Chapter 100: The Sleepless Evidence

Three days later, at the Provincial Evidence Center, in the temperature-controlled vault three floors underground.

Cold air condensed into tiny droplets along the edges of the metal shelves, only to be swiftly drawn away by the circulation system. The atmosphere was permeated with the near-eternal chill of archival paper mingled with disinfectant.

This was the graveyard of evidence, where the clamor of countless crimes had finally fallen silent.

Song Zhao stood before rows of towering filing cabinets, his usually dexterous hands appearing somewhat clumsy in the white gloves worn for handling evidence.

The team members were conducting their final inventory. All physical evidence from the “Renxu Case” would complete its paperwork here before being transported to the Supreme Procuratorate’s archives for permanent sealing.

This signified that the case, which had consumed innumerable lives and energies, would officially be closed with a final mark.

A seemingly perfect conclusion, yet riddled with cracks.

“Section A verified.”

“Section B confirmed.”

The team’s voices echoed monotonously through the empty vault.

Lin Wan was responsible for document verification. She sat behind a temporarily moved metal table, piles of case files towering before her.

Her movements were swift and precise, fingertips gliding over each evidence tag, matching them one by one to the inventory list.

Suddenly, her hand paused for half a second.

It was an unremarkable evidence bag containing a single black USB drive labeled simply: “D08.”

Amidst the mountain of evidence, it was as ordinary as a grain of sand.

Yet Lin Wan’s pupils contracted slightly. She recognized the format — a featureless but highly secure military-grade encryption format, identical to the raw data that Lu Chen had concealed within server partitions.

What was more troubling was that the source field on this piece of evidence was completely blank.

Without showing any reaction, she pressed the USB drive beneath a stack of documents, then glanced over at Cheng Ye not far away.

He was turned away, inspecting a server chassis reduced to a mere frame by fire.

Lin Wan lowered her head and quickly retrieved a hard drive duplicator disguised as a power bank from her bag. Silently, she connected the cable beneath the table.

The progress bar crept upward in the corner of the screen like a snake holding its breath.

The moment the copy completed, she withdrew the USB drive and returned it to its original place—all within thirty seconds, unnoticed.

She approached Song Zhao and slipped the duplicator into his coat pocket, lowering her voice to a whisper: “D08, unknown origin. Data format matches Lu Chen’s. I made a backup.”

Song Zhao’s body stiffened briefly before regaining composure. He simply nodded slightly.

That night, Song Zhao’s studio remained dark, save for the eerie glow of his computer screen.

He decrypted the encrypted data. What appeared was neither document nor image, but a video.

The footage trembled; the location seemed to be a makeshift autopsy room, with the background filled with the sound of a high-pressure water gun scrubbing the floor.

The camera focused on an examination table where a figure lay covered with a white sheet. From the exposed arm and fragments of uniform, it was clear this was a member of the special task force.

A man wearing a mask and protective goggles bent over the body, working with calm and practiced motions—as if handling an inanimate object.

Song Zhao’s heartbeat began to race uncontrollably.

The video timestamp showed it was recorded just two hours after the fire broke out.

Official reports had claimed all injured were rushed to hospital for treatment.

Yet here, the person who should have been in the ICU was lying on this table.

The camera slowly zoomed in as the man used tweezers to peel back the skin on the victim’s neck, revealing a clear circular indentation under the bright light.

That was not a scar left by smoke or flames, but a subcutaneous hemorrhage and tissue contusion caused by strangulation with a fine cord.

The man carefully measured the depth and width of the mark with a probe, rapidly scribbling notes into a nearby notebook.

Song Zhao’s breath caught.

The shape of the circular mark, the angle of strangulation, the manner in which the muscle was torn—he would never forget it.

Fifteen years ago, on his father’s cold corpse, the forensic pathologist had pointed out exactly the same kind of mark.

It was the killer’s unique signature method of murder.

At the end of the video, a metal nameplate on the edge of the workstation flashed into view, etched clearly:

Chief Examiner: Zhou Zhengsheng.

Song Zhao felt as if he had plunged into an ice cavern.

He finally understood.

Zhou Zhengsheng had not only tampered with the autopsy report, but after the fire, he had used a member of the special task force who was not yet truly brain dead to conduct a horrifying “death rehearsal.”

He tested his forged signs of asphyxiation on a living person to ensure they would deceive everyone, guaranteeing the report’s perfection.

This was no longer perjury—it was murder. At the very least, attempted murder.

This irrefutable evidence, enough to add a death penalty charge to Zhou Zhengsheng, disappeared without a trace after submission.

On the third day, he received a call from his superior, whose tone was gentle but resolute: “Song Zhao, this evidence has far-reaching implications. It involves people and matters that would cause a systemic public uproar. Stability is paramount now; it is advised not to pursue prosecution.”

“Stability?” Song Zhao nearly crushed his phone in his grip. “You want to trade a living person’s life for stability?”

Silence fell on the other end before a single sentence came through: “That is the organization’s decision.”

That afternoon, Chen Yan found him, his face grave as he handed over a cigarette.

“Higher-ups want to close this case quickly. They don’t want to tear open an even bigger rift. Do you understand? The bigger the crack, the more light leaks out—but not all of it is what you want to see.”

The evidence handover ceremony was held in the provincial public security hall. Flashbulbs flickered, the atmosphere solemn and grave.

Tang Yurou, as the representative, stood at the podium and read aloud the Statement on Evidence Archiving with a clear voice: “...We firmly believe that the dignity of the law is founded upon the cornerstone of evidence. Every piece of evidence deserves its rightful place, to be justly recorded in the annals of history.”

Applause filled the hall.

At the final step, the heads of both parties signed and sealed the boxes.

At that moment, Song Zhao suddenly stepped forward, taking a black archive box from the evidence transport vehicle and raising it high.

The room fell silent instantly; all cameras focused on him.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Song Zhao’s voice was low but carried throughout the hall, “this box contains evidence labeled ‘R08’ from the Renxu Case. Due to unresolved technical questions involved, and per the Special Evidence Custody Regulations, I will retain personal custody of it temporarily. Once the judicial system establishes a dedicated reception mechanism, I will transfer it accordingly.”

An uproar broke out.

This was a flagrant breach of protocol—removing an unstable factor from the closed system in front of all media.

The organizer’s leaders turned pale but, faced with countless live cameras, could not act on the spot.

Public opinion formed an invisible wall, temporarily shielding Song Zhao’s insubordination.

Under the complex gazes of all present, Song Zhao carried the box and descended from the stage expressionlessly.

Lin Wan followed quietly, whispering, “You took the spark with you.”

Song Zhao did not look back; his steps were steady, his voice as cold and hard as himself: “The spark should not be locked away in a cellar.”

At dusk, as the city lights began to twinkle, Shen Yan waited outside Song Zhao’s studio for a long time.

He looked much more haggard, the sharpness in his eyes replaced by a heavy exhaustion.

He said no more, simply placing an old brass key on Song Zhao’s desk.

“My father, Wei Chengyuan’s personal safe key,” Shen Yan’s voice was hoarse. “I opened it. No money, no assets—only this.” He pushed forward a thin notebook.

It was a handwritten confession.

Wei Chengyuan admitted to succumbing to pressure from certain parties years ago, helping to block critical information and steering the initial investigation astray.

But in blood-red ink, he repeatedly emphasized, “I only sealed lips. I never knew about the murder.”

“He was wrong. Dead wrong,” Shen Yan closed his eyes, masking his pain. “So, I want to atone with my expertise. Captain Song, I heard there’s a technical support project in the West. Please allow me...”

Song Zhao interrupted him, not glancing at the confession or touching the key.

His gaze fixed calmly on Shen Yan, like a still, deep pool.

“Atonement is not an exchange. When you truly understand the logs Lu Chen left behind, come back and talk to me about this.”

The night was deep and silent.

Song Zhao sat alone in the laboratory. On the precise operating table, the USB drive labeled “D08” was secured in a mount.

He activated the microscopic laser stripping device. A blue beam, thinner than a hair, moved precisely over the USB’s black coating like an invisible scalpel, peeling away layer by layer of its disguise.

When the final insulating layer vaporized, a stunning sight appeared.

Engraved on the metal substrate of the USB were a series of minuscule indentations, invisible without a high-powered microscope.

They were not letters, but a sequence of dots and dashes.

Morse code.

Song Zhao immediately began decoding.

When the last character translated, a set of latitude and longitude coordinates appeared clearly on the screen.

He input the coordinates into satellite maps; the location quickly locked in—a logistics park in a western border city, an abandoned transfer station No. 3.

He stared at the red marker on the map for a long moment, then opened an encrypted communication channel to the Western Criminal Investigation Technical Support Center, sending a brief message: “I’ll arrive next week.”

Outside the window, rain had begun to fall unbeknownst to him. The raindrops struck the glass with a dull, rhythmic sound.

After sending the message, Song Zhao removed his noise-canceling headphones worn for hours.

At the instant the world’s sounds flooded back into his ears, a sensation deep within his brain flared sharply.

It was not a sound or image, but a purer resonance related to the material components.

The soil sample analysis from that distant coordinate flashed through his mind—one trace mineral, an extremely rare hematite associated with volcanic rock...

Exactly matching the minute soil sample found on the soles at his father’s murder scene fifteen years ago.

Song Zhao slowly closed his eyes.

He heard his own heartbeat, crossing fifteen years of time, overlapping with that same rainy, bloodstained night.

In the darkness, a long-dormant silhouette finally began to emerge.

It was far larger and colder than any possibility he had imagined.