraviolet light, and the world plunged back into gloom. From a hidden compartment in his tool belt, he pulled out a transparent electrostatic adhesive film, thinner than a cicada’s wing. Precision was essential. He bent over, gently covering the fluorescent area on the inner side of the armrest with the film, pressing down slowly and evenly with the pads of his fingers. *Ssss.* A faint, almost inaudible sound of adhesion accompanied the film’s removal. Done. He swiftly placed the film into a vacuum-sealed aluminum foil pouch and sealed it. The sample from the chairback was handled the same way. The bookshelf. He strode over, the ultraviolet light flickering on again. The beam swept across rows of gilded spines. Shen Yan favored history and criminal psychology; those hefty, hardcover tomes stood silent under the violet glow. Lu Chenzhou’s gaze locked onto several books with noticeably worn corners, especially a few monographs on profiling techniques and serial killer case studies. He pulled one out. The book was heavy. He flipped it open, quickly scanning the dog-eared pages. The creases were fresh, the paper edges slightly frayed from repeated handling. He used the film to take samples from inside the dog-eared corner and the joint near the spine. His movements were swift and steady, but his fingertips could feel his own pulse, beating, beating, against the edge of the film. The antique clock suddenly chimed. *Dong—dong—dong—* The loud, resonant tolling exploded without warning, echoing through the silent study. Every muscle in Lu Chenzhou’s body tensed instantly, and the book nearly slipped from his grasp. On the hour. Nine o’clock in the evening. The chimes masked many sounds, but they could also wake a light sleeper. He had to go. Just as he was sliding the book back into place, footsteps sounded from the corridor outside. Not the regular, heavy tread of a patrolling bodyguard. These footsteps were lighter, more hesitant, stopping and starting, as if checking something. They were getting closer. The study had no other exit. The windows were sealed, bulletproof glass. Lu Chenzhou’s eyes swept rapidly around the room—the fireplace was too small, under the desk too obvious. His gaze fixed on the row of decorative wooden latticework against the wall, originally a recessed niche for vases, almost flush with the wall. The footsteps stopped outside the door. A hand settled on the doorknob; the faint friction of a metal latch being depressed. Lu Chenzhou lunged toward the wooden lattice. As he got close, his pupils constricted: at the seam where the lattice edge met the wall, the paint showed an extremely subtle color difference from temperature variation, and there was no dust accumulation. He pressed his palm against the center-lower part of the lattice, pushed with his shoulder, and gave a sharp shove— The lattice slid inward soundlessly, revealing a dark crevice just wide enough for one person to squeeze through sideways. He slipped inside and pulled the lattice back into place with his other hand. *Click.* A soft sound. A perfect fit. Almost simultaneously, the study door was pushed open. Lu Chenzhou pressed his back against the cold wall of the hidden compartment, holding his breath. The space was extremely cramped; the rough wall paint scraped against his suit jacket, and his left shoulder injury was compressed, sending a sharp, piercing pain. The air was stale, permeated with the dust of long-unventilated spaces, old paper, and a faint, elusive scent of mothballs. Footsteps entered the study and paused. The newcomer did not turn on the main light. From beneath the door crack, a narrow beam of light swept across the floor—a flashlight, its beam steady, moving slowly. Shadows shifted; the person was surveying the room. Lu Chenzhou remained motionless. Cold sweat from his temple slid down his cheek. His eyes gradually adjusted to the deeper darkness. He realized what faced him was not a solid wall, but a metal shelf embedded in the wall, piled with some items. On the topmost layer was a rectangular object with a black plastic casing. A videotape. Old-fashioned VHS format. The label on the side was handwritten, the script neat to the point of rigidity, still clearly legible in the dim light: **[Item No.: L-001]** **[Content: Initial Confession Statement]** **[Subject: Lu Chenzhou]** **[Date: 2013.11.07]** His blood ran cold. November 7, 2013. The third month after his imprisonment. He had been taken for a solitary interrogation, locked in a windowless room, facing a camera with a blinking red light. They gave him a script. Demanded he read it. His voice was to be steady, his expression remorseful. They said, read it, and your sister’ The beam of light outside stopped near the desk. The faint rustling sound of paper being flipped came through. Lu Chenzhou’s fingertips touched the cold plastic casing of the videotape. He withdrew his hand, his knuckles turning white. The soundproofing was too good; the noises outside were indistinct, leaving only his own suppressed heartbeat, pounding heavily against his eardrums. A soft sound came from the direction of the bookshelf, like a book being returned to its place. Footsteps moved again, this time toward the wooden lattice. Shen Yan’s collection. A portable rapid DNA testing device. Lu Chenzhou reached out, his fingertips brushing the cold plastic casing of the videotape. The sensation was like an ice pick, stabbing into his fingertips, so real it was nauseating. He picked it up. Beneath it lay a thick stack of photocopies. Using the line of ashen light from under the door, he identified them. The original case files for the "Mirror Murderer." But the pages were now covered with another kind of handwriting. Red annotations, sharp, hurried, frenzied. Method analysis. Victim selection. Psychological profile deduction. Some sentences were directly plagiarized from his unpublished investigative notes from back then, with precise terminology and correct page numbers. Shen Yan’s handwriting. His heart didn’t race—it plummeted into an ice cellar, then was violently yanked upward by an invisible hook, slamming against his throat. Not anger. Something filthier—his shame, his professionalism, his entire human dignity had been stripped away, dried, and nailed into a specimen on another man’s bookshelf. Shen Yan wasn’t just imitating the case. He was imitating Lu Chenzhou the person. Using Lu Chenzhou’s "work" and "confession" to build a more "perfect" stage. Why? To prove that this glamorous heir was more superior than the "flawed product" the family had discarded back then? His knees went weak. Dizziness churned up from his stomach. He steadied himself against the wooden shelf, fingertips digging into the grain. The footsteps outside paused at the desk for a moment. Then left. The lock clicked, and the corridor returned to deathly silence. He waited another two minutes. Breathing reduced to a thin thread. Then he moved. The videotape. The top few pages of the annotated photocopies—the ones with the craziest handwriting and most direct connections—were quickly rolled up and stuffed inside his tool belt. The biological sample in the aluminum foil pouch pressed against the skin of his chest, cold. These two things: one was hard evidence, the other was the root of the disease. He pushed open the wooden lattice and returned to the moon-soaked study. The hands of the antique clock devoured time. He slid toward the door, listened, and slipped into the corridor. The path back to the guest room stretched endlessly. Every step landed on the shadow of his own self from ten years ago. He pushed open the door, locked it, and slid down with his back against the door onto the carpet. Breathe. Deep, then deeper. The aluminum foil pouch. The videotape. Placed side by side in front of him. He retrieved the portable testing device Fang Mu had modified from the bottom of his backpack, the size of a cigarette pack, its screen dim. He inserted the data chip with the biological trace evidence from the scene, secretly provided by He Wanqing, not logged into the official system. Opened the aluminum foil pouch, used tweezers to pick up the film that had absorbed the sebum, and placed it into the sample slot. Closed the lid. A low hum sounded. The indicator light began to pulse: green, yellow, green, yellow. Waiting. The corner of his left eye began to twitch uncontrollably. His fingers unconsciously traced patterns on the carpet, dissecting clues, then piecing fragments together. The hum stopped. The indicator light stabilized on solid green. The screen scrolled with the display: 【STR typing match >99.7%. Extremely high probability of common origin.】 Silence crashed down. Lu Chenzhou reached out, his fingertips brushing over the line of green text on the screen. The touch was cold, conclusive. No relief, only the heavy weight of a boulder settling into place. Shen Yan was the copycat. Science had verified the deduction; shame had illuminated the motive. He picked up the videotape. The date on the label glared: 2013.11.07. Initial confession statement. His fingers tightened; the plastic casing emitted a faint sound of strain. The bargaining chips were in hand. The evidence was irrefutable. How to use it? Hand it over to Qin Wangshu? That Qin Wangshu whose badge number had appeared on the bloodstained negative and was now under internal investigation? Would handing over the The other was a macro shot of the videotape label, with the date and the three characters "Lu Chenzhou" clearly discernible. Before sending, he attached an encrypted location data packet and a countdown—six hours. He pressed send. The moment the "send successful" prompt flashed, knocking sounded at the door. Three knocks. Not too loud, not too soft, steady in rhythm. Shen Yan's voice came from outside the door, calm and gentle, wrapped in just the right amount of a wounded person's weak breath, yet each word penetrated the wooden panel: "Mr. Lu, not resting yet? There are some details about the attack on me... I'd like to discuss with you again. Is it convenient?" Lu Chenzhou's gaze fell on the detector and the videotape side by side on the table before him. Green light, black casing. Science, and shame. He slowly stood up, swiftly placing both items into the hidden compartment of his backpack. The pain in his left shoulder was suppressed deep into the muscle, his face returning to a placid calm. He walked to the door, grasped the handle. His fingertips were ice-cold. "Just a moment." His voice passed through the door panel, steady, without a trace. He opened the door. Shen Yan stood in the soft halo of the corridor light. A dark blue silk robe, draped with a loose cashmere cardigan, his face pale, but his eyes strangely bright, even with a kind of excited clarity. He leaned on an ebony cane with his left hand, his right hand hanging naturally. "Pardon the intrusion." Shen Yan gave a slight nod, his smile appropriate, carrying apology. "Just had a painkiller shot, couldn't sleep. Remembered some things, thought they might be helpful to you." "Please, come in." Lu Chenzhou stepped aside. Shen Yan, leaning on his cane, walked into the room with slow yet steady steps. His gaze seemed to casually sweep over the furnishings, lingering for an extremely brief 0.1 second on Lu Chenzhou's not-fully-zipped backpack. Then he walked to the single armchair by the window, carefully sat down, resting his cane against the armrest. Lu Chenzhou closed the door, did not lock it. He sat in the chair opposite Shen Yan, a small coffee table between them. "Would you like something to drink?" Lu Chenzhou asked, his tone professionally flat. "No need, thank you." Shen Yan waved his hand, his fingers slender, nails clean. "It's just... some images in my mind, flashing repeatedly." "In the few seconds before the explosion, I seemed to see the emergency light in the west corridor flash. Not a normal flicker, but... a very regular pattern of three long, one short." As he spoke, his eyes watched Lu Chenzhou, focused, as if trying hard to recall, yet also carefully observing the reaction. "Three long, one short." Lu Chenzhou repeated, not as a question, merely a statement. He picked up the pen on the coffee table, unconsciously spinning it between his fingers, uncapping it, then capping it again. "Morse code for 'V', or... some kind of signal." "You think so too?" Shen Yan leaned forward slightly, revealing a restrained excitement, like finding a kindred spirit. "I felt something was off at the time. But it was too fast, the explosion came. Mr. Lu, do you think... could this be the killer confirming something? Or... signaling to an accomplice?" "Possibly." Lu Chenzhou's pen stopped between his fingers. "The forensics team extracted some trace fibers from the corridor not produced by the explosion, preliminary judgment is they come from high-density synthetic fabric, commonly used in special operations suits. If combined with a signal... the action would be more precise." As he spoke, his gaze calmly met Shen Yan's, as if merely discussing a purely investigative technical issue. Shen Yan's smile deepened a bit, carrying an intimacy almost like sharing a secret. "Criminal psychology is truly fascinating. Especially the 'creations' of high-IQ criminals. They aren't just killing, they're completing a work. The lighting, the sound, the choice of victim, even the 'clues' left for the police to solve, are all meticulously designed. It's like... performing for the void, hoping for a worthy enough listener who can understand the movement." "Creation," "work," "movement." Each word was gently yet deliberately emphasized by him. *Click.* The soft sound of Lu Chenzhou capping the pen in his hand was especially clear in the silence. "Copycats are especially like that." Lu Chenzhou's voice held no fluctuation. "They lack original inspiration and courage. So they need a template. A template perfect enough, complex enough, to bear their own projections." He raised his eyes, his gaze like a mirror He paused, his gaze sweeping past Lu Chenzhou and out into the dense night outside the window. "Mr. Lu, you've handled so many cases. Have there ever been times—when you could almost 'understand' the killer? Not condoning his actions, but understanding why he ended up at that point, understanding the... internal logic of the twisted world he constructed?" The air grew heavy. In the distance, a night bird cried out, brief and desolate. Lu Chenzhou was silent for a few seconds. The pen in his fingers came to a complete stop. "Yes." One word, spoken softly, yet it landed with weight. "Understanding is for solving the case. Not for empathy." His tone was steady. "No matter how perfect the imitation, no matter how profound the 'understanding,' flaws will be left behind. Unique biological traces, habitual muscle memory, even... subconscious, self-satisfied 'corrections' made to some imperfection in the 'template.' Those things will be left at the scene, just like fingerprints." When he said "biological traces," his tone was matter-of-fact. When he mentioned "fingerprints," his calm gaze fell on Shen Yan's right hand, resting naturally on his knee. Shen Yan's right index finger curled almost imperceptibly. A slight movement, as if from an unconscious nerve twitch. The smile on his face slowly faded, leaving only a calm, almost hollow stare. He looked at Lu Chenzhou for several long seconds. The light from the corridor reflected in his eyes but did not penetrate the depths. "Yes..." he sighed softly, "a curse." Leaning on the arm of the sofa, he stood up with some effort, gripping his cane tightly. "It's getting late. Mr. Lu should rest too. Thank you for your time." He walked towards the door, his steps heavier than when he arrived. Lu Chenzhou stood up and escorted him to the doorway. Shen Yan stopped at the door. Without turning around, his voice was light yet clear: "Mr. Lu, sometimes knowing too much, especially... knowing things that shouldn't be known by an 'outsider,' can be very dangerous. More dangerous than facing a killer... Take care." He pulled the door open and walked out. The door closed slowly before Lu Chenzhou. In the corridor, Shen Yan's footsteps gradually faded away, eventually completely swallowed by the thick carpet. Lu Chenzhou stood in place, listening to the silence that consumed everything. Three seconds later, he turned back into the room, retrieved an encrypted phone from a hidden compartment in his backpack. The screen lit up. A new message from a preset number. No text. Only a map coordinate and a time: **[Tomorrow Morning 05:30]** **[West Suburbs Riverside Abandoned Hydrological Observatory]** He stared at the coordinates, his thumb repeatedly stroking the edge of the screen. The night outside the window was thick like undissolved ink. In the direction of the Shen residence's main gate, several beams of car headlights suddenly swept across the wall—not from one car, but several, parked silently, like beasts lying in wait in the darkness. He walked to the window and lifted a corner of the curtain. Below, parked silently along the tree-lined road outside the Shen residence's main driveway, were three black sedans. No markings, windows tinted dark. Engines still running, exhaust pipes emitting faint wisps of white smoke in the cold night. Not the Shen family's cars. The Shen family's bodyguards wouldn't park in this location, nor would they lie in wait so silently. He let go of the curtain. The air in the room abruptly tightened, filled with invisible pressure. The chips were in hand, and the cage was closing silently. To go to the rendezvous, or to stay? The cold light from the phone screen illuminated half of his expressionless face. The faint twitch at the corner of his left eye uncontrollably jumped again—once, twice, like some kind of alarm. He turned off the screen and clenched the phone in his palm. The coordinates were set. The clock was ticking. And the cars outside the window were still waiting.