Chapter 37: Living Testimony

1:17 AM. The wild grass at the old site of Yong’an Orphanage rustled in the wind.

Song Zhao crouched at the entrance of the power distribution room. His father’s police badge was wedged into the groove of a rusted screw, the metallic scraping sounding like a fine needle piercing straight through the bone of his ear.

By the time the last screw clicked into the grass, his knuckles had turned pale—the critical gateway mentioned in his mother’s recollections, one of the “three portions,” and the final destination pointed to by the password hidden in Chen Mo’s cat collar.

The stench of mold mixed with iron rushed into his nose as he squeezed himself into the half-human-high vent.

The descending steps were slick with moss; he steadied himself against the wall, inching down. The cold light from his phone swept over mildew between the wall’s cracks, suddenly revealing a fresh scratch—a Morse code sequence: “·—·—,” matching the rhythm of last night’s raindrops on the roof tile exactly.

The iron door on the second basement level stood ajar.

Holding his breath, Song Zhao pushed it open. Blue light from dozens of surveillance screens spilled instantly into his pupils.

On the screens were corners of Jiang City: the snack stall behind a school, the hospital inpatient elevator, even the mailbox at the entrance to his apartment—the rusted mailbox he always overlooked, now shown in close-up.

“Chen Mo...” he muttered, his Adam’s apple shifting.

The metal edge of the surveillance console was still warm. The moment his gloved fingertips touched it, a dull pain exploded at his temple—the “Eye of Truth” had activated.

This time, there was no vision, only an overwhelming sense of suffocation.

He felt as though he was being pressed deep underwater, his eardrums buzzing, yet he could clearly hear the rhythm of his fingers typing and his heartbeat—thump, thump-thump, thump, thump—like someone tapping out Morse code with their own body.

“It’s residual emotion.” He staggered, gripping the edge of the table, cold sweat sliding down the back of his neck into his collar.

Chen Mo once said, “A cat has nine lives.” The tenth life, it turned out, was lived testimony made from the living.

He quickly took out a recorder and pressed it against the console’s edge. When the red indicator lit, the heartbeat was fully captured.

9:44 AM. In the technical room of the City Library’s ancient books division, Su Wan’s fingertips moved rapidly across the spectrum analyzer.

She hadn’t slept last night; shadows lingered beneath her eyes, and her hair still carried the chill of the library’s air conditioning—the audio Song Zhao sent at three in the morning now unfolded as a waveform across her screen.

“Frequency 3.5Hz, regular intervals...” She lowered the gain, and the waveform split into clear pulses. “This isn’t a normal heartbeat.” Right-clicking to zoom in, the bursts of pulses revealed scattered dots and dashes: “......— —...... / ......— — / —...... — / — —......”

“LJ-097 / Hidden in / base of umbrella rib.” She read aloud, her fountain pen stabbing a hole in her notebook.

Umbrella rib... She spun around, pulling out the “Atlas of Modern Architecture in Jiang City,” flipping to the page of the Foundation’s headquarters—the cross-section of the steel support system showed the main load-bearing columns converging like umbrella ribs at the center, the base labeled “Basement Level 3 Column Grid Intersection.”

2/3

Her phone vibrated. Dong Lan’s video call cut in.

The female forensic scientist’s backdrop was the blue-lit screen of the provincial technical department. She pushed her glasses up. “Satellite thermal imaging shows a persistent biological heat source in that area, but there’s no record in the Foundation’s security system.”

“Thank you.” Su Wan hit save, the atlas’s corner dampening in her palm—she’d gripped it too tightly, blood seeping where her nails dug into her skin.

12:05 PM. The blinds in the deputy chief’s office at the City Public Security Bureau were drawn. Zhao Zhenbang stared at the surveillance footage of Song Zhao entering the orphanage, his right index finger tapping the desk in a steady rhythm.

Tap, tap-tap, tap, tap—the exact frequency as the heartbeat in the underground surveillance room.

“Chief Zhao, today’s documents.” The secretary entered holding a folder, and his fingers paused.

The signature pen landed on “Agree,” finishing with a habitual little circle—a flourish he’d had since police academy twenty years ago, identical to Chen Mo’s notes.

“Smack.”

The fountain pen stabbed heavily into the document, ink spreading over the name “Zhou Mingyuan.”

He slammed the folder shut, an encrypted phone burning in his palm: “Transfer the ‘living node’ overseas; initiate memory erasure protocol.”

As the drawer opened, a yellowed photograph slid out.

In front of the police academy auditorium in 1998, he, Song Jianguo, and Chen Mo wore indigo uniforms; Song Jianguo’s badge glinted in the sunlight.

He stared at his own young face in the photo, Adam’s apple shifting: “You all insist on making me... the cleaner.”

5:38 PM. In the ventilation duct of the Foundation’s headquarters’ third basement, Song Zhao’s tactical boots crushed gravel.

Su Wan followed behind, her ultrasonic detector emitting soft beeps—under the concrete layer of the supporting column, a pattern of hollow echoes.

“Here.” He pressed hydraulic pliers against the column. The metallic crack startled Su Wan, making her clutch his sleeve.

When dust from the drill blinded his eyes, he finally touched the icy titanium box—identical in coldness to the one from his mother’s recollection.

The moment the seal was opened, three USB drives and a paper slip slid out.

The handwriting on the slip was crooked, as if written in restraints: “I am the living backup.

Every 24 hours, my heartbeat sends a coordinate.

2/3

If the signal stops, I am dead.

—Chen Mo”

The instant Song Zhao’s fingertip touched the paper, darkness surged.

This time, the recollection was frighteningly clear: Chen Mo was tied to the surveillance chair, wrists and ankles bruised, a nurse injecting sedatives into his vein.

But his tongue pressed against his teeth, where a micro-transmitter was hidden—each heartbeat sent coordinates out, carried by the blood.

“Chen Mo!” Song Zhao shouted, his forehead slamming into the column.

Su Wan rushed to steady him, her hand coming away slick with cold sweat. “What’s wrong?”

“He’s sending coordinates with his life.” Song Zhao’s voice trembled. “The hardest evidence is the one who refuses to die.”

7:12 PM. The city’s surveillance command center’s main screen suddenly went dark.

When Zhao Zhenbang rushed in, all servers flashed red warnings, backup data visibly disappearing.

The last line of characters popped up, nearly buckling his knees: “Testimony uploaded. Recipients: disciplinary committee, media, Interpol.”

Rain poured outside. A figure stood atop the opposite building—Song Zhao, raising his phone, camera pointed straight at them.

Zhao Zhenbang staggered to the console as the screen switched, the final frame stabbing his eyes: In the fire of 1998, a small boy stood behind a window, clutching half a burnt ledger—that was young Song Zhao.

“What... are we really afraid of?” he murmured, rain streaming down the glass like rivers.

6:03 AM. In the corridor outside the traffic police squad’s archive room, Su Wan pinned her badge to her chest.

She gazed at the tightly closed archive door and tapped lightly with her fingertip. The sound of the metal knocker echoed, remarkably similar to the Morse code on last night’s spectrum analyzer.