Chapter 13: The Rift in Still Waters

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Six o’clock in the morning, the light in the Municipal Discipline Inspection’s conversation room was blindingly white, as if a dull blade pressed against the back of Sun Lihua’s neck, raising a fine, burning pain, like countless needles pricking gently.

The air was thick with the chill scent of disinfectant mixed with old plastic, cold enough to make her teeth ache.

She curled up in a blue plastic chair, its surface icy and hard, digging painfully into her tailbone.

The silver bracelet on her wrist, trembling, collided with itself in a series of delicate chimes—she’d bought it with her bonus when her son Xiaoyu was three, and inside were two crooked characters carved for safety. When her fingertips traced the indented letters, it felt like touching a faded tenderness from long ago.

The documents pushed over by Song Zhao cast a shadow on the table; at the bottom of the "Medical Assistance Green Channel Confirmation Letter," the red stamp of the provincial bureau glared like a drop of solidified blood.

The paper’s edges curled slightly, still warm from the printer.

She stared at the name “Xiaoyu,” her throat tightening, her voice dry and scraping like sandpaper: "You...aren’t afraid I’ll deceive you?"

Song Zhao wasn’t wearing his uniform; his jacket sleeves, washed to pale, were frayed, and the rough fabric scraped the table’s edge with a soft sound reminiscent of his days crouched at crime scenes.

He leaned forward, elbows on the table, tapping the document with steady, low fingers: "I’ve reviewed your son’s medical records three times. Last Friday’s dialysis ended at two a.m.; you forwarded the encrypted data to Zhao Zhenbang at 2:07. The monitoring in the dialysis room—I checked that too. When you carried Xiaoyu out, his oxygen tube was still on his nose, his breathing barely audible, like wind passing through an empty bottle."

Sun Lihua’s fingers suddenly dug into the chair’s seam, her nails scraping over the plastic burrs, pain shooting from her fingertips to her chest.

She recalled the late night last Wednesday, Zhao Zhenbang’s message slithering into her phone like a venomous snake, the blue glow burning her eyes: “Your son’s dialysis slot—I can have the provincial hospital hold it, or have him wait three months starting tomorrow.” Xiaoyu was feverish, his forehead hot enough to cook an egg; she paced the corridor, clutching her phone, the tiles icy beneath her feet.

Outside, raindrops struck the eaves, each one pounding her eardrums, until the message tone pierced the silence again: “Send me access to the Technical Team’s evidence registration system. Consider it a transaction.”

“If you meant to harm me, you wouldn’t choose two a.m. to send the data.” Song Zhao’s voice was gentle as warm jade, flowing quietly against her eardrums. “At that hour, the system log’s inspection bot is asleep; you deliberately picked the least conspicuous path.” He took out a packet of tissues, the paper slightly rough, and slid it to her. “You’re not a traitor. You’ve been cornered.”

Sun Lihua’s tears splashed onto the document, blurring the red stamp, ink bleeding in the water like blood in snow.

The salty liquid slipped into her mouth; she didn’t wipe it away, letting it drip from her chin.

She remembered, three days ago, when Song Zhao’s apartment caught fire and she shivered under her quilt—Zhao Zhenbang had said, “For those who don’t obey.”

The crackling of flames seemed to echo still; the acrid smoke made her cough all night.

Yet, as the fire climbed onto the balcony, she found herself at her computer, quietly deleting three crucial digits from the “Evidence Code List” Zhao Zhenbang demanded.

The keystrokes were light as a cat on velvet, but thundered in her heart.

“Zhao Zhenbang said...as long as I don’t speak, no one will know it’s me...” She looked up, sobbing, tears filling the fine lines at her eyes, her voice broken as leaves in the wind. “But they set fire...to your home, not mine. I didn’t dare cry, afraid Xiaoyu would ask why Mommy was sad.”

Three sharp knocks sounded on the conversation room door, like the echo of a heartbeat.

Song Zhao looked up, seeing Dong Lan’s message flash on his phone: “IP trace complete, come quickly.” Blue light flickered in his pupils and vanished.

He stood, pushing his chair back, the plastic legs scraping the floor with a short squeal: “The Provincial Children’s Hospital’s vehicle will be at your home at nine. Once Xiaoyu is admitted, tell me everything you know—including the encrypted software Zhao Zhenbang gave you and which cloud drive it’s stored in.”

Sun Lihua gripped the document, the edge cutting her palm, the silver bracelet pressing painfully into her wrist, its cold metal climbing up her veins.

She watched Song Zhao’s silhouette disappear at the door, then suddenly called out: “The account he uses is ‘LJY2003’! He said it’s Li Jianye’s old number from the Archives Section, but I’ve seen the login device...”

Song Zhao’s steps halted.

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He turned his face, morning light slicing in from the window, casting a shadow across his jaw like a blade over stone: “I know.”

The air conditioning in the Provincial Technical Office was set low; cold drafts brushed his neck, raising goosebumps.

Dong Lan’s fingers flew across the keyboard, green code flickering on the screen like fluorescent creatures in the deep sea.

She heard the door open and didn’t look back: “The third-tier proxy server is in Deep City, the fourth—” She broke off, seeing Song Zhao slap a sticky note labeled “LJY2003” onto the desk, its curled corner snapping crisply.

“The MAC address of the login device is the spare laptop in Zhao Zhenbang’s office.” Song Zhao dragged a chair over and sat, the leather seat creaking softly. “Sun Lihua just told me.”

Dong Lan’s fingers paused midair, her nails thudding against the spacebar.

She pulled up a surveillance screenshot: Zhao Zhenbang locking a black laptop in a drawer—the same device the logistics department registered as “idle equipment” last week.

The metallic click of the lock seemed to echo through the screen.

“They’re using dead accounts as active relays.” She clicked, pulling up a network map, its lines tangled like a spider’s web. “The logistics department has seven similar accounts, all tied to officers who’ve transferred or retired.”

Song Zhao stared at the tangled lines on screen, his Adam’s apple moving as if swallowing rust: “This isn’t a leak—it’s parasitism. They’ve entwined their own network in the police system.”

That afternoon, the Technical Team’s archive room had its blinds drawn tight, the fluorescent lights buzzing low, like mosquitoes circling his ears.

Song Zhao leafed through “2003 Zhaoyang Lane Demolition Compensation Details (Copy),” the “Top Secret” stamp on its cover shimmering coldly under the lights, ink and mildew mingling in his nose.

He deliberately flipped the register loudly: “Sister Wang, could you help me locate Evidence Box 93?”

The elderly officer looked up from her files: “Xiao Song? That box is on the third row of Zone B, but—”

“Found it!” Song Zhao interrupted, his finger pounding the register, the pages trembling. “Review time: 16:30; applicant: Song Zhao.” Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the surveillance camera’s red light blinking in the corner, like an eye opening in darkness, tightening the string inside his heart.

Fifteen minutes later, his phone vibrated against his thigh.

Dong Lan’s voice message carried a static buzz: “Sun Lihua’s workstation computer auto-logged in, downloading the file you just reviewed.”

Song Zhao looked out at the plane trees beyond the archive’s window, their leaves turning white in the wind, like countless frightened eyes.

He pulled out his phone and messaged Dong Lan: “They’re still inside the system—even if the person’s gone, the account lives.”

That night, Song Zhao’s rented apartment was filled with the bitter scent of instant coffee, powder clumping in brown sediment at the cup’s bottom.

Su Wan crouched on the floor, tearing open a stack of file folders, paper rasping in the silence: “Land maps to the construction archives, ledger codes to evidence tags... You’re turning the evidence into a puzzle?”

“They can hack one system, not three.” Song Zhao scanned the last photo of Li Xiaoyun into the library’s facial database, the scanner emitting a low hum. “The library’s firewall is run by the Provincial Culture Department; Zhao Zhenbang’s reach doesn’t extend that far.”

Su Wan’s fingers hovered over the keyboard, her nails pale at the edges.

The library’s alert window popped up: “Detected abnormal batch download, target: scholarship project student borrowing records.” She screenshotted quickly, the IP address field reading “Municipal Bureau Intranet,” its red warning burning her retina.

“It’s Li Xiaoyun’s activity trail.” Song Zhao imported the screenshot into analysis software, twenty-seven borrowing points traced a line across the map like a winding snake. “They want to piece together her last three months.” He grabbed his jacket, fabric rustling against his shoulder. “Start the reverse tracking protocol—I’ve already applied for provincial permissions.”

Six hours later, the tracker pinged a location: third floor private suite, Yinlu Clubhouse.

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Song Zhao stared at the surveillance feed: Zhao Zhenbang was toasting glasses with a man in a baseball cap, the clear clink of glass echoing through the screen. On the table, an A4 sheet lay open, a floor plan of Song Zhao’s apartment circled in red—three points marked: kitchen gas valve, bedroom outlet, balcony security mesh.

“They’re planning to burn it again.” Su Wan’s voice trembled, taut as a string in the wind.

Song Zhao said nothing.

He opened his laptop and dragged the completed “Information Parasitic Network Analysis Report” into an email attachment.

The recipient field—Central Inspection Team, Provincial Discipline Committee, Public Security Cyber Bureau—looked like three steel nails hammered into the screen.

The moment he clicked send, his phone chimed sharply, the tone piercing his eardrum like a needle.

An unsigned message: “Your father reached this point, too—then he chose silence.”

Sender’s registered address: Jiang City Funeral Home, old site.

Song Zhao stared at the screen, the sound of rain beating on the window suddenly clear, each drop striking his nerves.

He pulled out the iron box his father left him; the characters on the film glowed warm yellow under the lamp: “If technology is used to erase memory, justice will die in silence.” He gently laid the film atop Sun Lihua’s USB drive, the soft clink of metal like a sigh.

“He was silent because no one could hear.” He typed a reply to the message: “Now, I am here.”

The storm poured down at three a.m.

Song Zhao stood by the window, watching the rain snake down the glass, distorting the city lights like memories blurred by tears.

Below, the plane trees were battered by wind, a dead leaf slapped the window and was washed away, leaving only a wet mark behind.

He didn’t know that three kilometers away, in Yinlu Clubhouse, the man in the baseball cap was sneering at his phone, lips curled in a cold arc.

He pressed send, a command tunneling through the network into Song Zhao’s apartment’s smart electric meter—the device Zhao Zhenbang had installed last month under the pretense of "old neighborhood renovation."

“Let him think he’s won.” The man downed a shot, the bottom of the glass thudding against the table. “When dawn comes, he won’t even have a place to stand.”

At dawn after the storm, Song Zhao squatted in front of his burned-out apartment.

The charred door frame was still dripping water, the curled wallpaper looked like peeled wounds, exuding a stinging mix of burnt wood and melted plastic.

He pulled out the filmstrip from his pocket, rainwater sliding down the gold chain into his collar, cold as a snake.

In the distance, a siren wailed, coming near then fading away.

He looked at the wreckage and suddenly smiled—they burned his home, but they couldn’t burn the evidence in the iron box.

Nor could they burn away the golden light in his eyes.