Chapter 12: Light in the Dark Room

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At 3:17 a.m., Song Zhao stood in front of the law enforcement vehicle temporarily dispatched by the provincial bureau, the dull ache from the fading Eye of Truth still lingering at the back of his neck—a burning sensation spreading from deep within the skull, as if fine needles were piercing his nerve endings again and again, every breath tugging at the throbbing in his temples.

When Dong Lan slapped a copy of the investigation order into his palm, the paper’s sharp edge left his skin itching, a faint red scratch blooming across his hand.

It was a special “Pharmaceutical Compliance Inspection” permit, issued by the provincial bureau, the red seal pressed so heavily that the ink nearly bled through the paper, its dark luster gleaming dimly in the morning mist, like congealed blood.

“I’ve had someone hack the Lin Training Center’s security system.” Dong Lan tugged at her police uniform collar; beneath her shirt, the bulletproof vest had etched a deep groove into her skin, the faint rasp of metal clasps and zippers mingling in the silence. “The surveillance in the psychological intervention room cut off half an hour ago. They may have noticed.” Her voice was low and hoarse, like a blade dulled by the night wind.

Her gaze flicked to the back seat—Su Wan clutched the library’s official document pouch, the tips of her hair damp with night dew, carrying a chill that shimmered under the streetlamp. A fine-toothed wooden comb slipped through her fingers, its gentle rasp through her hair sounding unnaturally clear in the quiet of the car. “Is that girl really going in with us?”

“The seal from the Ancient Books Department is more useful than a police badge.” Song Zhao touched the law enforcement recorder at his waist. The metal casing was cold against his skin, like a sliver of iron fished from icy water.

He remembered Su Wan the night before, crouched under the evidence center’s desk lamp, making a rubbing of the official letter—the soft yellow light spilled over the old scar on her wrist (inflicted by a trafficker’s broken glass when she was fourteen), the scar a pale pink ridge in the glow. As she pressed the vermilion ink for the final seal, her fingertip trembled, the scent of inkstone and cinnabar mingling in the air. “Back then, when you rescued me, you burst in just like this, holding up your badge.” Her voice was as light as a falling leaf.

As the law enforcement vehicle turned onto the tree-lined drive of the Lin Training Center, Song Zhao’s knuckles whitened, his nails digging crescent moons into his palm.

At the gate, as the security guard approached, Dong Lan rolled down the window and showed her credentials. The police lights flashed harshly across her epaulettes, red and blue strobes dancing on the concrete like a silent warning.

Su Wan was the first to step out, hugging the document pouch to her chest as if it were some fragile ancient tome.

Her steps were light, her shoes crackling softly on fallen leaves. The night wind played through her hair, swaying the jasmine sachet at her collar—one Song Zhao had found at an old book market last year; the fabric was fading, but the fragrance was still fresh and clear, just like the wild jasmine she used to wear at thirteen.

The psychological intervention room was at the far end of the third floor, guarded by fingerprint and password.

Song Zhao pulled out the permissions list copied from Sun Lihua’s USB drive. As he keyed in “Lin Haoyu’s birthday,” the lock clicked open, the mechanical sound echoing down the empty corridor like a triggered trap.

The stench of disinfectant mixed with the musty scent of old paper flooded out, the acrid chemical reek biting into their nostrils, tinged with a metallic tang like rust.

The file cabinet against the wall was coated in dust; his fingertips traced clean marks across its surface.

In the keyhole of the lowest drawer was a broken key—just like the “data transfer” scene in Sun Lihua’s replayed memory, the position identical, the break jagged as if it had been forced.

“Here.” Su Wan’s voice dropped suddenly, her fingertip resting on a hardcover logbook. The gilded serial number “ZY – MR – 03” gleamed coldly in the cell phone’s flashlight, like the eye of some cold-blooded creature.

As Song Zhao took the log, the rough edge scraped his finger, leaving a prickling sting.

The first page bore a one-inch photo of Li Xiaoyun. On the back, written in red pen: “Dismemberment case survivor, memory intervention priority A.” The ink was a deep red, as if freshly written, the tip bleeding slightly into the paper.

When he turned to the entry for August 15, 2023, Song Zhao’s breath hitched.

“Subject mentioned father’s ledger; successfully induced belief that ‘father is insane, ledger is a hallucination.’” The ink was still wet, the paper tacky, as if just added—a hurried, urgent scrawl.

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He heard Dong Lan draw a sharp breath behind him, the red glow of the law enforcement recorder pulsing on the logbook like an anxious heartbeat. “This is mental manipulation—it’s worse than the old brain control experiments.”

The counseling room door was locked from the inside.

As Song Zhao kicked the door open, splinters burst out, sending dust from the ceiling’s mesh drifting down, musty with age.

Li Xiaoyun was curled in the corner, knees drawn to her chest, the old scars on her wrists dark and jagged, gleaming yellowish under the dim light.

When she raised her head, Song Zhao was reminded of the scene at the dismemberment case five years ago—she had been just seventeen, sobbing to breathlessness outside the police tape. Now her pupils were dilated, her gaze clouded as if frosted over, the whites tinged yellow, reflecting no light.

“Li Xiaoyun.” Su Wan knelt, her voice gentle as if coaxing a frightened cat, her fingertips brushing trembling hair, brittle as straw.

She unwound her silk scarf, gently draping it over Li Xiaoyun’s exposed wrists. The cool touch of silk slid over her skin. “Do you remember the girl in the blue dress? That was you. Your thirteenth birthday—your mother bought it for you, the hem embroidered with little daisies.”

Li Xiaoyun’s lashes quivered, like a flame about to die in the wind.

Song Zhao saw a glimmer of light struggling in her eyes, like a match scraped against a dark wall, weak but persistent.

“Blue… dress.” She squeezed out the words, suddenly grabbing Su Wan’s wrist, nails digging in, her fingers icy and trembling. “My dad… he said the ledger… isn’t a hallucination.”

Song Zhao quickly pulled out his phone, scrolling to the crime scene photos the forensic doctor Chen had reconstructed for him—the blood-soaked ledger he had photographed twenty times before the writing became barely legible.

Li Xiaoyun’s fingers trembled violently, her nail tapping the line “ZY – 07” as if tapping Morse code, leaving a faint smear of sweat on the screen. “My dad said… this is the key.”

On the ride back, Dong Lan’s phone rang shrilly, the ringtone piercing the enclosed space.

A colleague from the technical division said, “Alpha-hydroxybutyric acid is a memory intervention agent developed by a foreign organization, banned by the UN three years ago. The approval stamp on the first purchase order…” She paused. “It’s Zhou Mingyuan’s electronic signature from when he was deputy police chief in 2002.”

Song Zhao’s grip tightened on the seat, the leather creaking softly beneath his palm.

Streetlights slashed through the window, casting fractured shadows across his face, light and darkness interlaced like a mask.

He drew the police knife his father had left him—the sheath was old oxhide, its edges polished smooth, the leather warm and furrowed with the years.

A microfilm tucked in the hilt pressed against his palm. When he developed it in the police darkroom, Song Zhao’s breath nearly stopped: on the yellowed page was printed “Alpha-hydroxybutyric acid Human Experiment Report,” and at the bottom, his father’s handwriting cut through the paper: “If this technology is used to erase memory, justice will die in silence.”

The fifth time he used the Eye of Truth, golden lines crawled from his pupils to fill the whites of his eyes, his vision warping, a low-frequency hum in his ears like a bell tolling from the depths of the earth.

The microfilm pressed to his palm, he could hear the blood in his temples beating like war drums, each pulse sending shivers through his skull.

In the vision, his father stood in the police archive room, facing a man with gold-rimmed glasses—that was Professor Liu, the city bureau’s consulting psychologist from twenty years ago, who had vanished three years back.

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“They want to use ‘forgetting’ as a substitute for judgment.” Professor Liu’s voice carried the academic’s cold detachment, calm yet chilling. “But some memories must never be erased.”

“So we record them.” His father’s hand rested on the archive cabinet, knuckles white with force, the wood creaking beneath his grip. “With film, with journals, with everything they can’t delete.”

As the golden lines faded, Song Zhao’s nose bled onto the microfilm, spreading a dark red stain. The warmth slid down his nostrils, spattering his collar with rust-colored dots.

He wiped his nose and laughed aloud, the sound rebounding in the darkroom, startling the developing fluid into ripples—so his father had been waiting for this day all along, waiting for his son to become the hammer that shatters the lock.

At eleven that night, Su Wan’s knock startled the night birds from the window, their wings slicing through the silence.

She entered Song Zhao’s rented apartment with a stack of evidence, the must of ancient tomes clinging to her hair, damp paper and dust mingling in the air. “There’s an entry in Li Xiaoyun’s log, September 5, 2023: ‘Subject mentioned Officer Song rescued a girl from a trafficker’s den, marked as associated memory interference source.’” Her hands shook as she opened the log, the pages sighing. “They know you saved me… They’ve been watching your life since you were fourteen.”

Song Zhao said nothing.

He stood by the window, moonlight washing over his shoulders, stretching his shadow long across the wall, a silent monument.

In the attic of his father’s old house, he had just sealed the microfilm and Sun Lihua’s flash drive in an iron box, locked in the bottom of the safe—the place where his father kept old case files, untouched for twenty years.

His phone vibrated; a message from Lu Yuan flashed: “Zhou Mingyuan tried to leave the country for a conference—border control stopped him over his papers. What’s your next move?”

Song Zhao gazed at the moonlight outside, speaking softly: “It’s time the ones who want us to forget… start to fear.”

At 5:40 a.m., the first lights came on in the commission’s interview room at city headquarters.

Sun Lihua curled up in the blue chair, the silver bracelet on her wrist tapping the table with a delicate, ticking rhythm—like the countdown of a clock.

She stared at the surveillance camera on the wall, her Adam’s apple bobbing as if she wanted to speak—

When the door opened, she looked up abruptly.

It wasn’t an investigator—it was Song Zhao.

He held the “Memory Intervention Log” in his hand, the gilded serial number gleaming coldly in the morning light.

“Sun Lihua.” Song Zhao slid the journal before her. “There’s still time to talk.”