The engine growled in the darkness, the needle sweeping past one hundred and forty kilometers. Lu Chenzhou stared into the rearview mirror. The grey Buick clung like an unshakeable piece of iron, stubbornly tailing him from fifty meters back. The headlights swept over a road sign; the green characters "Qingshi Service Area 2km" flashed past. He glanced at the fuel gauge; the red line was already nearing the empty mark. The exit was just three hundred meters ahead. He jerked the steering wheel hard. The tires crossed over the solid line, emitting a short, sharp screech. The car veered diagonally from the leftmost lane into the right-hand exit ramp. In the rearview mirror, the Buick reacted half a beat late, but immediately changed lanes and gave chase. He floored the accelerator. At the end of the ramp was a fork; one road led to the brightly lit service area, the other vanished into darkness. He didn't slow down. He cranked the steering wheel hard right, and the car plunged onto the abandoned old provincial highway. The headlights sliced through the thick night. Gravel crackled against the undercarriage, the jolts transmitting through the seat and shaking his entire body. After another five minutes of driving, he turned into a deserted quarry. He killed the engine, turned off the lights. Darkness swallowed everything in an instant. He leaned back in the seat, hearing only his own breathing and the faint, distant sound of traffic on the distant highway, like a river that never stopped flowing. He raised his hand and pressed it against his left chest. His fingertips were ice-cold. Seven years had passed, and this affliction remained. In moments of tension, of anger, his heart would skip a beat. He let his hand drop, fumbling in the backpack on the passenger seat for that kraft paper file folder. The wax seal pressed hard against his fingertip. He didn't open it. Zhou Zhengping's words were like iron nails hammered into his mind—"This is an admission ticket, and also a knife. Used in the right place, it can open doors. Used wrongly, it cuts your own hand first." As the sky began to lighten, he restarted the car, took a long detour, and returned to that cheap apartment building on the city's outskirts. The walls peeled like diseased skin; the stairwell reeked of damp mold and the sour smell of leftover food. He used his key to open the door at the very end of the third-floor corridor. A letter lay on the floor. A registered letter from the Municipal People's Procuratorate, the envelope stiff and substantial. He bent to pick it up. That unique, smooth, crisp texture of official paper transmitted through his fingertips. The scent of ink was faint, but distinct. He didn't turn on the light. Dawn light seeped in through the window pasted with old newspapers, a murky grey. He walked to the peeling wooden table and tore open the envelope. The paper rustled as it unfolded. He read word by word. Cause for Compensation: Erroneous Detention. Duration of Detention: Seven years, three months, and fourteen days. Compensation Amount: Seven hundred and thirty-eight thousand four hundred yuan Renminbi. He stared at that line of numbers for a long time. Then he took out his phone, opened the calculator. His fingers danced quickly across the screen. Seven years of lost wages, bonuses, allowances. The debts from his mother's surgery back then, interest compounding. His sister's medical expenses, living costs over the years. He calculated swiftly, but when he pressed the final key, his finger stopped. It wasn't about the money. It was about time. It was about the stark white lights of the interrogation room, the dull ache of handcuffs grinding against wrist bones, that confession letter he had personally signed, with its crooked handwriting. Could seven hundred and thirty-eight thousand four hundred yuan buy these things back? He flipped to the last page. Appendix. Not printed text, but a line of handwritten small characters, blue-black ink, handwriting so neat it was almost rigid: "Recommendation: Signing a letter of understanding for the original handling officers Zhao Tieshan, Wang Jianguo, et al., may expedite full disbursement. This is a goodwill measure to promote social harmony." Lu Chenzhou's fingers pinched the edge of the paper. The paper emitted a faint, brittle sound, on the verge of tearing. He stared at that line of text, his gaze as if trying to nail through each character. They wanted to use seven hundred and thirty-eight thousand four hundred yuan to buy his words: "I forgive you." To buy his silence. To buy his moving on. To buy harmony. The sounds of the city outside the window gradually grew louder. The shouts of breakfast stalls, the sputtering of motorcycles The lawyer paused. "But... in practice, this kind of 'suggestion' often affects the efficiency of disbursement. The handling personnel may require more time for 'study.' Furthermore, if in the future you wish to pursue civil compensation against the original case handlers, the absence of this 'letter of understanding' could be used by the opposing side as evidence of your 'lack of sincerity in reconciliation,' increasing the difficulty of litigation." "So, if I don't sign, the money might be delayed for a long time. Or I might not even get the full amount." "I cannot say that," the lawyer corrected immediately, but a note of helplessness tinged his voice. "I can only say such a possibility exists. The processes within the system... you understand. Sometimes, a single document represents more than just legal significance." "...It represents an attitude." The lawyer's voice lowered. "An attitude of compliance. Mr. Lu, I advise you to consider carefully. Prioritize reality. Seven hundred and thirty thousand, while it cannot compensate for all the losses, can alleviate immediate difficulties. You've just gotten out; you need to settle down. Some things... if you pursue them too earnestly, the cost might outweigh the gain." Lu Chenzhou didn't speak. He looked out the window. The daylight had brightened a little more; he could see the faded clothes hanging on the balcony of the building opposite. A gray pigeon fluttered past. The phone screen darkened, reflecting his blurry face. Sunken eyes, prominent cheekbones. This face was already unrecognizable compared to the confident and spirited criminal investigation expert of seven years ago. Only the eyes remained the same. Cold. Hard. He folded the compensation decision document and slipped it back into the envelope. His movements were slow, as if weighing the heft of this file. Not the weight of the paper. A kind of transaction. Trading humiliation for convenience, silence for survival. Just like that confession statement back then. Sign it, and his sister could live. Don't sign, and his sister would die. He signed it. Traded seven years of freedom and dignity for his sister's life. He never regretted it, but every time he remembered, it felt like lead had been poured into his stomach. Now, another "letter of understanding." Sign it, and the money might come faster. Don't sign, and the road ahead becomes more difficult. He walked to the window and pushed it open a crack. Damp air, carrying the greasy smell of breakfast cooking, rushed in. The street market below was fully awake now, a cacophony of voices. The vendor selling soybean milk and fried dough sticks was yelling at the top of his lungs; bicycle bells jingled incessantly. This was the world he had fought for, and lost because of it. Ordinary, noisy, full of flaws, but alive. His phone vibrated. An unfamiliar number, a local landline. He glanced at it and answered. "Mr. Lu." The voice on the other end was steady, elegant, its enunciation so clear it was like reading a document aloud. "Good morning. I hope I'm not disturbing your rest." Lu Chenzhou didn't respond. He listened to the extremely quiet background noise on the other end of the line—no city sounds, no static, only the faint hum of an air conditioning system. It formed two separate worlds, isolated from the noisy street life surrounding him. "Congratulations on receiving the compensation decision," Gu Zhixing continued, his tone betraying no emotion. "You must have seen the amount. Seven hundred thirty-eight thousand four hundred yuan. For someone who has regained their freedom, it's a substantial sum of startup capital." Lu Chenzhou looked down at the vendor selling *jianbing guozi* below. Steam rose from the iron griddle, batter sizzling as it was spread thin. "Shen Yansheng asked me to relay a message." Gu Zhixing paused. "He can leverage some connections to double that figure. And waive all additional conditions. Including that rather undignified 'suggestion for understanding.'" Double. Over one point four million. Waiving the letter of understanding. Lu Chenzhou's fingertips unconsciously picked at the peeling paint on the window frame. Flakes fell and landed on the windowsill. "The price?" he asked, his voice flat. "Besides 'turning the page,' what else?" An extremely light, almost inaudible laugh came from the other end of the phone. Not amused, more like a confirmation. "Mr. Lu is indeed perceptive. Shen Yansheng hopes you will cease pursuing certain matters from the distant past. Especially those that might involve deceased individuals, or sensitive affairs from specific historical periods." Deceased individuals. Gu Zhixing. Specific historical periods. 1996. "For example," Gu Zhixing's voice lowered a fraction, but his articulation became even clearer, "certain sealed archives you may have recently come into contact with. Or, certain historical Lu Chenzhou’s left hand clenched tightly. His nails dug into his palm, leaving several crescent-shaped white marks that slowly flushed red. He could feel the blood pulsing beneath his fingertips. “Shen Yansheng’s kindness is appreciated,” he said, his voice betraying no ripple as he released his grip. “The money—pay what is owed. I will not accept a single cent more. As for the past…” He paused, his gaze falling on the white envelope on the table. “What needs to be clarified, I will clarify.” Silence from the other end of the line. A long silence. Only the continuous, low hum of the air conditioning system could be heard. Like a kind of waiting. “I understand,” Gu Zhixing finally spoke, the last trace of feigned warmth in his voice completely gone, leaving only a cold, formulaic tone. “I will convey that to Shen Yansheng exactly. Also, Mr. Lu, out of professional habit, I must remind you: some paths, once chosen wrongly, offer no chance to turn back. Good luck.” The busy signal beeped monotonously. Lu Chenzhou took the phone away from his ear, stared at the unfamiliar number for a few seconds, then deleted the record. He tossed the phone onto the bed, walked to the table, and picked up the envelope again. His fingers rubbed against the smooth paper surface. Seven hundred thirty-eight thousand four hundred yuan. Letter of Understanding. Doubled. Gu Zhixing. Shen Moqing. 1996. Historical legacy issue. These words swirled and collided in his mind. He walked to the corner of the room where his luggage was piled—a somewhat worn backpack and a few changes of clothes. He crouched down, fished out a small metal box from the side pocket of the backpack. Opening it, inside were some odds and ends: a few screwdrivers, a miniature high-power flashlight, a roll of electrical tape, and a black instrument about the size of a cigarette pack. He picked up the detector, pressed the power button. The indicator light glowed green. He walked to the door, pressed the detector close to the door gap, moving it slowly. The green light remained steady. No abnormal signals. Finally, he returned to the table, his gaze falling on the car key. The key Qin Wangshu had given him for the “clean car.” An ordinary black plastic casing with the Volkswagen logo. He picked up the key and brought the detector close. Very faint, almost imperceptible. But it indeed flickered—from green, instantly jumping to yellow, then back to green. Lu Chenzhou’s movements froze. He stared at the detector, then at the key. Then, he pressed the detector even closer, almost touching the metal emblem part of the key casing. This time, the indicator light clearly lit up red. Small, but glaring. It stayed lit, no longer fading. The detector emitted a faint, high-frequency *beep-beep* sound, especially abrupt in the silent room. Lu Chenzhou stood motionless. Morning light streamed through the window, illuminating half his face in light, the other half in shadow. He stared at the detector glowing red, then looked at the seemingly ordinary car key in his hand. The city noise outside the window remained chaotic. The cry of a street vendor selling *jianbing guozi* drifted up: “Egg and sausage—” He turned off the detector. The red light went out. Only his own breathing remained in the room, along with the background noise from that distant yet vibrant world downstairs. He placed the car key back on the table. Side by side with the white envelope. Then, he walked to the bed and sat down, pulling out the kraft paper file folder from his backpack. The wax seal glimmered with a dark red, aged sheen under the gradually brightening daylight. He needed to make a choice. About the compensation. About the Letter of Understanding. About Shen Moqing’s deal. About this “clean” car key. And, about this file in his hands that might uncover everything—or destroy everything. His phone vibrated again. A text message. From Qin Wangshu. “Come over for dinner at 7 p.m. tonight. Sending you the address. Some things need to be said face to face.” Followed by an apartment address, in a neighborhood downtown that wasn’t high-end, but wasn’t cheap either. Lu Chenzhou looked at that text message for a long time. Then, he turned off the screen and tossed the phone aside. He stood up, walked to the window, and pushed it wide open. The cacophony of the city, the scent of food, the smell of dust—all rushed in at once. He took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled. He raised his hand and pressed it against his left chest. His heartbeat had steadied a bit. His gaze looked toward The headlights illuminated a road sign ahead: Beishan Development Zone, 15km. The speedometer climbed to one hundred sixty. The wind noise was sharp, like blades scraping against eardrums. The darkness outside the window grew dense. Farmland disappeared, replaced by vast stretches of desolate construction sites. The skeletons of tower cranes stood against the night sky. Unfinished buildings were reduced to bare concrete frames, their windows dark, gaping holes. This place was once the largest development project of the late nineties, touted as the "new engine for the northern economy." Approved in 1997, it was suddenly halted in 1999. The official explanation was a broken capital chain. Various versions circulated among the people. The committee Gu Zhixing was part of was established in 1997 and dissolved in 1999. Lu Chenzhou's temples began to throb again. He slowed down, turned off the main road, and drove onto a potholed side road. The tires crushed over gravel, jolting the vehicle violently. Ahead, a stretch of abandoned factory grounds appeared. A rusted iron gate hung half-open. The characters on the nameplate had mostly peeled off, only barely legible as "Beishan Project... Command Center." He killed the engine. Darkness instantly swallowed the car's interior. Only a few red indicator lights on the dashboard remained lit. He sat there, unmoving, listening to the *crack-crack* sound of contracting metal as the engine cooled, and the intermittent barking of stray dogs in the distance. The night wind poured in, carrying a heavy scent of rust, dust, and something deeper, akin to rotting vegetation. He turned on his flashlight. The beam sliced through the darkness. Behind the iron gate was a concrete clearing, overgrown with knee-high withered grass. At the far end of the clearing stood a three-story building. Large patches of cement had peeled from its outer walls, revealing the blackened bricks beneath. The dry grass scraped against his trouser legs with a *rustling* sound. His foot stepped on something hard. He looked down and shone the light—it was a broken enamel sign, half of a red five-pointed star still visible. He kicked it aside and kept walking. The small building's door was wooden, half-rotted, hanging askew on its frame. He reached out and pushed. The hinges emitted a piercing *screech*, and the entire door fell inward with a *boom*, slamming onto the ground and raising a cloud of dust. The lobby was empty, the cement floor covered in a thick layer of dust. Piles of broken tables and chairs lay in the corners. A few faded slogan posters were still stuck to the walls, their words blurry. On the wall directly opposite the entrance hung a large wooden bulletin board. Its glass had long been shattered, the papers inside eroded by wind and rain, reduced to yellowish-brown fragments. His footsteps echoed in the empty hall, carrying an eerie reverberation. Dust danced in the flashlight beam. He walked to the bulletin board and carefully shone the light on the remaining paper scraps. Most were engineering schedules, safety regulations, duty rosters. The handwriting was scrawled, the paper so brittle it would crumble at a touch. His eyes scanned the names—all ordinary workers, technicians, management personnel. No "Gu Zhixing." No "Wang Jianguo." The wooden stairs groaned with a *creak* underfoot. He lightened his step, ascending one stair at a time. The second floor held offices, their doors all open, similarly empty. Desks had been cleared out, leaving only some scrap paper, cigarette butts, empty liquor bottles. Windowpanes were broken. The night wind whistled in through the gaps, making the paper scraps on the floor *rustle*. This room was slightly more orderly. Against the wall stood a metal filing cabinet, its door slightly ajar. He walked over and pulled the door open. It was empty. Only on the very bottom shelf were a few hardcover notebooks scattered. He crouched down and picked one up. The notebook's cover was dark blue, embossed with faded gold characters: "Beishan Project Command Center." He opened it. The first page was meeting minutes. Date: November 3, 1997. Content: "Communicating higher-level directives on accelerating the progress of the Beishan Project... Advisor Gu raised concerns about the geological survey report, suggesting a temporary suspension of construction..." The handwriting was neat, written in blue-black ink, but the paper was damp, the ink already smudged. Lu Chenzhou's finger stopped on that title. He quickly flipped through the pages. November 15, 1997: "Advisor Gu reiterated the groundwater system issue... Dispute with the construction side..." December 8, 1997: "Advisor Gu did not attend the regular meeting. Liaison Officer Wang conveyed his opinion on He closed the notebook and tucked it into his coat's inner pocket. Then he continued searching the file cabinet, his hand brushing against something hard in the corner. He pulled it out—a tin biscuit box, covered in rust. He pried open the lid. On top was a group photo. Dozens of people stood at the entrance of the project department, with the three-story building in the background. A red banner reading "Beishan Project Commencement Ceremony" hung in front of the building. The photo had yellowed, but the faces were still fairly clear. The front row consisted of people who looked like leaders, while the back rows were workers and technicians. The second photo was a solo shot. Gu Zhixing. Unlike the hollow name in the compensation decision attachment, the person in the photo felt real. Around forty years old, wearing glasses, with a thin face, dressed in a gray jacket, standing upright, yet his expression seemed somewhat detached. Standing next to him was a short, stout middle-aged man. Lu Chenzhou recognized him—it was Wang Jianguo. In the photo, Wang Jianguo was grinning broadly, one hand resting on Gu Zhixing's shoulder, while Gu Zhixing's expression appeared somewhat stiff. He stared at Gu Zhixing's eyes in the photo. The glare on the lenses made it hard to see his gaze, but his lips were pressed tightly together. The third photo was of a construction site. Gu Zhixing stood at the edge of a massive foundation pit, looking down at a blueprint in his hands. Several engineers surrounded him, all pointing and gesturing. The date in the corner of the photo: April 17, 1998. The fourth photo. Gu Zhixing in a meeting room, standing up to speak. One hand braced on the table, the other gesturing in the air. Several people sat opposite him, their expressions grim. Date: May 8, 1998. The fifth photo. Date: June 10, 1998. It was taken in front of the command building. Gu Zhixing was carrying an old leather suitcase, about to get into a jeep. He glanced back at the camera. His eyes were complex—fatigue, helplessness, and something else Lu Chenzhou couldn't quite name. On the back of the photo, a line was written in ballpoint pen in small characters: "Advisor Gu said before leaving: Something is going to happen here." Lu Chenzhou's fingers traced over that line. The indentation left by the ballpoint pen tip on the paper was still there. He flipped it back to the front and looked again at Gu Zhixing's face looking back. A soft sound, but in the dead silence of the ruins, it was clear and piercing. Lu Chenzhou instantly switched off his flashlight. Darkness swallowed the entire room. He held his breath, slowly crouched down, moved to the window, and looked out through the broken glass. It wasn't his black Volkswagen. It was a gray Buick sedan. The headlights were off, but by the moonlight, he could make out the model—it was the same car that had been tailing him earlier. The driver's side door was open. A figure stood beside the car, looking up at the small building. The distance was too great to see the face clearly, only that it was a man of medium build, wearing a dark coat. The man stood there for a moment, then began walking toward the building. Footsteps echoed in the empty courtyard, dry grass snapping underfoot. Lu Chenzhou pulled back, his back against the wall, his hand reaching for his waist—where only the Swiss Army knife was. He drew it out and extended the longest blade. The footsteps stopped in the lobby on the first floor. Then came the beam of a flashlight, sweeping up from the stairwell, flashing across the ceiling of the second-floor corridor. The beam was bright. The man didn't come up immediately, seemingly observing. Lu Chenzhou slowly moved to the office doorway and peered out through the crack. The beam moved along the corridor, sweeping past each open door, finally stopping on the door of his office. The beam lingered on the doorframe for a few seconds, then moved away. Footsteps sounded again—heading toward the stairs. Lu Chenzhou retreated to the innermost corner of the room, crouching behind the file cabinet. It was a blind spot, invisible from the doorway. He tightened his grip on the knife; the metal handle pressed into his palm. The flashlight beam shot in, first sweeping over the empty desk, the broken window, the scattered papers on the floor. Then the beam began to move, slowly turning toward the file cabinet. The beam drew closer, already illuminating the edge of the file cabinet. Just a little further, and it would light up the corner where he was hiding.