Chapter 43: The Person Who Entered the Room
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The air at 2:17 a.m. was cold and stagnant, carrying the raw, metallic tang unique to the countryside before dawn. Song Zhao silently eased his car into the shadow of an abandoned factory building, turned off the ignition, and tossed his phone onto the passenger seat.
A camera on the metal gate blinked red in the darkness, like the eye of a one-eyed beast.
He didn’t approach the main entrance, but instead followed the moss-covered perimeter wall toward an unremarkable side door—a blind spot for surveillance and, more importantly, a doorway of trust.
He had barely paused when the intercom on the wall crackled to life. A voice, electronically filtered and indistinguishable as male or female, spoke: “Mr. Lin has been waiting for you a long time.”
No questions, no passcodes—this simple phrase was verification in itself.
Song Zhao drew a deep breath, letting the dusty, frigid air fill his lungs until it felt as though it might freeze them solid. He reached out and pushed open the heavy iron door.
The hinge creaked softly, as if bidding him farewell.
Beyond the door lay another world.
Light blazed suddenly, a corridor white enough to burn the eyes stretching endlessly ahead, like the hallway to an infernal operating room.
Meanwhile, in the foundation’s core monitoring room, Dong Lan’s fingertip hovered half a centimeter above the alarm button, her nail whitening with the pressure.
Dozens of screens dissected every corner of the foundation before her. At the very center, one displayed a clear image of Song Zhao’s back as he stepped into the corridor.
His stride was steady, unhesitant, like a man returning home.
But Dong Lan knew—this was no home. It was a tiger’s den, a dragon’s lair.
In her headset, the location signal from Song Zhao’s phone, which he’d left in the car, pulsed steadily—alive, yet lifeless.
The signal remained, but he had gone inside.
It was their agreed-upon sign: if he failed to return on time, it meant the worst had happened.
9:44 a.m., psychological counseling room.
The air was thick with expensive aromatics, a vain attempt to create an illusion of warmth and safety.
Dr. Zheng, a middle-aged man with gold-rimmed glasses and a flawless smile, personally poured Song Zhao a cup of hot tea.
“Officer Song, we’re truly grateful you’ve chosen to stand on the side of justice.” His tone was gentle, soothing—like calming a frightened child. “Exposing Chen Mo was the right decision.”
Song Zhao accepted the cup, the heat at his fingertips easing his taut nerves for a fleeting moment. He nodded, his voice hoarse with just the right mix of exhaustion and resolve: “Chen Mo trusted the wrong people. He thought he was careful, but he hid a second ledger—a completely unedited account, documenting every source of funding for the ‘Purification’ experimental subjects.”
Dr. Zheng’s smile froze for an instant, then grew even warmer. “Where is it?”
Song Zhao pulled a black USB drive from his pocket and set it on the polished tabletop.
“I copied part of the data. I’ll reveal the original’s location once my safety is assured.” He met Dr. Zheng’s gaze, his eyes wild with a gambler’s abandon and uncertainty for the future.
Dr. Zheng picked up the USB drive as though admiring a work of art. He turned, entered a code on a concealed wall cabinet, and a small safe sprang open. He placed the USB inside with reverence and shut the cabinet.
“Of course, Mr. Song—your safety is our top priority.”
As they spoke, Song Zhao glanced surreptitiously at the massive one-way observation window in the corner.
In that brief moment, the light behind the glass shifted, and a blurred figure took shape.
He subtly adjusted his posture, sweeping his gaze casually over the scene.
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It was Lin Wei.
She sat in the darkness of the observation room, clutching a child’s drawing to her chest.
The picture showed a sun and two small figures holding hands, drawn in crayon.
Even through the glass, Song Zhao could sense the hollow numbness in her, as if her soul had been drained away.
At that instant, she seemed to feel Song Zhao’s gaze and slowly lifted her head.
Their eyes met.
For a split second, he saw her empty pupils contract sharply, as if pricked by a needle.
It wasn’t fear or confusion, but a wary alertness, buried deep in her subconscious and struggling to break free.
11:58 a.m., Level B2 lounge.
This was where staff ate and took brief rests. It was livelier than the counseling room above, but just as stifling.
Song Zhao sat down in a corner with his tray, his seat “coincidentally” facing Lin Wei.
She was nibbling at a salad, movements mechanical, eyes as vacant as before.
He waited a while, then rose and, as if only now recognizing her, approached with tentative hesitation.
“Ms. Lin?”
She lifted her head slowly, her gaze blank.
From his pocket, Song Zhao drew a small cat collar with a silver bell and placed it on the table before her.
“The thing you asked Chen Mo to find—I found it.” He paused, looking into her eyes. “Your cat, Xiaohei… it wasn’t lost. It was just taken for its annual chip check a few days ago.”
Her hand trembled violently; the fork clattered onto her plate.
Her lips moved, her voice barely above a whisper: “How… how did you know…” Xiaohei was her cat—a secret shared only between her and her daughter Xiaoya.
No one else could possibly know, apart from her, her daughter, and Chen Mo.
Song Zhao quickly scanned the room, lowered his voice, and spoke rapidly, each word like a bullet shattering her mental defenses: “Chen Mo asked me to tell you—‘Don’t trust what the doctor says. Xiaoya is waiting for you to sign her out after school.’”
“Sign her… pick her up after school…” The words flashed through Lin Wei’s muddled world like lightning.
It was something she did every day—the most instinctive duty of a mother.
Dr. Zheng had told her Xiaoya was safe and happy at a boarding school.
But picking up her daughter required her signature—it was a pact between mother and child!
Lin Wei jerked her head up, and for an instant, her long-dead eyes blazed with sharp clarity.
Only for a second, but Song Zhao saw it.
It was the sound of ice cracking.
4:03 p.m., top floor office.
Dr. Zheng stood respectfully before Lin Haoyu.
“Chairman Lin, Song Zhao seems completely trustworthy. He’s handed over the USB, and our techs are working on it.”
Lin Haoyu stood with his back to him, gazing out the floor-to-ceiling windows at the kingdom he had built.
He swirled a glass of red wine, the crimson liquid leaving strange trails on the crystal.
He let out a cold laugh, void of any pleasure: “A man who so easily offers up a pledge of loyalty is rarely trustworthy. It simply means what he gives is worthless. Remember this, Dr. Zheng—the ones who seem most reliable are often the most dangerous.”
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Sweat beaded on Dr. Zheng’s forehead. “So… what should we do now?”
“The bait’s been taken. Whether the fish bites depends on tonight.” Lin Haoyu turned, eyes glinting with cruelty. “Tonight, give Lin Wei her final ‘purification.’ Increase the dosage. I want every hidden memory dragged out of her. If Song Zhao has planted anything in her mind, I want her to pull it out herself and tell me exactly where his weakness lies.”
8:12 p.m., psychological counseling room.
Song Zhao entered the room once more.
This time, he was invited as an “observer.”
Lin Wei sat in the white therapy chair, eyes tightly shut, her face pale as paper.
Her gaze was even more vacant than during the day, clearly under deep pharmaceutical control.
Dr. Zheng sat across from her, a slowly swinging pocket watch in his hand. His voice was hypnotic: “Lin Wei, relax… You’re safe now… Tell me, what have you remembered? Did anyone say anything unusual to you today?”
Lin Wei’s lips trembled, a slurred murmur escaping: “Song Zhao… he said… father didn’t betray… he…”
Dr. Zheng pressed on: “What else did Song Zhao say?”
“He said… Xiaoya…” Lin Wei’s brow furrowed in pain, her body twisting uneasily. “Xiaoya is waiting… waiting for me to sign…”
“No, Xiaoya is fine. She doesn’t need your signature.” Dr. Zheng’s tone grew harsh, trying to pull her back to the programmed reality. “Those are lies—stories Song Zhao made up to deceive you…”
“No!”
A scream tore through the room’s manufactured calm.
Lin Wei’s eyes flew open. Gone was the numb confusion; in its place burned a mother’s furious, blazing resolve.
She struggled violently, gripping the armrests as if to snap them: “Don’t touch my daughter! Give Xiaoya back to me!”
She was awake.
At the worst possible moment, in the most explosive way.
Dr. Zheng’s face turned ashen. Without hesitation, he pressed the red alarm button under the desk.
A shrill siren blared through the building. Outside, heavy, urgent footfalls thundered closer and closer.
Inside, the atmosphere froze to arctic stillness.
Dr. Zheng recoiled in terror, eyeing Song Zhao with suspicion.
But Song Zhao calmly stood up.
He didn’t look at the panicked doctor, nor at the door about to be battered open.
His gaze pierced through everything before him, locking onto the cold one-way glass—as if he could see Lin Haoyu’s shocked and furious face behind it.
A cold smile curled Song Zhao’s lips.
“The game…” he said softly, his voice cutting through alarms and chaos, “has only just begun.”
The alarm was a blade severing the night. The footsteps, a death knell.
Yet Song Zhao’s eyes were tranquil as an abyss. This deafening uproar was nothing but a curtain rising on another, silent act.
Within the foundation’s tangled network of steel, as every guard’s attention converged on this storm’s eye, in the unnoticed corners, a long-suppressed will was awakening. A captive shadow was ready to take its first step toward dawn.