Chapter 42: Beneath the Mask
The moment her fingertips touched, the cold hum of electricity abruptly ceased.
Dong Lan tore off her headphones, her eardrums still aching from the distorted, bone-deep low frequency that had assaulted them.
At 5:09 a.m., the technical isolation zone was so silent that the rhythmic whirring of the central processor’s fan could be heard, like the breathing of a slumbering beast.
She glanced at Song Zhao beside her. He remained motionless, eyes firmly shut, only his fingertip still lightly resting on the metallic casing of the recorder.
The audio, unearthed after hours of decoding, was not a trumpet of victory, but a desperate plea from the depths of hell.
Chen Mo’s voice was stripped of all human emotion by the voice changer, sounding like a machine on the verge of collapse, each word spat out deliberately: “Lin Haoyu is holding Lin Wei and Xiao Ya hostage. Every time I transmit false intelligence, they suffer one less ‘treatment’. The tape is real, but the location is fake. You can catch the perpetrator, but you cannot save them. Unless… someone walks into that room for me.”
The room. A simple word, yet it rippled coldly through the sealed space.
Dong Lan was about to speak when she noticed Song Zhao’s face had turned deathly pale, beads of sweat dotting his temples.
He wasn’t listening—he was seeing.
Song Zhao’s consciousness plummeted into endless darkness.
This wasn’t a metaphor, but the raw sensory severance that came when the “Eye of Truth” was activated.
He smelled the foul stench—a blend of disinfectant, dust, and a tang of blood.
Before him, a man stood with his back turned, struggling to peel something from his face.
It was a half mask, covering only one side, and as he tore it off, the skin beneath grew inflamed and red.
When the man finally turned, Song Zhao saw the face scorched by fire—from the left brow to the jaw, it was a web of tangled, grotesque burn scars, frozen into an agonized expression.
Chen Mo.
He spoke to an empty corner, his voice rasped, worn down to exhaustion, as if sandpaper had scrubbed it raw, “Jianguo, I can’t hold on… I really can’t… but the child can’t be without a father.”
Who was “Jianguo”?
As the question flashed through Song Zhao’s mind, the vision receded like a tide.
He snapped open his eyes, the harsh light of reality stabbing him with vertigo.
The cold touch of the recorder returned to his fingertips, but the searing despair was now branded into his mind.
10:33 a.m. The sunlight bathed the stained glass of Saint Angel’s Private Elementary School in a warm glow.
Su Wan, presenting herself as a researcher of ancient book illustrations, politely explained her purpose to the art teacher.
Her reason was impeccable, her manner graceful, and she soon obtained permission to review the students’ recent drawings.
She sought Xiao Ya’s artwork.
Page by page she turned, the air sweet with the scent of crayons. The images, meant to brim with childish delight, weighed her heart down with every glimpse.
Over a dozen consecutive drawings, all centered around the same theme: “My Dad.”
In each, the father wore a comical white mask, painted with a smiling face.
No matter the background—park, home, amusement park—this “Dad” always faced away from the viewer, as if unwilling to be seen, a shadow evading scrutiny.
His only constant gesture was gripping tightly a tiny cat collar adorned with a bell.
Until the last drawing.
Su Wan’s breath caught.
In this one, “Dad” finally turned to face the viewer.
He still wore the smiling mask, but the eyeholes had been colored with long streaks of red crayon, resembling tears—like blood streaming from the eyes beneath.
Below the drawing, a shaky line of pinyin was scribbled in pencil, every letter brimming with childish earnestness.
“bù yào zhǎo wǒ.”
Don’t look for me.
Su Wan’s fingertips turned icy.
She swiftly photographed the drawing, along with close-ups of several others, sending them to Song Zhao.
Her hand hovered long in the message box before she typed a single line: “He’s calling for help, but also refusing rescue.”
12:40 p.m. The counseling room of the Hope Foundation.
Its decor was minimalist and gentle, the warm lighting and soft music meant to soothe, yet now it felt like a meticulously woven net, trapping Lin Wei in the center of the plush sofa.
Her gaze was unfocused. Across from her, Dr. Zheng’s voice was gentle as a lullaby.
“Lin Wei, let’s confirm once more. You’re certain Song Zhao has obtained all the evidence to implicate Mr. Lin, correct?”
Lin Wei nodded dully, her voice hollow as she repeated, “Yes… he has all the evidence.”
“Very good.” Dr. Zheng removed his miniature earpiece and gave a barely perceptible nod to the hidden surveillance camera in the corner.
The recording ended.
Almost simultaneously, Lin Haoyu’s voice came through the room’s speakers, tinged with a satisfied chuckle: “Well done. Prepare to transfer the hostages—the old location needs cleaning.”
Dr. Zheng adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes clouded and inscrutable behind the lenses.
He asked softly, as if to himself or to the man on the other side of the surveillance, “Are you really going to destroy her? Her mental state is already at the limit.”
The laughter from the speaker turned sly: “Dr. Zheng, do you know what the strongest lock in the world is? It’s forged from love. It can seal the heart shut. But… once it rusts and loses its worth, it can only be replaced with a new one.”
4:11 p.m. The task force’s temporary office.
On the massive display, one side showed Chen Mo’s audio file translated into a soundwave spectrum; the other, Xiao Ya’s blood-teared masked father.
Two utterly different carriers of information, yet both pointed to the same brutal core.
Song Zhao stood before the screen, his silhouette shrouded in the glow of data and images.
“The audio proves Chen Mo isn’t a traitor—he’s a hostage.” His voice was calm and clear, striking Dong Lan and Su Wan like a hammer. “But every time he ‘cooperates,’ every false intelligence he transmits, he’s trading his family’s safety for time. It only prolongs their suffering, until Lin Haoyu wrings them dry.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the solemn faces of his companions.
“Lin Haoyu is waiting for us to attempt a rescue, so he can trap us all at once. Chen Mo is warning us not to go—because it’s a trap. We’re in a deadlock.”
Dong Lan’s brow knitted tightly. “What do we do then? Storm the Foundation? The risk is too great.”
“No.” Song Zhao turned slowly.
Su Wan’s eyes widened. “You mean…”
“Lin Haoyu needs a ‘traitor’ to finish his script. Chen Mo’s pawn is rusted.” Song Zhao’s lips curled into a cold arc, sharp as a tempered blade. “I’ll give him a new ‘traitor.’ On the pretext of ‘discovering and pursuing Chen Mo,’ I’ll deliver him to Lin Haoyu myself—using myself to exchange for the mother and daughter’s freedom.”
“That’s too risky!” Dong Lan protested immediately. “You’re making yourself bait!”
“Bait?” Song Zhao sneered, his smile suffused with misunderstood bravery and fierce confidence. “No, an actor. They think they’re the only directors, controlling everyone’s fate… but they forget, on this stage, I can play a role too.”
7:56 p.m. At a disused entrance to the city’s underground drainage system.
Damp, cold wind blew from the depths of the dark tunnel, carrying the scent of rust and mildew.
Song Zhao stood in the shadow at the entrance, the light of his phone screen illuminating the sharp contours of his face.
He opened an encrypted anonymous reporting platform and uploaded a file.
It was a fabricated “Chen Mo’s hiding place coordinate” based on existing clues, pinpointed at an old factory scheduled for demolition.
In the additional information section, he wrote in a detached, bureaucratic tone: “Target ‘Carrier Pigeon’ is exhibiting loss of control. Recommend immediate purge procedure to prevent escalation.”
Click “Send.”
The data flowed silently into the dark sea of the network.
When all was done, Song Zhao looked up at the inconspicuous wide-angle camera atop the tunnel entrance.
He knew Lin Haoyu’s people were watching.
Under the lens, he slowly raised the corners of his mouth, offering a meaningful smile.
Meanwhile, in a heavily guarded room, Xiao Ya tossed restlessly in her sleep, her small face streaked with dried tears.
She murmured softly, faint as butterfly wings.
“Daddy… you didn’t wear your mask today.”
On the small drawing board by her pillow, beside the “bleeding father,” she had somehow added a new line in even shakier pencil, like a sleepwalker’s scrawl.
“He’s back.”
The city night descended, thick as ink.
Song Zhao put away his phone and turned, vanishing into deeper darkness.
The board was set. From the moment he pressed send, the roles of hunter and prey began their silent reversal.
He knew that from now on, every word, every step, would be under the enemy’s scrutiny.
Before the net drew tight, there was one last thing he needed to do.
A preparation that would turn him into a true “ghost,” able to move freely under the enemy’s gaze.
He walked calmly to a car parked in the distance, opened the door, and settled into the driver’s seat.
The engine remained silent; the cabin was deathly still.
He looked at his phone’s glowing screen—messages of concern from Dong Lan and Su Wan.
His last link to the past, to the team.
The net was cast, and he was the only bait.
To let the fish bite calmly, all escape routes must be severed.
He gazed one last time at the small shining screen, as if bidding farewell to a world.
Then, he reached out and decisively pressed the power button.
The screen went dark, returning him wholly to the shadows.
From this moment, Song Zhao was no longer the task force’s Song Zhao. He was a lone specter, stepping toward that brightly lit, heavily guarded tomb.