Chapter 38: The Scavenger’s Handwriting

At six o’clock and three minutes in the morning, the iron door of the city traffic police archives room creaked softly in Li Zhigang’s hand.

The hem of Su Wan’s beige knit sweater brushed the threshold, and a musty scent mingled with the aged aroma of old paper filled her nostrils—a distinctive smell of old records, like memories soaked and swollen by the passage of time.

“Officer Li.” As she turned, her badge flashed a silver gleam across her chest. “I am applying to review the liability determination for the arson incident on November 7, 1998. As per regulations, family members must be accompanied in person.”

Li Zhigang’s hand was thrust deep into the pocket of his navy police trousers, knuckles pale with tension.

His Adam’s apple bobbed twice. His gaze slid over her badge—“Jiangcheng City Library” glittered coldly in the morning light.

Three nights ago, in the rain, he’d found a spectrum analyzer behind the precinct. The Morse code deciphered from its records spelled “archive”, and now that word echoed in his ear with every breath she took. “Follow me.” His voice was rough, like sandpaper scraping against a steel cabinet, as he led her toward the innermost wooden archive shelves.

When the brown paper dossier was spread open on the reading table, Su Wan’s fingertips paused on the cover.

The ink from 1998 had faded to gray; the name “Song Jianguo” was circled in red, the edge of the circle frayed as if it had been stroked again and again.

She opened the inner pages; the paper crackled until the signature page appeared—“Zhao Zhenbang” written in upright ink, yet the final stroke had a tiny circle, as though the pen had flicked gently.

“The same characteristic as Chen Mo’s handwriting.” Her throat tightened, recalling the comparison she’d made last night in the library’s ancient book restoration room—the anonymous letters Chen Mo had sent her before being kidnapped, every “Mo” in the sign-off had an upward-tilting final stroke, forming a curve like a circle.

Now, at the end of Zhao Zhenbang’s signature, the nearly imperceptible circle overlapped with Chen Mo’s secret handwriting code.

A high-powered magnifying glass pressed against the paper, casting trembling shadows from Su Wan’s eyelashes onto the lens.

Within the paper’s fibers, she caught traces of a second pen stroke: the first signature was two millimeters to the left, hesitating at the final stroke of “Bang”, the ink blooming into a small dot; the second attempt forcibly corrected rightward, but the pen quivered at the end, pulling the originally straight tail into a sharp angle.

“He was… his hand was shaking.” She spoke softly, her voice barely audible for fear of shattering the ink on the page.

Veins bulged across the back of Li Zhigang’s hand.

He stared at the crooked tail, Adam’s apple moving. “My brother… Scar Li, was the gatekeeper at the arson scene back then.” He spoke suddenly, his voice rasped raw. “He said someone drugged his liquor that day.

When he woke, the fire had already burned through the accountant’s office roof.”

Su Wan’s fingers tightened on the magnifier’s rim.

As she looked up, she saw a layer of mist in Li Zhigang’s eyes, like glass scorched by fire. “He died clutching half a charred pocket watch, ‘Song Jianguo’ engraved on the back.”

At ten eighteen in the morning, sunlight filtered through the leaky tin roof of the abandoned police dismantling yard, casting mottled shadows across Song Zhao’s shoulder.

He crouched before a rust-stained workbench, holding a photocopy of the liability determination he’d borrowed from Li Zhigang in his left hand, while his right, clad in a rubber glove, gently rested atop the paper.

A sudden stab of pain lanced his temple, as if a fine needle pricked his brain membrane.

It was the precursor to the “Eye of Truth” activating.

Song Zhao closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, fine golden patterns shimmered in his pupils.

Darkness surged.

He saw Zhao Zhenbang sitting in his office, the desk lamp stretching his shadow long.

The fountain pen hovered above the signature page, its tip barely half a centimeter from the paper, yet it refused to descend.

Sweat beaded on Zhao Zhenbang’s forehead, trickling down his temple and into his collar, staining his white shirt with a dark patch. “As long as I say it was an accident…” he murmured, voice trembling, “no one will mention the ledger again… Jianguo, I’m sorry.”

The pen finally fell, half-completing the “Zhao” character, then he suddenly grabbed a scrap of paper beside him, crumpling the incorrectly signed determination into a ball.

On the second attempt, his wrist trembled noticeably; the final stroke of “Bang” nearly pierced the paper, and as he finished, he flicked the tip gently, like drawing an unfinished symbol.

The vision abruptly ended.

Song Zhao’s forehead pressed against the edge of the workbench, cold sweat running down his neck into his collar.

He fished painkillers from his pocket and swallowed them dry, Adam’s apple bobbing. “It’s not cold-blooded concealment… it’s fear.” He pulled out his phone, fingers swiping rapidly through his contacts. “Dong Lan, when Zhao Zhenbang signed, there was psychological struggle. He wasn’t the mastermind, only a coerced executor.”

On the other end, silence lasted two seconds, then came the crisp sound of papers being flipped. “I just received the foundation’s bank flow from Chen Mo. On November 6, 1998, Lin Haoyu’s account transferred eight hundred thousand to ‘Zhao Zhenbang’s mother’s medical account.’”

At twelve thirty-six in the afternoon, the conference room of the provincial disciplinary inspection team’s temporary station was chilled by low air conditioning.

Dong Lan placed two documents side by side on the rosewood table: one, a re-examined photocopy of the liability determination; the other, a handwriting analysis report.

Her fingertip tapped the signature: “The two signature traces are inconsistent, the second clearly corrects the position of the first, which matches handwriting under significant psychological stress.”

The group leader adjusted his glasses, his gaze sweeping over the red annotations on the analysis report. “Does this mean he was possibly coerced?”

“More likely, he was covering for someone else.” Dong Lan’s voice was calm, sharp as a scalpel. “And he himself feared being bitten back.” She opened the second file, a screenshot of call records sent by Chen Mo. “At two a.m. on November 7, 1998, Zhao Zhenbang’s private cell had a seventeen-minute call with Lin Haoyu’s satellite phone.”

At four o’clock and seven minutes in the afternoon, the air conditioner in Zhao Zhenbang’s office suddenly clicked.

He stared at the disciplinary team’s request for review; black words on white paper stabbed his eyes with pain.

When the secretary knocked and entered, he was straightening his tie before the window, his reflection’s lips twitching in the glass.

“Director, new documents have arrived.” The secretary placed the folder on the desk, and as she turned, caught sight of his trembling hand holding the pen—the fountain tip left a blot of ink at the end of “Bang” in “Zhao Zhenbang”, the closing circle skewed and broken, like a snake crushed underfoot.

Once the door closed, Zhao Zhenbang rushed to pull open a drawer.

An old work log at the bottom was dust-covered; he wiped it haphazardly with his sleeve, flipping to the page for November 7, 1998.

The ink had faded to pale blue: “Received a call from Lin Haoyu today, saying ‘accounts cleared, car must burn clean.’

I signed… I thought it was just swapping evidence.

Never expected someone would die.”

He closed the notebook, pressing his knuckles to his forehead and rubbing hard.

Outside, the plane tree leaves whispered. He suddenly remembered Song Zhao holding up his phone in the storm—the boy who stood behind the window of the burning scene in 1998, now holding evidence capable of igniting everything. “What I cleared wasn’t just the fire…” he murmured to the empty office, “but lives.”

At six fifty-two in the evening, autumn winds swept across the Jiangxin Road overpass.

Song Zhao leaned against the railing; his phone screen lit up as Dong Lan’s message popped in: “The inspection team has decided to conduct a surprise search of Zhao Zhenbang’s office. Scheduled for eight tomorrow morning.”

He looked up at the distant foundation building, its glass curtain wall glinting coldly in the sunset.

The phone vibrated in his palm—it was Li Zhigang calling. “Your brother didn’t burn the accountant back then; he burned the truth.” Song Zhao spoke to the wind. “Now, it’s our turn to take it back.”

There was a long silence on the other end, then a low, hoarse “Alright.”

As the wind rose, the river below surged, waves crashing against the bridge piers, sounding just like torn pages from old files.

Song Zhao pulled out his keychain; the topmost brass key glowed warmly in the dusk—it was the key to his mother’s old attic.

He gazed at the darkening sky, Adam’s apple moving. “Mom, tomorrow… I might have to open that camphor wood chest.”