After Mother Wu left with her people, the guest room door was closed again. The sound of the lock turning was crisp, cold. Lu Chenzhou stood by the window, watching that figure in navy blue disappear into the twilight at the end of the path downstairs. Shen Qinghuan’s final silent nod was like a stone thrown into a deep pool, its ripples quickly swallowed by the heavy night. He withdrew his gaze, turned, and scanned the room. The marks of the search were branded everywhere. The drawer was pulled open a palm’s width; the angle of the slightly ajar cabinet door differed from his memory by three degrees; the position of the bedsheet creases had shifted upward by ten centimeters. Mother Wu’s people were professional, leaving no obvious, messy disarray, but each subtle displacement felt like a warning carved with a knife tip: You have no privacy here, no safety. He walked to the desk, his fingers brushing over the surface. The dust was wiped away, leaving a clear, light trail. Wait. Time crawled in the silence, each second carrying weight. The night outside had completely settled, lights inside the Shen residence flickering on one after another, casting crisscrossing, rigid patches of light in the garden. The faint sound of patrolling guards’ footsteps came from afar, regular, heavy, the muffled crunch of boot soles grinding gravel like some mechanical pendulum, measuring the cage dimensions of this mansion. Nine-fifteen. Extremely light footsteps sounded in the corridor outside the door—not the muffled thud of guards’ boots, but the subtle, sandpapery whisper of cloth soles against the floor. The footsteps stopped at the door, paused for three seconds—the time of three heartbeats—then followed with two short, one long knocks, a coded signal. Lu Chenzhou walked to the door but did not open it immediately. “Who is it?” He lowered his voice, his Adam’s apple barely moving. “Supper.” Shen Qinghuan’s voice squeezed through the door crack, tight, carrying an almost imperceptible tremor, like a string stretched to its limit. He drew the bolt. Shen Qinghuan sidled in holding a tray, then turned and gently pushed the door shut with her back, her movements as swift as a startled bird. On the tray sat a bowl of plain congee and two small side dishes; faint wisps of steam still rose from the rim of the porcelain bowl. But her fingers gripping the tray were white at the knuckles, the tips cold and nearly transparent. When they brushed against Lu Chenzhou’s hand as he reached to take the tray, that fine, persistent trembling transmitted over without any barrier. Lu Chenzhou took the tray and placed it on the table. When he turned back, Shen Qinghuan had already retreated to the wall, her back pressed tightly against the cold surface, her chest heaving violently, each breath short and ragged. “Is someone outside?” he asked, his gaze sweeping over the shadow beneath the door crack. “Mother Wu… Mother Wu was just talking to the guards at the staircase landing.” Shen Qinghuan’s voice was pressed extremely low, her words so fast they almost ran together, as if afraid an invisible hand might suddenly cut them off. “I used the excuse of bringing up supper. She said… said the master ordered that Mr. Lu needs quiet to recuperate, so deliver it and come right back down, don’t linger. The guard… the guard looked at me, that look…” She didn’t finish, but Lu Chenzhou understood. It was the look of examining prey. He nodded, his gaze settling on her face. The overhead light shone down from above. Her face was pale, almost ashen, with heavy, bluish-black shadows pooled under her eyes. Her lower lip bore a fresh, small blood mark she had bitten herself, already congealed into a dark red scab. “What did you hear?” he asked, his tone as steady as if inquiring about the weather. Shen Qinghuan took a deep breath, but the air seemed to catch in her throat, emitting a faint hiss. Her fingers unconsciously clutched the edge of her apron, the knuckles turning paler from the force. “Lawyer Gu… Lawyer Gu came back this afternoon and had a huge argument in the study. I hid around the corner in the hallway and heard him on the phone…” She paused, closed her eyes, struggling to dredge up the words from the fragments of her fear. “He said… ‘Old Zhou ran off, ran to the abandoned factory district up north, that old warehouse at Red Star Textile Mill.’ His voice was so fierce, I’ve never heard him like that… He said, ‘Mobilize everyone, cover all the northern district exits, don’t let even a rat slip through.’ He also "I... I don't know," Shen Qinghuan shook her head, her voice trembling. "He only said 'all available hands.' But I heard him roar into the phone later, saying 'Get Zhao Tieshan's men moving too, set up checkpoints at every intersection along the three main roads in the northern district.' Mr. Lu, Zhao Tieshan... is that Zhao Tieshan who manages the port cargo?" Lu Chenzhou's eyes darkened. Gu Zhixing had even mobilized Zhao Tieshan's people. This meant the scale of the manhunt far exceeded a private grudge; it had already tapped into Shen Moqing's influence in the local gray areas. The probability of Zhou Zhengping being trapped was increasing exponentially. "What else?" he asked. "And..." Shen Qinghuan's voice suddenly hitched. She abruptly lowered her head, looking at the hem of her apron. At the edge of the navy-blue cotton fabric, a clear, jagged tear stood out abruptly, about two inches long, like an ugly wound revealing the white lining inside. "The garage... this afternoon in the garage storeroom, I was hiding in too much of a hurry, and the edge of my apron got caught on an iron hook on the shelf. Maybe... maybe a small piece of fabric tore off, or some threads, got left hanging on that hook." She looked up, her eyes instantly reddening, tears gathering in their depths, teetering on the brink. "Mr. Lu, if they search the storeroom carefully and find that piece of fabric... even just a single thread..." "It will point to a female servant within the Shen residence," Lu Chenzhou finished for her, his tone devoid of any fluctuation, only a cold statement. "Navy-blue cotton apron, uniformly issued within the residence. Mrs. Wu will be the first questioned, then you, and all others who might have had access to the garage. They will compare fibers, inspect everyone's apron." Shen Qinghuan's breathing suddenly grew rapid, as if an invisible hand were strangling her throat. She raised a hand to cover her mouth, her shoulders beginning to tremble uncontrollably, suppressed sobs leaking through her fingers, fragmented and desperate. Lu Chenzhou watched her, watched her being crushed by fear. The room held only her stifled gasps and the occasional, distant sound of a car engine passing outside the window, blurred like irrelevant background noise from another world. A few seconds of silence. He walked to the desk, pulled open that empty drawer—Mrs. Wu's people had taken everything that afternoon, even the pens and notepads, leaving not a blade of grass. He paused silently, then bent down, his fingers probing a narrow crack on the inner side of a desk leg. His fingertips touched a small, rough cylinder. He dug it out. It was a tiny pencil stub, barely longer than a fingernail, one he had accidentally dropped in there a few days ago. He then tore off a blank corner from the tray liner, its edges jagged. With his back to Shen Qinghuan, he used that pitifully short pencil stub to quickly write a few characters on the scrap of paper. The scratching sound of the pencil tip against the rough paper was infinitely amplified in the deathly quiet room, piercingly clear. Finished, he folded the paper scrap in half, then again, creasing it into a hard, sharp-edged little square. Then he turned and walked to stand before Shen Qinghuan. She hadn't looked up, her shoulders still trembling uncontrollably, tears dripping onto the navy-blue apron, blooming into dark, wet circles. "Listen carefully," Lu Chenzhou began, his voice lowered, but each word was like a nail tempered in fire, hammered one by one into the viscous air between them. "First, after you return, dispose of this apron immediately. Burn it completely, crush the ashes, flush them down the drain. Leave no visible trace." Shen Qinghuan jerked her head up, tears finally rolling down, streaking her pale cheeks. "But... if I burn it now, someone might smell the smoke, or see it..." "Use the small metal bucket in the servants' quarters bathroom. Shut the door tight, turn on the exhaust fan, stuff wet cloths into the door crack." Lu Chenzhou's tone brooked no argument; it was an order, the only solution. "Second, from this moment on, forget you ever went to the garage. If anyone asks—especially Mrs. Wu, or Gu Zhixing's men—you say that this afternoon, I threatened you. I told you that if you didn't do as I instructed, I would report to the master that you once eavesdropped outside his study during his conversation with Lawyer Gu. Out of fear, you had no choice but to comply." "But you..." Shen Qinghuan's voice choked in her throat, shattered. Lu Chenzhou did not answer Shen Qinghuan did not take the slip of paper. She stared at Lu Chenzhou, tears continuously welling up in her eyes, carving two wet, glistening trails down her pale face. "No... this can't be! You'll be—they'll—" "This is what I owe you." Lu Chenzhou cut her off, his voice very soft, yet like a heavy stone soaked in ice water, smashing into the narrow space between them, stirring up a silent reverberation. "I used you, dragged you into this situation. The final risk should rightly be borne by me." He took Shen Qinghuan's cold, trembling hand, pressed the paper slip into her palm, then closed her fingers over it, squeezing firmly. His palm was dry and warm, a cruel contrast to the icy cold of her fingertips. "The paper has the location of the backup key for the mechanical lock on the back door, and the other thing you need to do. Read it, memorize it, burn it. Don't trust your memory; burning it is the only guarantee." Shen Qinghuan's fingers trembled violently within his grasp, but finally curled tightly, clutching that hard piece of paper like the last straw. She looked at Lu Chenzhou, her lips moving intensely, as if countless words were clogged in her throat, yet not a single syllable could be forced out. Only scalding tears silently slid down her face. "Now, take a deep breath." Lu Chenzhou released her hand, took a step back, his voice regaining that even, precise, almost cold rhythm. "Adjust your expression, pick up the tray, and leave through this door as usual. Don't run, don't look back, don't do anything attention-grabbing. You're here to deliver a late-night snack, nothing more." Shen Qinghuan closed her eyes, took several forceful, deep breaths, her chest heaving violently like a drowning person surfacing. When she opened them again, the panic that had nearly overflowed from her eyes was forcibly suppressed by a powerful will, replaced by a near-numb, hollow calm. She raised a hand, roughly wiped the tear stains from her face with her sleeve, her skin turning red from the coarse fabric. Then she turned, picked up the slightly cooled tray from the table. Her fingers were still cold, but no longer trembling. When she reached the door, she stopped, her back to him, not turning around. "Mr. Lu." Her voice was very light, as light as a sigh, yet carrying a kind of resolve that severed retreat. "You... must get out alive." Having said that, she pulled open the door, slipped out sideways, her movements steady to the point of stiffness. The door was gently closed, the sound of the lock engaging once again, crisp and final. Lu Chenzhou stood where he was, motionless, listening to the soft rustling sound of cloth soles against the floor outside gradually fade away, the rhythm shifting from slow to... After the light click of the door closing, silence pressed down like a physical weight, heavy on Lu Chenzhou's shoulder blades. He remained standing there, unmoving. His heart beat steadily and heavily in his chest, each thump like a countdown. Zhou Zhengping was in the north of the city, in the old warehouse of the "Red Star Textile Factory." Gu Zhixing was mobilizing personnel, sealing off the northern district. How long could Old Zhou hold out? An hour? Two? Or was he already surrounded by heavy footsteps at this very moment, pinned behind a rusty lathe by the beams of flashlights, his every breath carrying the scent of iron rust and blood? He walked to the desk, pulled open the drawer. It was empty. The search by Aunt Wu in the afternoon had taken away everything that could possibly be used as a tool—fountain pens, paperclips, even that thick hardcover notebook. He was silent for a moment, then reached under the desk. His fingertips carefully probed along the seam of the wooden board, skin brushing against rough splinters, finally touching a tiny raised point. It was a shallow mark he had carved with his fingernail a few days ago, marking a location. He pressed hard on that section of board, hearing a soft *click*. A fine crack sprang open along the edge of the board. He pried it open, retrieving a piece of thin copper wire about ten centimeters long from the hidden compartment. The wire was taken from an old desk lamp, its surface oxidized and blackened, but still pliable, leaving a faint metallic scent on his fingertips. He pinched the copper wire, sat back down on the bed. The bedsheet still bore the slight indentation from where Shen Qinghuan had sat, carrying a faint, elusive scent of cheap laundry soap powder. The plan began to take shape in his mind—cold, dangerous, full of barbs, each step treading on thin Step Two: The power outage triggers the backup mechanical mode of the electronic lock on the rear door. The switchover requires thirty seconds and will trigger an alarm. The central control room will receive a "Power Failure – Backup Mode Activated" alert, maintenance personnel will be dispatched to the access hatch, and some guards' attention will be diverted. Window of opportunity: from the power outage to the arrival of maintenance personnel at the hatch, estimated two to three minutes. During this time, one of the rear door guards may split off to check the distribution room. Footsteps will be hurried, echoing in the empty corridor. Step Three: Utilize the brief window of confusion—the thirty seconds plus the time before maintenance arrives—to descend from the guest room window to the flowerbed, pass through the shrubbery, and reach the rear door. The mechanical lock requires a key, but Shen Qinghuan mentioned once that a spare key for the rear door's mechanical lock hangs on the wall of the west wing storage room—something she inadvertently saw while fetching cleaning supplies. Whether the key is still there is unknown. Whether the storage room is locked at night is unknown. The sound of the bolt retracting would be like a gunshot in the silence. Step Four: Retrieve the key, open the rear door, and disappear into the night beyond the wall. Whether Gu Zhixing's men are already lying in wait outside the wall is unknown. The night wind would instantly fill the collar, carrying the chill of early autumn and the faint, elusive sour-rotten smell drifting from the distant industrial zone. Every step was built upon fragile assumptions, like suspending a boulder with spider silk. Assumption One: The short circuit successfully triggers a trip, rather than directly burning out the wiring or causing a fire, which would invite a full-scale search. Flames would first shoot out from the gaps in the access hatch, carrying the stench of scorched plastic. Assumption Two: After the power outage, the rear door guards would proceed to check the distribution room or the access hatch as per protocol, rather than holding their posts. Their walkie-talkies would crackle with instructions, voices tinged with annoyance at the disturbance. Assumption Three: Shen Qinghuan could obtain the spare key from the storage room in advance without raising suspicion, or at least confirm the key is still in its place. The key ring would jingle, unusually distinct in the silent storage room. Assumption Four: Zhou Zhengping could hold on until he reached the north of the city. Old Zhou's breathing would grow shallower, his blood seeping into the cracks of the cement floor, congealing into dark brown stains. Assumption Five: Gu Zhixing had not arranged a second layer of encirclement outside the Shen residence. Black sedans would sit quietly at street corners, windows rolled halfway down, the red glow of cigarette tips flickering in and out in the night. Lu Chenzhou's fingertips unconsciously twisted the piece of copper wire. It bent and coiled between his fingers, leaving pale indentations, as if tracing the path of an electric current. His breathing was steady, but the blood vessel at his temple throbbed faintly, as if something were knocking inside, once, then again, with precise, merciless rhythm. The cost. If it failed, Shen Qinghuan would be immediately exposed due to the missing key or her unusual actions. Aunt Wu and Gu Zhixing would give her no chance to explain. The best outcome would be becoming the next "Wu Shufen," "under care" in some sanatorium, facing white walls and the pungent smell of disinfectant day after day. The more likely outcome would be matching the apron fiber evidence from the garage, becoming the "inside agent attempting to assist a fugitive and compromise family security," then "accidentally" disappearing. Shen Moqing handled internal problems with thoroughness. Where would the body be found? The moat? An abandoned construction site? Or freshly turned earth somewhere in the outskirts? As for him, Lu Chenzhou, he would lose the last channel of information within the Shen residence, lose the potentially crucial testimony Zhou Zhengping might provide about the "false confession" from back then, lose all hope of turning the tables. Shen Moqing would justifiably dispose of him, perhaps right in this guest room, staging a scene of "prisoner suicide due to excessive stress." The tool might be that copper wire, or something else—a torn strip of bedsheet, a sharp piece of ceramic. The autopsy report would be impeccable, concluding "action under autonomous will," sealing all questions forever. The scales of risk and reward swayed violently, the bearings groaning under the strain. But on the other side of the scales rested Zhou Zhengping's life, rested the deeper, older secrets of Shen Moqing potentially implicated behind the altered medical records of Shen Qinghuan's mother, rested a sliver of light on the truth of that political murder case from ten years ago. That light was as feeble He needed Shen Qinghuan's cooperation once more. It wasn't just about retrieving the key. He needed her to provide a "distraction" within the minutes following the power outage—a plausible event that could temporarily draw the attention of the guards or the surveillance room. For instance, "accidentally" knocking over a pot of hot soup in the kitchen, triggering the smoke alarm, letting its piercing shriek tear through the night's silence. Or, "suddenly falling ill" in the west wing corridor, calling out loudly for help, allowing the rush of footsteps and inquiries to converge into a brief vortex of chaos. This demanded she risk herself again, placing her already precarious safety entirely on the gambling table, pushing her acting skills, courage, and luck to their absolute limit. Her voice had to be sufficiently panicked, sufficiently real, to fool those seasoned veterans who had seen every trick in the book. And he had already promised to bear full responsibility. Those words, "This is what I owe you," still hung in the room, carrying the rough texture of paper scraping against a throat, carrying the instant, unbelievable tears that had welled up in her eyes. A promise was an anchor, lashing his fate and Shen Qinghuan's fate together, one ship bound to the other. Whether ahead lay storms or hidden reefs, if they sank, they would sink together, two ships, the icy seawater flooding their holds. He stood up and walked to the center of the room. He closed his eyes and began the final mental rehearsal. From the bedside to the window, three steps. The floor would creak slightly. Opening the window, the latch slightly rusted, would produce a faint "squeak" when turned, amplified in the silence. Climbing over the windowsill, body suspended, feet roughly four meters from the ground. The night wind would immediately envelop him, stealing body heat. Landing with bent knees to absorb the impact, the sound must be light, like a cat's. The flowerbed soil was soft, but the holly branches were tough; passing through would create a rustling sound. It had to be completed during the gap between the patrol dogs' exercise periods—Shen Qinghuan said the dogs were let out for ten minutes on the hour. The next time was at ten. The sound of barking would come from the distance, low, full of threat. The flagstone path… skirting the blind spot of the surveillance cameras… the angle and depth of inserting the copper wire into the maintenance hatch must ensure good contact without jamming. Fingertips would feel the metal's coldness and the grease's slickness… Images flashed by frame by frame, clear as surgical footage, each frame annotated with time, distance, risk coefficient, and the possible scene of failure: a face illuminated by flashlight beams, the dark shadow of a dog lunging, the alarm's sharp, piercing shriek. Then the image shifted: Shen Qinghuan's pale face, trembling fingers. The searing heat as flames consumed the navy-blue apron, illuminating the contours of her cheeks, making her bloodshot eyes glow like burning coals, the firelight dancing and contracting in her pupils. In the distance, the rusted machine tools in the abandoned warehouse in the northern district, Zhou Zhengping curled in the shadows, listening to the approaching footsteps, fingers pressed against the wound in his abdomen, blood seeping between them, dripping onto the dust-covered concrete floor, each drop striking a small, dark crater… The mental rehearsal stopped. Lu Chenzhou opened his eyes. His gaze held no emotion, only a cold focus, like a scalpel aimed at the lesion, the blade already touching the skin, able to feel the pulse of the blood vessels beneath. A rough plan had taken shape. A risky move exploiting the defects of the Shen residence's own aging systems, a gamble turning chaos into opportunity. The cost was clear: the risk of exposure for both him and Shen Qinghuan increased exponentially. Their alliance, forged by this shared, irrevocable culpability, was now welded shut, with no way back. The chance was slim: the window of opportunity might only be three to five minutes. Any misstep—the key not being there, the dogs released early, the guards not acting as predicted, the short circuit failing—would lead to total collapse, irretrievable disaster. The sound of collapse would be the alarm, the shouts, the dull thud of bone striking something hard. But this was the only path. In an absolute cage, the path to life often looks like the path to death. You must first embrace the probability of death to pry a sliver of a chance for survival from between its fingers. That sliver is so narrow it only allows one person to pass sideways, and it is lined with barbs; passing through will tear the flesh. He walked to the window and looked out one last time towards the pitch-black northern district beyond the wall. The night sky hung low, starless, She locked the door, slid down with her back against the cold wooden planks, and gasped for breath. Her fingers were still trembling, uncontrollably, like living things detached from her body. She reached into her apron pocket and felt