Chapter 77: The Old Haunt

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2:17 a.m., Old Technical Building B, Municipal Bureau.

The night was ink-dark, the entire building steeped in a deathly silence. Only at the end of the third floor corridor did a faint blue light seep through a window, as if some electronic device breathed quietly in the darkness.

Song Zhao climbed up to the third-floor platform, pressed against the iron railings of the fire escape, his movements so light he barely disturbed a speck of dust.

He wore an old-fashioned police tactical suit, a bulging tactical pack slung over his shoulder, his right hand always resting on the tactical flashlight at his waist—not for illumination, but for defense.

This was his old haunt, the starting point of his exile.

Thirteen years ago, it was in this building that he first donned white gloves and entered the evidence analysis room.

Now, it had become a forgotten corner: abandoned labs, powerless surveillance, rusted locks—a tomb burying the truth.

Tonight, he would dig it open again.

At the end of the corridor, the room that once served as the technicians’ lounge now sported a new lock, a fresh police seal pasted across the door with “Unauthorized Entry Prohibited” stamped in red.

Yet the edge of the seal had begun to lift, as if someone had torn it and then carefully pressed it back—someone had been here.

Song Zhao crouched, pressing his ear to the crack beneath the door.

Inside, there was breathing—weak but rhythmic, as if deliberately suppressed.

And a ticking sound, strange and irregular—not a clock, but three short, seven long, then a pause—identical to the secret code Lin tapped on the table during the hearing.

His pupils contracted slightly.

Lamp signals.

They were using sound to transmit information, just as the “Night Watchmen of Cold Cases” code once circulated among the technical squad.

But this room was no longer under police jurisdiction—who was responding? Who was listening?

He drew a yellowed keycard from his tactical bag—Old Yang had given it, claiming it was a long-defunct backup access card from the lab.

But Old Yang remembered this: during the 2003 “Clearing Source Operation,” all access systems were briefly connected to an independent server to isolate sensitive data. The server’s encryption key was still embedded in some old card chips.

Song Zhao took a deep breath and slid the card into the reader.

The green light should have blinked, but this time, the alarm lamp inside flashed faintly and died, as though a remote hand had severed the signal.

The system was monitored.

He did not hesitate. With insulated pliers and conductive gel, he short-circuited the lock within three seconds—a sharp click as the door sprang open.

3:04 a.m., inside the lounge.

The air was thick with mingled scents of disinfectant and sweat.

Xiao Liu was tied to a swivel chair, wrists connected to a heart-rate monitor, the green curve on the screen fluctuating wildly.

His eyes were shut tight; headphones covered his ears, playing a low-frequency chant eerily synchronized with the ticking.

Printouts covered the walls, red lines connecting them into a sprawling flowchart, the title bold: “Clearing Source Operation—Data Purification and Personnel Recovery Plan.”

A single name was circled, marked “Pending Recovery”—Xiao Liu.

Song Zhao swiftly cut the power and removed the headphones.

Xiao Liu’s eyes snapped open, pupils contracting violently, lips trembling, his voice squeezed from the depths of his throat: “They made me sign…if I sign, I’m free…”

“If you sign, they’ll grant you ‘complete freedom’.” Song Zhao’s voice was cold as ice.

He tore off the straps binding Xiao Liu’s wrists; his fingers paused as they touched the skin—cold, clammy, pulse racing.

This was not fear—it was a drug reaction.

He lifted Xiao Liu’s eyelids; the pupils were sluggish to light, classic signs of residual neural inhibitors.

“What did they inject you with?”

“…Memory screening agent…said it was ‘clearing redundant data’…” Xiao Liu gasped, “But I still remember…I backed up…USB drive…under my insole…”

Song Zhao immediately squatted, pried open the right shoe’s insole, and extracted a tiny USB drive, its surface etched with: B-7 Cold Storage · Original Log.

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His heart jolted.

Was this the log backup Su Wan restored from the mirror of the Republic-era household registry system?

It should have been buried deep within the municipal archives—how did it end up in Xiao Liu’s hands?

And how had Lin Haoyu’s private server accessed the police access system?

Too many questions, too little time.

He hoisted Xiao Liu onto his shoulder and moved quickly toward the fire exit.

3:38 a.m., during extraction.

The stairwell was pitch-black, the flashlight’s beam flickered and went out.

Song Zhao pressed close to the wall, footsteps as light as a cat’s.

Just as he reached the second-floor landing, the iron door above was thrown open with a clang, footsteps echoing down the stairwell.

The pursuers had arrived.

He immediately killed the light, stuffed Xiao Liu into the ventilation duct, and replaced the maintenance panel.

He shed the tactical suit’s outer layer, pulled from his bag a faded lab coat—his old one, the left chest still clipped with the technical team’s badge.

Draped in the coat, he deliberately made his steps heavier, heading down the opposite stairwell, leather shoes thudding dully against concrete.

At the corner, his fingers brushed the peeling wall.

Golden lines shimmered in his pupils.

[Eye of Truth · Activated]

A vision flashed—the two men in black jackets guarded the exit below, stun batons in hand. One wore a micro-earpiece, murmuring, “Target has entered Building B, expected to reach first floor in three minutes. Order: capture alive, bring to ‘Quiet Room’ for processing.”

The vision faded, pain exploded in his head, his sight blurred for a moment.

Song Zhao gritted his teeth and redirected toward the ventilation shaft.

He climbed the maintenance ladder, the roar of the exhaust fan masking his ascent.

The spinning blades’ noise formed a wall of sound, hiding him.

He knew these men were not ordinary thugs, but “Lamp Slaves”—shadow enforcers controlled by the ghosts within the system, tasked with purging “redundant witnesses.”

Xiao Liu had nearly become the next “closed case,” a silent file.

4:56 a.m., temporary medical point.

A basement in an abandoned community clinic, oxygen tanks and first-aid kits strewn about.

Xiao Liu lay on a camp bed, face pale, breathing gradually steadying.

Su Wan crouched beside him, cleaning his ear canal with a saline-soaked cotton swab.

Song Zhao stood in the corner, staring at the USB drive, hesitant to plug it into the laptop.

Suddenly, Xiao Liu’s fingers twitched, a hoarse syllable rasped from his throat.

“They used ‘Clearing Source’…as a foundation…”

4:56 a.m., temporary medical point.

The air was thick with the metallic tang of iodine, an emergency lamp overhead flickering, casting swaying shadows like a countdown signal.

Xiao Liu’s fingers spasmed, his Adam’s apple rolling, a hoarse syllable echoing as if clawed from a deep well.

“They used ‘Clearing Source’…as a foundation…”

Su Wan snapped her head up, cotton swab frozen, the medicated liquid dripping onto the floor, spreading a dark stain.

She instinctively looked to Song Zhao, her gaze filled with suspicion and alertness—the name was scrawled in Old Yang’s old files, a hasty note: “Clearing Source Operation, 2003, data archiving terminated, classified: Top Secret.”

Song Zhao crouched, pressing his fingertips to Xiao Liu’s carotid artery, pulse still unstable but consciousness returning.

He urged quietly, “Who led ‘Clearing Source’? What else do you remember?”

Xiao Liu’s eyelids trembled violently, lips moved several times before finally squeezing out fragmented sentences: “Not files…people…any technician who might overturn the case…marked…system auto-pushes ‘purification process’…I…I hid a third piece of evidence…”

His hand struggled into his undershirt, extracting a folded, yellowed slip, its edges softened by sweat.

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Song Zhao took it, and as he unfolded it, his breath caught.

It was an original submission slip from twenty years ago, number B-07-193, evidence type: blood sample (suspected homicide scene), submitting unit: Jiangcheng Public Security Bureau Criminal Investigation Team Evidence Division, received by: Wang Zhenguo (then Director of Evidence Center).

Beneath Director Wang’s neat signature, a tiny pencil annotation nearly erased by time—

“Sample abnormal, recommend re-examination.”

Song Zhao’s fingertips pressed hard against the line, knuckles white.

This note should not exist.

Original submission slips must be archived with pen or marker; pencil annotations cannot be scanned into the archive system.

More crucially, this document had been labeled “destroyed” during the 2004 “Clearing Source” data migration—even electronic backups were gone.

Yet it was here, warm from the body, carrying the silent fury of twenty years hidden.

“Where did you get this?” His voice was hoarse.

“Cold storage log…B-7…that day I pulled the original evidence video, found a segment physically overwritten…but the magnetic head’s residual signal could be restored…this slip…is the real initial test record…the later ‘no abnormality’ report…was rewritten.” Xiao Liu gasped, eyes bloodshot, “They…swapped the sample…and the people…Director Wang…he didn’t sign…he was forced…”

He broke off, coughing violently, foam bubbling at his lips.

Su Wan steadied his shoulder, “The neural inhibitor is causing pulmonary edema—he needs hospital care!”

“No.” Song Zhao stood, eyes sharp as a blade, “He’s ‘dead’ now. The hospital is compromised. On the Lamp Slaves’ cleanup list, he’s off ‘pending recovery’—now ‘closed case’.”

He carefully sealed the submission slip in an anti-static bag, slid it into his tactical pack, and opened the laptop, connecting the USB.

The screen lit up, the progress bar creeping slowly—B-7 Cold Storage Original Log decrypting.

The directory appeared:

[July 20, 2003]_External Access Log (Lin’s Charity Foundation, authorized by: L.H.Y)
[July 21, 2003]_System Self-Destruct Command Executed (Clearing Source Protocol Initiated)

Song Zhao’s finger hovered over the first file, unable to click.

Su Wan gently gripped his wrist, “What are you afraid of?”

He did not answer.

It wasn’t the truth he feared, but the closed loop behind it—

That car crash was no accident;
His father’s death was not the end;
And “Clearing Source” was never just data cleansing—

It was a ritual burying the living.

6:11 a.m., rooftop before dawn.

Wind swept in from the river, carrying the chill of blood and salt.

Song Zhao stood at the edge of the abandoned water tank, encrypted and bundled the evidence photos, and sent them anonymously to Dong Lan.

When the transmission succeeded, he looked up at the Municipal Bureau—the building he once swore to protect, now silent as a tombstone in the morning mist.

Xiao Liu leaned against the rooftop parapet, gazing at the brightening eastern horizon, murmuring, “I thought no one would come…I thought I was already dead.”

Song Zhao looked at his pale face, remembering the day he was suspended, the silent corridor as he handed over his badge.

The silver emblem he had worn for thirteen years was sealed in an evidence bag, as insignificant as discarded scrap.

He said quietly, “You’re not dead. You still remember your name—that’s enough.”

In the distance, a funeral van slowly emerged from the Bureau’s underground garage, its roof light dark, the body black as ink.

But on the rear bumper, a fresh blue paint handprint stood out—like someone, in their final moment, left an indelible mark with blood-stained fingers.