The emergency light was still flashing. Each flicker felt like it was marking time for the gloom of this underground garage. Lu Chenzhou leaned against a cold support column, the rough concrete surface digging into his shoulder blade. The wound on his left leg had stopped bleeding, but a sense of swelling was crawling up along his nerves; every heartbeat brought a dull ache, as if a rusty wire were twisting inside the muscle. The captive huddled in a corner, breathing heavily with a phlegmy sound. Lu Chenzhou didn't look at him. He stared at the half bottle of water in his hand—the plastic bottle warmed slightly by his body heat, beads of condensation sliding down between his fingers, leaving a cold, wet trail. He tightened the cap and put it back into his backpack. His movements were slow, as if calculating the wear on each joint, his knuckles whitening slightly from the effort. Then he stood up. The muscles in his leg tightened violently, a tearing pain making his vision darken, nearly causing him to stumble. He braced himself against the column, a cold sensation spreading from his palm. He waited for the dizziness to pass; a rust-like taste of blood filled his mouth. The garage air was thick with the pungent smells of engine oil, dust, and rust, mixed with the cloyingly sweet scent of blood emanating from the captive. A faint engine sound came from the distance—perhaps a passing car, or maybe the muffled crunch of a search team's tires over gravel. Time was running out. Qin Wangshu had said the extraction team would arrive in twenty minutes. How long had it been now? Five minutes? Or eight? He didn't dare check his watch—any light source could give away their position. He could only estimate by his heartbeat and breathing, but the fever from his wound was interfering with his judgment, his temples throbbing. He walked over to the captive and crouched down. His knee pressed against the ground, sending a sharp stab of pain. The captive opened his eyes, his pupils dilated in the dim light, the whites laced with blood vessels. "When you came," Lu Chenzhou's voice was very low, almost drowned out by the persistent electrical hum of the emergency light, "how many sentries were at the garage entrance?" The captive's lips moved, but no sound came out, only a puff of hot, sour-smelling breath. Lu Chenzhou didn't rush him. He fished out the black button he'd torn from the attacker's sleeve from his pocket and placed it on his palm. The button's surface had fine cross-scratches; the metal plating on the edges had peeled away, revealing a dull copper base underneath. He held it up to the captive's eyes, letting the flickering emergency light sweep precisely over those scratches. "Custom accessory from Black Shield Security," Lu Chenzhou said, enunciating each word clearly. "The batch number can be traced back to a procurement order from the Shen Yan Group three years ago. Did the serial number on your team leader's armband start with a 7 or a 9?" The captive's breath hitched for a moment, a faint gurgle sounding in his throat. "7-series are for perimeter patrols, 9-series are for core action teams," Lu Chenzhou continued, his tone flat as if reading from a cold equipment list. "If it's a 7, you still have value now. If it's a 9…" He paused, letting the second half of the sentence hang in the damp air like an unsheathed blade. The captive's Adam's apple bobbed violently, his chapped lips parting. "...7," the voice was hoarse, like sandpaper rubbing. "We're Team 7." "How many men?" "Four. Two at the entrance, one at the stairwell, I was on outer support." His speech quickened, carrying a tremor of eagerness to prove himself. "Communication frequency?" "432.550. Check-in every ten minutes, next one…" The captive looked up, seeming to estimate, "...in about three minutes." Lu Chenzhou stood up. The leg injury made his movements stiff, but he forced himself to walk steadily. He walked to the fire cabinet on the east side of the garage; the metal cabinet door was icy to the touch. He pulled it open—the rusted hinges let out a sharp, piercing *creak*, especially jarring in the empty garage. Inside, besides a fire extinguisher and an axe, there was a roll of faded, brittle building floor plans, the edges already curling. He pulled out the drawings; the dry paper rustled. He quickly scanned them by the flickering emergency light, his gaze scraping over every line like a blade. Shen Manor main building, basement level two, garage. The plans marked the locations of ventilation ducts and access hatches, but some lines Lu Chenzhou folded the blueprint, the crisp, hard edge of the paper scraping against his fingertip. He tucked it inside his shirt, the fabric against his skin still carrying a faint, warm dampness. When he turned back to the captive, he seemed to hear footsteps in the distance, very faint, but approaching. He crouched down, rummaged through his backpack, and pulled out the last roll of bandage. The sound of tearing the packaging paper was jarring in the silence. He began re-bandaging the wound on the captive’s leg. His movements weren’t gentle. When the bandage tightened, the captive sucked in a sharp breath, but Lu Chenzhou’s hands were steady. Tying the knot, tightening it, neat and efficient. “You’re… taking me with you?” The captive’s voice held a sliver of disbelief and fragile hope. “No.” Lu Chenzhou finished tightening the bandage, his fingers feeling the warm, damp seepage from the wound beneath the fabric. “But if you die here, the body will expose my escape route. So you need to stay alive for now.” He stood up, his knees protesting once again. He walked over to the fire cabinet and took out the fire axe. The handle had a rough, wooden grain, heavy in his hand. The axe blade was somewhat rusted, but the edge was still sharp, reflecting the pallid light of the emergency lamp. He stuffed it into the side pocket of his backpack, the canvas stretching taut. Then he walked to the ventilation duct on the west wall of the garage. The metal grate of the vent was secured with four screws, rusted to a reddish-brown. He tried turning them by hand, but they wouldn’t budge; the screw heads were slick. He fished a coin out of his pocket—left over from who knows when, its edges worn smooth—wedged it into the cross-slot of a screw head, pressed his palm heel against it, put his full body weight behind it, and gave a forceful twist. *Click.* The screw loosened, metal scraping with a brief, sharp shriek. First one, then the second. With each turn, rust flakes fell in a shower, landing on the back of his hand. The third screw finally came free, clattering onto the concrete floor with a clear *clink* before rolling away into the shadows. He removed the grate. The metal edges were cold and rough. Behind it was the dark, gaping mouth of the duct. A rush of damp, musty air mixed with the smell of old dust surged out, hitting his face. The duct was about sixty centimeters in diameter, its inner walls coated in a thick layer of dust that appeared dark gray in the faint light. He turned on his phone’s flashlight—thumb sliding the screen brightness to its lowest setting—and shone it inside. The beam cut through the darkness, illuminating the inner walls. The duct extended upward, took a turn, and disappeared from sight. There were a few fresh scratches on the accumulated dust, their edges sharp and clear, as if someone had crawled through recently. “Get in,” Lu Chenzhou said to the captive, his tone brooking no argument. The captive struggled to his feet, his injured leg dragging on the ground with a rasping sound. He shuffled to the duct opening, glanced inside, his face pale in the dim light. “I… I might not be able to climb up.” “Then die here.” Lu Chenzhou’s voice held no inflection, as if stating a simple fact. “Choose.” The captive gritted his teeth, his jawline tightening. He pushed his upper body into the duct. The icy cold metal interior made him shiver. He began to move upward with difficulty, his movements slow. Each time he pushed himself up with his knees and elbows, fresh blood seeped from his wounds, leaving dark, damp stains on the grimy surface. Lu Chenzhou followed behind, using his shoulder to push against the captive’s feet, shoving him upward. Gravel from the captive’s shoe soles dug into Lu Chenzhou’s collarbone. The metal inner wall of the duct was bitingly cold. Dust billowed into his nostrils, carrying a mixed scent of iron and decay. Lu Chenzhou forced himself to breathe through his mouth, but a gritty, sandpaper-like sensation quickly coated his throat. He held his phone up with his left hand for light, the edge of the screen digging into the fleshy part of his thumb, while his right hand pushed against the slick pipe wall, inching upward bit by bit. With each exertion, the wound on his left leg felt as if branded by a hot iron. After climbing about five meters, the duct began to extend horizontally. The captive ahead was panting heavily, the sound echoing in the confined space with a pained tremor. His pace grew slower and slower. Lu Chenzhou could see the bandage on Lu Chenzhou didn't speak. He clamped the phone between his teeth, the plastic casing pressing against his teeth, the screen light stinging the corners of his eyes. With both hands, he grabbed the prisoner's belt; the leather was cold and slick. Using all the strength in his back and arms, he heaved upward. A tearing, excruciating pain shot from the wound on his leg. He gritted his teeth, a faint grinding sound escaping between them, and cold sweat instantly beaded on his forehead. He finally managed to push the prisoner over the steepest section of the incline. The man collapsed on the level segment, gasping for breath, the sound like a broken bellows. Lu Chenzhou followed closely behind. When he rolled onto the platform, the intense pain and lack of oxygen made his vision black out for several seconds; only the roar of blood rushing in his ears remained. He leaned against the cold, slimy pipe wall, waiting for his sight to return, tasting a faint coppery tang of blood on his tongue. He swept the phone light ahead. At the end of the pipe was a square metal cover plate. Around its edges were fine seams, letting in a thread of extremely faint, desolate light. And... sound. Very light footsteps, stepping on gravel or dry leaves, making a faint, rustling "shusha" sound. Lu Chenzhou turned off the phone light. Instant darkness swallowed everything. He gestured for the prisoner to be silent, raising a finger to his lips, though the other man likely couldn't see it in the dark. He slowly moved to the cover plate, his movements gentle and slow, avoiding any metallic scraping sounds. He pressed his right eye to the seam. Outside was a greenhouse. The broken glass roof let in a bleak moonlight, like a layer of cold silver frost, illuminating the ground littered with withered, curled plants and collapsed wooden plant stands. The air was thick with the heavy scent of damp soil and humus, mixed with a faint, elusive, yet familiar floral note. Jasmine. Very faint, but distinct amidst the decay. Lu Chenzhou recognized this scent. It was the perfume Shen Qinghuan had been wearing in the interrogation room this afternoon. He pushed gently against the cover plate. It wasn't locked, but it was tight. The plate swung outward a narrow crack, letting in more moonlight, illuminating the dust dancing in the pipe opening. He first listened intently, confirming that aside from the wind and the distant barking of dogs, there were no other movements. Then he slowly crawled out of the pipe, his body landing on the soft, damp soil of the greenhouse with a soft "thump." The prisoner followed behind him; as he landed, his injured leg gave way, and he staggered, nearly falling, but Lu Chenzhou grabbed his arm. The interior of the greenhouse was larger than imagined, but most of the space was swallowed by tall, withered plants and deep shadows. The moonlight could only illuminate limited areas; elsewhere was an ink-like darkness. Lu Chenzhou moved along the cold brick wall, its surface rough and slick, covered in a thin layer of moss. His gaze swept over every corner like a searchlight, his ears catching every subtle sound—the moan of wind through cracks in the broken glass, the occasional short bark of patrol dogs in the distance, and... Breathing. Very light, very controlled, but definitely present. Coming from the dense shadows behind a row of tall monstera plants, the rhythm slightly fast. Lu Chenzhou stopped, his left hand silently reaching for the fire axe tucked at the back of his waist. The wooden handle was cold. He gripped it tightly, his knuckles pressing against the rough surface. He stared at that patch of shadow, counting silently in his mind: one, two, three. Then he spoke, his voice pressed extremely low, yet carrying a blade-like clarity. "Come out." The shadow moved. Shen Qinghuan stepped out from behind the monstera plants. Moonlight slanted across her pale face, outlining her tense jawline. She wore a set of dark blue servant's uniform, the fabric coarse and slightly oversized, her hair tightly pulled into a neat bun, not a strand out of place. She clutched a keycard tightly in her hand, her knuckles white from the force. Her breathing was rapid and unsteady, her chest rising and falling slightly, her fingers trembling faintly, making the edge of the card quiver slightly. "You're late," she said, her voice trembling with barely suppressed tension, like a tightly strung wire. "The patrol just passed. The next shift change is in..." She glanced at her wristwatch; the dial reflected the moonlight. "Twelve minutes." Lu Chenzhou didn't reply. His gaze fell on the keycard in her hand—an old-style white rigid plastic card, its edges worn and frayed, the magnetic stripe faded with several fine scratches. An expired card. "There's only Shen Qinghuan pressed herself against the cold wall, her finger pointing deep into the corridor. The faint white vapor from her breath dissipated instantly in the dim yellow light. "The surveillance camera is over there," her voice was pressed so low it was almost just a breath, her throat tight. "But the pipe shaft can block it. After passing that, the archives room is the third door on the left. There's an infrared sensor on the doorframe, old-style, with a small red light." Lu Chenzhou followed the direction she pointed. The corridor was about thirty meters long. The first surveillance camera faced the corridor entrance, the second at the far corner, its lens slowly panning left and right, emitting an almost inaudible motor hum. Between the two cameras, there was indeed a shadowed area blocked by a thick metal pipe shaft—about five meters. The pipe shaft was pressed tight against the wall, its rust-stained surface covered in thick cobwebs and dust, gleaming with an oily sheen under the emergency light. "The power distribution box is at the other end of the corridor," Shen Qinghuan continued, her fingers unconsciously twisting the rough fabric of her maid uniform, the sound of cloth rubbing against skin subtle yet clear. "The reset button is inside. We have to press it simultaneously." "Are you sure it's a mechanical reset?" Lu Chenzhou asked. He stared into her eyes, catching the reflection of the emergency light in her pupils. "I... I saw workers doing maintenance when I was a child." She avoided his gaze, her voice even lower. "Dad didn't like electronic systems, said they were easy to hack. These old alarms are all independent. Press the reset button, and the infrared light goes off, but it might trigger backup alarms in other areas." Lu Chenzhou didn't respond immediately. In the dim light of the corridor, Shen Qinghuan's face was half-lit, half-shadowed. Her breathing was light, but her shoulders were taut like a string pulled to its limit, the skin near her collarbone slightly flushed with tension. He remembered the white vapor from her breath in the greenhouse, the cool touch of her fingers, and that lingering smell of humus. "I'll go to the power distribution box," he said, his voice steady and devoid of any fluctuation. "You stay here. Once you see the infrared light go off, get ready to open the door immediately. If the light doesn't go off, or if there's any other movement—" "I'll leave." Shen Qinghuan cut in, her voice trembling, lips pressed tight. "I know. Circle back from behind the pipe shaft to the side door, pretend I came out for air." Lu Chenzhou nodded, saying no more. He turned and moved along the wall toward the other end of the corridor. The rough fabric of the maid uniform rubbed against his skin, each movement bringing a subtle, prickly itch. He placed each step precisely where the carpet edge met the cold terrazzo floor, the ball of his foot landing first, then slowly lowering his heel to avoid making any sound. The emergency light overhead flickered on and off rhythmically, like some kind of countdown. Each time it went out, the corridor plunged into deeper darkness; each time it lit up, it cast his elongated, distorted shadow. The power distribution box at the other end of the corridor was embedded in the wall, a green sheet-metal door with an old-fashioned padlock. The lock was open. Lu Chenzhou stopped three steps away from the distribution box. He stared at the lock—the latch hung crookedly on the hasp, not fastened. A faint light seeped through the door crack, an indicator light inside the box, a dim red spot. He reached out, his fingertip touching the sheet-metal door. Cold. But on the doorknob, there were fresh fingerprints, strikingly clear on the dust-covered surface, the ridges of the fingertip whorls still maintaining their full arcs. Someone had been here just moments ago. He glanced back toward the other end of the corridor. Shen Qinghuan was still pressed against the wall, her figure blurred into a dark mass in the gloom. She was staring fixedly at the infrared indicator light on the archives room doorframe, that red dot like a coagulated drop of blood in the dim yellow background, blinking rhythmically, slowly. No time to hesitate. Lu Chenzhou pulled open the distribution box door. The sheet-metal hinge let out a faint, grating creak. Inside was a dense tangle of wires and relays, indicator lights blinking, emitting a subtle hum of electricity. The reset button was in the lower right corner, a red circular button, its plastic surface already worn, next to a faded, wrinkled label: "Alarm Reset." He reached out, his thumb pressing down. The button made a clear "click," a faint vibration from the plastic spring's rebound tingling at his fingertip. Almost simultaneously, the infrared indicator It was Gu Zhixing. The voice was clear, carrying his usual steady tone, but more hurried than normal, the tail end of each word pressed low. Lu Chenzhou slammed the electrical panel door shut. The sheet metal collided with a soft *clang*, especially jarring in the silent corridor, the echo bouncing between the walls. The footsteps stopped. "What was that sound?" Gu Zhixing asked, closer now. "Sounded like it came from the electrical panel," another male voice answered, low, carrying the unique alertness of a bodyguard, as if he had phlegm lodged in his throat. Lu Chenzhou quickly scanned his surroundings. The nearest hiding spot was the pipe chase, but it was at least eight meters away. No time. The footsteps started up again, heading straight this way, the rhythm of leather shoes hitting the floor faster now. He turned sideways and squeezed into the narrow gap between the electrical panel and the wall. The gap was tight, barely enough for an adult to stand sideways. His back pressed against the cold, rough wall, his chest almost touching the icy metal of the electrical panel. His uniform buttons scraped against the metal surface, making a faint *scrape* like fingernails on a chalkboard. He could smell rust and dust, mixed with the damp, earthy scent of the greenhouse clinging to him. He held his breath. A flashlight beam swept over from the end of the corridor. The beam of light first hit the opposite wall, moving slowly, passing over peeling wallpaper, exposed pipes, and finally settling on the electrical panel door. The light lingered on the metal surface for a few seconds, illuminating the latch and the door seam, then moved away. "The lock's open," that male voice said, less than five meters away. "Check it," Gu Zhixing said. Footsteps drew closer. Lu Chenzhou could smell leather and cologne—the one Gu Zhixing usually wore, with its cold sandalwood notes, now mixed with a hint of tobacco. The flashlight beam swept over again, closer this time, almost grazing the tips of his shoes, illuminating the dried clumps of mud on the leather. The dark brown mud looked like an incongruous stain under the dim yellow light, tiny fragments of dead leaves still clinging to the edges. The beam of light stopped. "Mr. Gu," the male voice hesitated, his throat moving, "here... there seem to be footprints." Silence. Lu Chenzhou felt his own heartbeat. One thump, two, crashing against his ribs, making his eardrums ache, the blood vessels at his temples throbbing. The twitch at the corner of his left eye started again, faint but persistent, like a needle pricking beneath the skin, tugging at the muscles of half his face. He slowly raised his right hand, his fingertips touching a protruding screw on the side of the electrical panel. The screw was loose; it could be unscrewed. Metal, about three centimeters long, the edges rough with rust. Not a weapon, but enough to create a little chaos—throw it into the distance, divert attention. "Probably left by a maintenance worker," Gu Zhixing finally spoke, his voice regaining its calm, even carrying a hint of his usual, gentle weariness, "Let's check the archives room first. The infrared alarm seemed to cut off just now. Confirm it." "Yes." The footsteps turned. Lu Chenzhou peered from the edge of the gap. Gu Zhixing, with two bodyguards, was heading toward the archives room. Shen Qinghuan was still standing by the door—she had her back to the corridor, leaning slightly forward, her hands smoothing something on her skirt, her fingertips pinching the fabric, as if straightening a wrinkle. A very natural movement. But Lu Chenzhou saw her shoulders trembling, the fabric rippling slightly with the tremor. Gu Zhixing stopped about five meters from her. "Miss Qinghuan?" His tone was gentle, even carrying a touch of concern, but each word was enunciated very clearly, "It's so late, why are you here?" Shen Qinghuan turned around. Her face looked pale under the dim yellow light, but she forced a weak smile at the corner of her mouth, her muscles stiff. The emergency light shone in her eyes, reflecting a flicker of light. "Uncle Gu," she said, her voice a bit unsteady, her throat tight, "I... I couldn't sleep. Came out for a walk, and my skirt got caught on the door handle. Look, the seam's torn." She lifted a corner of her skirt. There was indeed a small tear in the fabric, the threads at the edges loose. The flashlight beam swept over it; the tear looked like a black crack, glaringly obvious on the dark skirt. Gu Zhixing was silent for a few seconds. Lu Chenzhou could hear the faint sound of his fingers tapping against his trouser seam, once, twice, Gu Zhixing watched her walk away into the distance, then turned toward the door of the records room. The infrared indicator light was off. He stared at the door for a few seconds, reached out, and pressed a series of numbers on the keypad of the combination lock. The buttons emitted crisp *beep* sounds, each one seeming to strike Lu Chenzhou's eardrum. The lock screen lit up with a green light. The door opened. But he did not go in. He just stood at the doorway, sweeping his flashlight beam around inside. The light swept past filing cabinets, office desks, piled-up cardboard boxes, finally stopping on a half-open safe in the corner, reflecting a glaring white light off the metal surface. "The alarm has reset," he said to the bodyguard, his voice calm. "Probably a false trigger. Lock the door, have the tech department check it tomorrow." "Yes." Gu Zhixing turned and left. The sound of footsteps gradually faded, disappearing at the end of the corridor. Finally, the sound of a door hinge turning came, followed by the soft click of a latch engaging. The bodyguard closed the door. The combination lock emitted a *beep* sound, relocking. The infrared indicator light did not come on—the effect of the reset button was still active. The corridor fell back into dimness, only the emergency lights rhythmically flickering on and off. Lu Chenzhou squeezed out from the gap. The back of his uniform was soaked with cold sweat, sticking to his skin, icy and clammy. He walked to the door of the records room. Shen Qinghuan was already waiting there, emerging from the shadows behind the utility shaft. Her face was paler than before, her lips pressed into a bloodless line. "He entered the code," she whispered, her voice still trembling, carrying the exhaustion of a narrow escape. "I saw the numbers he pressed. It was… my parents' wedding anniversary. Just as I guessed." Lu Chenzhou didn't speak. He crouched down, his fingers brushing over the door frame. The infrared sensor's light was indeed off, but the sensor head was still there. That small black dot resembled a sleeping eye, its surface covered in dust. He reached out and pressed the string of numbers Shen Qinghuan had reported onto the combination lock keypad. The keys were cold, the touch hard. *Beep, beep, beep, beep—* The lock screen lit up with a green light. The lock emitted a soft *click*, the bolt retracting. Lu Chenzhou pushed the door open. The door of the records room closed silently behind them, completely cutting off Gu Zhixing's lingering voice, footsteps, and that smell mixed with disinfectant and cologne from the corridor. Lu Chenzhou's back leaned against the cold metal door panel. His rapid breathing was especially clear in the sudden silence that descended, each inhalation carrying the scent of dust. The corner of his left eye twitched, once, then again, tugging at his nerves. He forced himself to relax his jaw, unclenched his teeth, and quickly scanned the room with his eyes. The space was smaller than imagined. Three walls were lined with iron-gray filing cabinets reaching the ceiling. The cabinet door handles gleamed with a dull metallic luster, some already rusted. The only window was sealed shut by heavy blackout curtains, the edges of the fabric piled with thick dust. The air floated with the mixed scent of aged paper, dust, and a faint hint of mildew—like a forgotten tomb, cold, dry, lifeless. Shen Qinghuan leaned against the cabinet opposite, her chest rising and falling. She raised a hand to wipe the sweat from her forehead. Her fingertips trembled slightly in the dim light, leaving a damp, shiny streak. "Split up and search," Lu Chenzhou's voice was pressed extremely low, each word seeming squeezed from between his teeth, carrying a hoarse rasp from his throat. He raised a hand to wipe his temple, his fingertips smearing with cold sweat. "Left side is yours, right side is mine. Any documents related to 'Jing'an Sanatorium' or 'Wu Shufen,' pull them out as soon as you see them. Don't mess up the order." Shen Qinghuan nodded, turned, and pulled open the first cabinet door. The rusted hinges emitted a piercing *squeak—* the noise of metal grating exploded in the enclosed space. Both of them froze simultaneously, holding their breath in their chests. There was no movement outside the door, only the faint, distant, rhythmic, and muffled sound of an exhaust fan operating. Lu Chenzhou let out a breath, a white mist flickering and vanishing in the dim light. He walked toward the cabinets on the right. The wound on his left leg throbbed with a dull pain with each step, as if a rusty wire were churning in his muscle. The label on Time passed in the rustling sound of turning pages. With each file folder he opened, his heart hammered once heavily against his eardrums, the vibration numbing his temples. The files in the cabinet were arranged by year. The further down he went, the older the paper became, the fainter the smell of ink, the heavier the scent of dust. His fingertips brushed over the pages, feeling their edges slightly brittle and stiff. He reached 2006, his fingers stopping on a loosely bound financial appendix. On the third page of the appendix was a handwritten note: "Jing'an Sanatorium · Monthly Donation." His breath hitched for half a beat, his throat tightening. His gaze slid down the line. The table listed a fixed monthly amount: two hundred thousand. The numbers were printed neatly, yet they exuded a cold, mechanical feel. The payee account name field had been altered. The original handwriting was roughly crossed out with black pen, the ink bleeding through the back of the paper. Beside it, a new name was written in finer blue ink— Kangning Medical Management Co., Ltd. Lu Chenzhou pressed his fingertip onto that line of text, pressing so hard his knuckles turned white, the blood draining from beneath his nails. Two hundred thousand per month, two million four hundred thousand a year. That sum was enough to maintain the daily operations of a small private hospital. And "Kangning Medical Management Company"... He had never seen this name on Shen Group's publicly disclosed list of partners. It was like a ghost deliberately erased. He pulled out this appendix; the edge of the paper made a faint tearing sound as it came loose. He continued flipping down. In the employee archives cabinet for 2005, he found a thicker stack of documents. The kraft paper envelope had yellowed, its sealing string loose, the thread ends frayed. He undid the string; the rough hemp line scraped across his fingertip as he pulled out a sheaf of stapled-together A4 papers. On top was an *Employee Confidentiality and Special Service Agreement*. Date of signing: March 12, 2005. In the signatory name field, written in blue ballpoint pen, were three neat characters: Wu Shufen. The handwriting was clear, each stroke carrying a kind of resigned steadiness. Lu Chenzhou's eyes quickly scanned the clauses. Standard confidentiality terms, non-compete restrictions, breach penalties... until he flipped to the addendum on the last page. The addendum had only one clause, printed in bold font: "**Party B (Wu Shufen) voluntarily accepts the 'special nursing placement' arranged by Party A (Shen Group) and promises, during and after the placement period, never to disclose any information related to Party A's business or personnel to any third party. The placement location, duration, and specific arrangements are to be unilaterally determined by Party A, and Party B must comply unconditionally.**" Below was a line of handwritten small print, the handwriting consistent with Wu Shufen's signature: "I have read and fully understand the above terms and sign voluntarily." Voluntarily. Lu Chenzhou stared at those two characters. It felt like a ball of ice-soaked cotton was lodged in his throat, cold and suffocating. He had seen too many "voluntary" confessions, including the one he himself signed ten years ago. Handwriting could be imitated, tone could be coached, but that silent despair pressed onto the paper—he recognized it. The feel of the paper, the drag of the pen tip, the smell of floating dust in the air—it was all the same. "Special nursing placement." Nanny Wu's disappearance connected to this clause. The icy chain of logic clicked into place with a *snap*. He picked up the old-fashioned non-smartphone Shen Qinghuan had secretly brought in—its black plastic shell cold, with physical buttons that made crisp *click* sounds when pressed. The screen was only about two inches square, emitting a piercing blue light when powered on. He opened the camera function. The pixel count was low, focus slow. Everything in the lens was covered in a layer of fuzzy noise. He adjusted the angle and took photos of the key pages of the agreement. The flash lit up and died in the dim archive room like a brief lightning bolt, instantly illuminating the dancing dust and the mottled rust on the cabinet doors, leaving a burning afterimage on his retina. *Click. Click.* Each shutter sound was like a countdown, the mechanical noise especially jarring in the silence. "Mr. Lu..." Shen Qinghuan's voice came from the left, very soft, carrying a strange tremble, like a taut string about to snap. Lu Chenzhou looked up. She stood in front of a cabinet, holding a photocopy of a medical record. The faint light leaking through the window crack happened to fall on her face. That face, The medical record was a photocopy, the paper yellowed and curled at the edges, the borders frayed. The diagnosis column read "Acute Myocarditis," and the suggested treatment column originally printed "Recommend immediate transfer to the Cardiology Department of Municipal First Hospital for interventional therapy." However, the two characters for "transfer" had been violently crossed out with a thick black horizontal line, the ink almost piercing through the paper. Beside it, in another handwriting—thinner, steadier—was handwritten: "Home observation, to be managed by designated nursing personnel." There were two signatures in the signature block. One was the attending physician's scrawled, flamboyant English cursive, wildly illegible. The other, was Shen Moqing's neat and forceful regular script, each stroke deliberate, the force penetrating the paper. Date signed: March 10, 2005. —Just two days before Wu Shufen signed that "Special Nursing Placement" agreement. Shen Qinghuan's breathing grew rapid, her shoulders began to tremble uncontrollably, her slender body swaying slightly in the dim light. She stared at her father's signature, her eyes wide open, pupils contracting into two black dots in the gloom, reflecting the cold characters on the page. A tear rolled down without warning, tracing a cold, wet trail across her cheek, then fell onto the medical record paper with a soft *tap*, spreading into a small, dark, blurred wet patch. "He signed it…" she murmured, her voice broken, choked with sobs, "He let Mom… stay at home… to wait for death…" Lu Chenzhou didn't speak. In the archives room, there was only her suppressed, ragged breathing and the distant, never-tiring dull hum of the ventilation fan. He watched her trembling fingers, watched the faint glistening trail left on her face by that tear, looked at Shen Moqing's calm, restrained signature on the medical record, as if he were merely reviewing an ordinary document. The roots went deeper—this family's darkness was buried deeper than imagined, tangled and knotted, each root saturated with blood, cold and viscous. He reached out and gently took the medical record from her hand. The paper rustled, making a faint *hiss*. "Give me the original," he said, his tone calm to the point of coldness, each word like an ice bead hitting the ground. "You keep the copy." Shen Qinghuan looked up at him blankly, her eyes red, tears still welling up, blurring her vision. Lu Chenzhou's hand rested on the door handle, his knuckles white from the pressure. The metal handle was cold, with a fine granular texture. His spine was rigid, his ears picking up the sounds outside—disorderly footsteps surged from the stairwell, getting closer and closer, like waves crashing against a dike. Flashlight beams flickered under the door crack, one, two, three… The squeak of rubber soles scraping the floor was clearly audible. Shen Qinghuan gasped sharply, covering her mouth. She took a step back, her heel hitting the metal cabinet behind her with a dull *thud*. The sound wasn't loud, but it was particularly jarring in the deathly silent archives room. Lu Chenzhou whipped his head around, his gaze like a knife. Shen Qinghuan froze in place, her face deathly pale. The footsteps outside paused for an instant. Immediately after, a hoarse male voice crackled over a walkie-talkie, muffled yet close through the door panel: "Boss, there seems to be movement near the third-floor archives room." "Check it." Gu Zhixing's voice came through the walkie-talkie, calm without a ripple of emotion. "Roger." Footsteps sounded again, this time heading straight for the archives room door. Heavy military boots stomped on the floor tiles, each step like a foot crushing down on a person's chest. The door handle was twisted from the outside, emitting a grating sound of metal turning—the door was locked from the inside, but the person outside clearly had no intention of knocking politely. "Bust it open," the hoarse voice commanded. Lu Chenzhou grabbed Shen Qinghuan's wrist and pulled her away from the door. Her wrist was icy, her skin covered in cold sweat, her pulse beating frantically under his palm. He scanned the room—three walls were lined with iron-gray filing cabinets reaching the ceiling, the only window was sealed shut, the door was the only exit, and now, that door was taking the impact. *Bang!* The doorframe shook, dust sifting down. Shen Qinghuan's breathing became rapid and ragged. She stared fixedly at the door, her lips trembling. "We… we're dead…" Lu Chenzhou ignored her. He forced himself to look up, his gaze sweeping across the ceiling like a searchlight. Flu "Climb up." Lu Chenzhou released Shen Qinghuan, his voice pressed extremely low, yet carrying an undeniable force. He dragged over the nearest metal folding chair. The chair legs scraped across the floor with a piercing screech. He stepped onto it; the chair wobbled under his feet, emitting a creaking groan. He reached up for the access panel, his fingertips touching the cold metal surface, immediately coating his fingertips with greasy dust. The latch was tight. He pushed upward with force, the muscles in his arm tensing, a sore, swelling sensation spreading from his shoulder blades. The metal panel let out a "crack" and popped open a crack. A wave of stale dust mixed with the smell of rust assaulted his face, making his throat itch. "Hurry!" he roared, looking down. Shen Qinghuan was still standing where she was, her gaze unfocused. The impacts outside the door grew more frequent, drumming against her nerves like beats. She looked at Lu Chenzhou, then at the dark, gaping access hole, her lips moving but no sound coming out. Lu Chenzhou jumped down from the chair. As he landed, a tearing, intense pain shot from the wound on his left leg. He grunted, cold sweat instantly beading on his forehead. He grabbed Shen Qinghuan's shoulders, his fingers almost digging into her bones: "Listen. There are only two paths now: get caught by them, or climb up. If caught, your father will know everything. Gu Zhixing will dispose of all evidence, including you. If you climb up, there's still a chance." His voice was like icy water, splashing onto Shen Qinghuan's face. She shuddered violently, her eyes finally focusing. "I... I can't climb up..." Her voice trembled. "You can." Lu Chenzhou released her and stepped back onto the chair. It wobbled more violently under his feet. He grabbed the edges of the access panel with both hands and heaved upward. The entire panel was pried open, revealing a square opening about sixty centimeters on each sid