Chapter 34: Blood on the Steering Wheel

Page 1 of 3

At 3:17 a.m., a gust of wind pried open a seam in the tin roof of the derelict police dismantling yard on the western outskirts. Moonlight spilled through, outlining the tarp in the corner with a silver edge.

Song Zhao’s leather shoes crunched over a floor littered with shattered glass, the brittle sound jolting Old Wu, the night watchman, upright from his camp bed. Though already sixty, the old man held his back straighter than any twenty-year-old officer, like a rifle unbowed by the weight of years.

“Xiao Song,” Old Wu called in his hoarse voice, wiping his face with a hand as rough as tree bark. There was a rustling beneath the bed.

When he dragged out a bundle wrapped in oilcloth, Song Zhao caught sight of an old scar at the back of his neck, twisted like a menacing centipede—left when Old Wu had taken a knife for Song Jianguo twenty years before. His father had always said Old Wu was “the best at hiding things among the bomb disposal experts.”

The moment the oilcloth was lifted, a scorched, acrid smell invaded Song Zhao’s nostrils.

The circuit board’s edges were crisp with char, several connectors gouged out like teeth by a blade.

“The main control board from the van in the ‘98 arson case,” Old Wu said, motor oil embedded in the creases of his fingernails. “When your father came to investigate, he said the brake lines had been tampered with, but the higher-ups suppressed the report. I snuck out this board and hid it under the bed for seventeen years.”

Song Zhao paused as he pulled on his latex gloves. They were mint green—Su Wan had bought them for him in the dead of night, saying the color “brings good fortune.”

Now, as he held the board, his fingertips brushed a broken edge; a burning sensation burst in his palm—as though thrust into a furnace, the veins beneath his skin throbbing, gold threads crawling across his pupils in a web.

The night of 1998 flooded into his ears.

The reek of gasoline stung so sharply it was hard to keep his eyes open. Song Jianguo’s uniform was smeared with oil as he slid a silver flash drive into the van’s radio.

The red glow of “uploading” cast a shadow beneath his jaw. He tugged a cold smile at the rearview mirror: “Zhou Mingyuan, you demolished the homes of twelve families, embezzled thirty million in resettlement funds—every fake contract you signed is in the central bureau’s inbox!”

There was the sound of fabric shifting from the back seat.

A sharp pain throbbed at Song Zhao’s temples as he saw his father’s Adam’s apple bob, his voice suddenly rising: “The evidence has been sent—”

He never finished.

A gloved hand emerged from the back and looped a rope around Song Jianguo’s neck.

In his struggle, he struck the horn, the shrill blare echoing as Song Zhao saw his father’s lips break and bleed, a droplet falling onto the steering wheel like a bead of congealed red.

The vision shattered with a crack.

Song Zhao staggered into a metal cabinet, cold sweat trickling down his neck into his collar.

His hand shook as he gripped his phone, the screen aglow—he had just snapped a photo of the email address glimpsed during his vision: [email protected].

“Xiao Song?” Old Wu reached out, then drew back. “Headache again? Your father had those too, used to hold his head and say ‘feels like a needle in my skull’ when he dug too hard into a case.”

Song Zhao forced a smile uglier than a sob and slid the phone into his inner pocket.

The “gn-1998” prefix pricked at his mind like a thorn—it was a test node for the National Criminal Investigation Network, something that should have been destroyed long ago. Why did it appear in his father’s old data?

At 6:40 a.m., the air conditioning hummed in the city library’s climate-controlled underground archives.

Su Wan’s lab coat was flecked with mildew from an archive folder. She stared at the computer screen, fingers flying over the keyboard.

The email address Song Zhao sent in the early hours blinked in the chat window. She had just finished cross-referencing police internal communication protocols from the 1990s—“gn-1998” did indeed correspond to the provincial bureau’s old data center server, sealed in concrete since 2005.

“Insufficient permissions.” The system chime made her lashes flutter.

She hovered her mouse over “Request Access,” then pulled back—Dong Lan had warned her last night that the city bureau was cracking down on unauthorized access, Zhao Zhenbang’s men watching every IP.

She turned to the archive cabinet, pulling out a stitched volume scented faintly of sandalwood.

“Genealogy Taboos Compendium,” with Shen Lanxin’s flowing script on the title page: “For Wanwan—open when in need.” Between the yellowed pages was half a copper bookmark. Stroking the cloud pattern, Su Wan recalled Song Zhao’s mention of the “Zhou clan’s three branches and seven lines”—perhaps these taboo symbols hid the key to unlocking the encryption.

The keyboard’s sound was as soft as rain.

When she entered the final string of the key, the screen flashed blindingly bright.

“You have 1 unread message” popped up, and Su Wan had to brace herself against the desk to keep from collapsing.

In the sender line, “Song Jianguo” appeared, the ink seemingly still wet.

At 10:05 a.m., the iron doors of the traffic police evidence warehouse creaked open.

Li Zhigang’s second uniform button was undone, and Song Zhao immediately saw the scar at his collar—a dull, diagonal slash from clavicle to chest, unlike Old Wu’s twisted mark.

“Family member reviewing accident evidence,” Song Zhao said, pushing over his credentials, noticing Li Zhigang’s fingers pause on the inventory sheet.

At the very bottom, “1998 Arson Case Vehicle Remains: Chassis, partial interior” had been scribbled and reworked until the paper frayed at the edges.

“The body was dismantled long ago.” Li Zhigang’s voice grated like rusted gears. When he glanced up, Song Zhao saw bloodshot lines in his eyes. “Your father came for the dash cam. I…” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “My brother was Scar Li, that night in ‘98…”

Song Zhao’s breath caught.

Li Zhigang’s fingers dug into the edge of the sheet, knuckles turning white. “He came home covered in blood, muttering, ‘Shouldn’t have torched the accountant.’ The next day, he fell from the construction site roof, head smashed on rebar.” Suddenly, he snatched the police badge from Song Zhao’s chest—the one torn off his father’s uniform the night he died. “The day your dad came for the data, I burned the raw footage to a disc and slipped it in his pocket.”

Song Zhao’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.

So his father hadn’t fought alone. There were always others passing him blades in the dark.

He was about to speak when hurried footsteps echoed outside the warehouse.

“Brother Li! Director Zhao’s sent patrol to seal the warehouse!” A young officer’s voice thudded against the iron door. “They say someone’s accessed sealed evidence without permission!”

Li Zhigang’s face turned ashen in an instant.

He shoved the inventory into the shredder and barked at Song Zhao, “Go out the loading dock! Third wreckage bay to the west—the steering wheel’s still there!”

At 2:36 p.m., rainclouds pressed low over the depths of the dismantling yard.

Song Zhao crouched behind a scrapped truck, the sound of patrolmen’s boots drawing nearer.

He reached for the circuit board Old Wu had pressed into his hands, still warm with body heat.

Page 2 of 3

At this moment, his temples throbbed like war drums, golden threads burning at the edges of his vision. He knew the limits of the “Eye of Truth” were nearly spent.

The first thing he touched was the rearview mirror.

Shards of glass dug into his palm; in his vision, the gloved hand reached from the back seat, a crescent-shaped scar at the wrist.

Second was the handbrake; icy metal tingled up his fingers. He saw his father pressing the brake pedal, the dashboard flashing “Brake System Failure.”

Third was the door lock, a light tapping—“ta, ta, ta”—identical to the knock outside his father’s office twenty years before, a habit of Zhao Zhenbang’s.

For the final attempt, he knelt on the rust-stained ground, fingertips pressed to the leather remnants of the steering wheel.

The bloodstains had blackened, but still burned as if alive.

Golden threads flooded his vision, and this time he saw it all—his father, struggling, hit the radio’s “Replay” button. The flash drive’s red light flared again, “Upload Complete” chiming amid choking gasps, exploding into the rain-soaked night.

“Zhou… Mingyuan…” Song Zhao’s voice scattered on the wind, and darkness swallowed his sight.

He collapsed, knocking over a toolbox. A wrench rolled into the gutter, ringing hollowly.

When he awoke, Old Wu’s cigarette smoke curled into his nose.

“Kid, you’re tough,” the old man said, his back arched like a drawn bow but carrying Song Zhao steadily. “Rain’s coming, same as thirty years ago.”

Seven days later, slats of light slipped through the blinds in the provincial disciplinary committee’s interview room, scattering like stars in the sweat on Zhao Zhenbang’s brow.

Dong Lan slid a printed email to the center of the table. “Song Jianguo’s” signature stood out starkly. “Demolition accounts, bribery records, lists of trafficked persons—it’s all in the attachments.”

Zhao Zhenbang’s teacup shattered on the floor.

He stared at the phone Song Zhao produced, the recorded gasps as clear as if in his ear: “Zhou Mingyuan… you won’t escape…”

After the meeting, Song Zhao stood outside Zhao Zhenbang’s office.

The wind tugged at his coat, and memory surged—on the night of his father’s accident, he’d stood beneath the plane trees, phone aglow, the incoming call ending in “097.”

He glanced at his watch: 5:10 a.m.

The lights in the city library’s underground archive suddenly flickered on.

Su Wan removed her noise-canceling headphones. The email attachment on the screen remained unopened.

She touched the silver pendant at her throat—a keepsake from Shen Lanxin, inscribed with the words “Lin Gate.”

Rain began to fall outside, tapping against the glass as if someone were knocking out Morse code.

Page 3 of 3