Chapter 50: The Temperature of the Earrings

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6:03 a.m., Restoration Room, Basement, Jiangcheng City Library.

The dim light shrouded the worktable like a delicate mist. The air was thick with the scent of oxidized paper dust, mingled with a faint trace of rust from old camera parts. Under the lamp, Su Wan sat silently, her fingertips tapping the camera screen as she enlarged the photograph of the earring retrieved from the safe, frame by frame.

With every zoom, it was as if she were peeling away layers of dust-laden time. Her lashes trembled, eyes fixed on the intricate weave of silver threads—a pair of “Entwined Silver Butterflies,” their wings spiraling as though ready to take flight from the metal at any moment.

There were only three pairs with this pattern left in the entire city. One was her mother’s keepsake, locked in a sandalwood box. Every rainy season, she would take it out to polish it, and when her fingers touched the icy silver threads, she always caught a faint whiff of sandalwood incense. The other pair she had worn on her ears the night she was stalked by a mysterious figure at sixteen.

That night, in the rain, she heard footsteps behind her, each one striking the flagstone like a nail, pounding in time with her nerves. Suddenly, the silver butterfly at her earlobe grew hot, as though seared by someone’s breath.

Unconsciously, Su Wan’s fingers brushed her earlobe. It had long since been empty, yet now a stabbing phantom pain seemed to surge forth. Her voice was so soft it was nearly swallowed by the lamplight: “This isn’t random… They’re recreating the harm.”

Beside her, Song Zhao stood, his shadow stretched long across the mottled wall, like an unhealed scar.

He was silent for a long while, Adam’s apple bobbing as he finally reached out, placing the earring into an evidence bag.

The click of the plastic seal echoed sharply in the stillness.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath. The musty tang of old files and the clean, soapy scent from Su Wan’s hair filled his nostrils.

Then, his fingertips lightly brushed the metal surface—the “Eye of Truth” flared to life.

9:41 a.m., inside the safe house.

Cold air seeped up from the cracks in the floor, biting through his soles. Song Zhao’s body convulsed violently; his knees slammed onto the concrete, knuckles whitening as he clawed at the ground.

Cold sweat traced down his temples, pooling at his jaw before dripping onto the page, blurring the ink.

The world before him collapsed—a cage of iron bars shimmered with blue chill in the darkness. A young girl’s head was forced down, and as the needle pierced her earlobe, blinding pain shot through Song Zhao’s skull like a bolt of electricity.

He heard the faint rip of flesh, the muffled sobs—his own, or rather, hers.

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A low, cruel voice sounded near his ear: “You can’t tell anyone. No one would believe you anyway.” The words echoed damply, as if rising from the depths of a well.

Worse still, an overwhelming despair flooded his chest like ice water, numbing his heart to near stillness.

This was not a memory, but raw emotion—the agony and terror the girl had once endured, pouring through the fissures of time straight into his nerves.

Panting, Song Zhao seized a pencil with trembling hands and scrawled across the page: “Lin Acheng was present.”

The writing was crooked; the final character nearly tore through the paper.

Su Wan rushed to his side, gripping his shoulder. Her palm pressed against the soaked fabric of his shirt, the clammy sweat tightening a knot in her chest.

She reached to touch his fingertips—flesh once warm was now marred by an eerie ashen-grey, as if seared by a corroded coin, tingling faintly and carrying a metallic aftertaste.

12:29 p.m., Old Goods Market, East City.

The sun slanted over mountains of secondhand wares, dust swirling in shafts of light. The air reeked of rust, camphor, and damp wood.

Old Ma, leaning on his cane, rummaged through a stack of yellowed dock blueprints. His knobby fingers made a crisp rustle as he turned the pages.

When he saw the code “B7,” his muddy eyes abruptly sharpened, his breath catching.

“This isn’t an ordinary code,” he rasped, voice thick with the wary caution of a bygone era. “That’s a covert mark from 1978, during the period of military control—a transfer point for classified supplies, used strictly for storing strategic medicines. No electricity there, only an underground spring for cold storage. Few who went in ever came out alive.” He paused, cane tapping a dull thud on the floor. “B7 has three blast-proof doors. The only ventilation connects to an abandoned drain. If someone gets trapped in there, they’ll last forty-eight hours at most.”

Song Zhao’s face grew graver, his fingers unconsciously rubbing the evidence bag containing the earring, the metal’s chill seeping through the plastic into his skin.

4:55 p.m., Perimeter of B7 Freezer Warehouse.

Night fog rolled across the wasteland like a tide. The damp air, heavy with rust and rotting grass, rushed against them.

Climbing the drainage pipe, Song Zhao felt the rough scrape against his palm. The metal edge sliced through his glove, leaving a thin line of blood on his fingertip.

Inside, the warehouse was bone-chilling. His breath turned instantly to white mist.

Rows of iron cages stood silent, frost blooming on the bars. Footsteps were swallowed by the heavy hush, only the drip—drip—drip of water echoed from the depths, a relentless countdown.

At the farthest end, he found a fallen earring. The silver butterfly lay half-buried in frost, wings slightly spread, as if poised to escape its frozen prison.

Song Zhao knelt, fingertips brushing the cold metal. In an instant, a fresh wave of echoes crashed through him:

In the vision, the girl was forced to swallow bitter medicine, her throat spasming, her stomach churning.

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She was pushed onto the balcony of a condemned building, wind tearing through the shattered window frame, tossing her hair.

A gentle yet icy voice spoke at her ear: “Jump, and you can go home.”

Suddenly, a burly man in a baseball cap turned away, revealing a twisted serpent-shaped scar writhing on his neck in the dim light.

Song Zhao clenched his jaw, veins bulging at his temples as he burned the escape route into his memory.

Just then, his foot snapped a rusty iron bar—crack!

A shrill alarm shattered the silence. Red lights spun wildly across the warehouse, the siren screeching like metal teeth on bare nerves, each pulse drawing death’s footsteps closer.

7:18 p.m., inside the technical support van.

Dong Lan sat before her computer, fingers flying over the keys. The blue light from the screen etched tension onto her face.

She stopped abruptly, pupils contracting. “Three unmarked pickups headed to the southern incineration plant fifteen minutes ago.”

Song Zhao looked up, the pain in his eyes still lingering like cold fog. His voice was hoarse, rough as sandpaper. “Wait… They’re not trying to destroy evidence.”

He clutched the earring tightly, the metal’s cold seeping into his palm, yet it seemed to kindle a faint spark.

“They’re moving the witness. That girl… hasn’t been ‘silenced’ yet.” His voice was low, as if swearing an oath to himself. “I have to save her. Because she almost became… another me.”

As he spoke, the van’s headlights blazed to life, cutting through the thick fog as the vehicle sped into the night.

At that moment, an even more perilous contest was about to begin. Whether Song Zhao could rescue the girl, or what dangers awaited at the southern incineration plant, all remained unknown.

With the night mist closing in, the van drove toward uncertainty, as if plunging into an immense enigma.

Yet in Song Zhao’s heart, only one conviction burned: he would save that girl and expose the monstrous conspiracy lurking behind it all.

As the vehicle pressed on and the fog thickened, the road ahead blurred, foretelling the arduous trials awaiting them.

Song Zhao stared intently into the distance, a glint of resolve in his eyes. He knew this would be a race against time and death itself…