Chapter 14: Ashen Whispers

On a morning after a night of torrential rain, Song Zhao crouched at the threshold of his burned apartment.

Rainwater slid down the folds of the fireproof cloth, droplets splattering against the scorched ground and raising tiny flecks of mud. Each drop fell with a soft “tick, tick,” like the pendulum of a clock counting down.

He wore thin rubber gloves; as he knelt, his knee pressed painfully against a shard of broken tile—slip-resistant tiles he’d replaced just last month, now their pattern blurred by fire. His fingertips traced the jagged edge, the rough ceramic scraping his palm as if caressing a memory consumed by flames.

The stench of char and damp earth seeped into his nostrils, mingling with fragments of wall plaster, bitterly choking his throat. Every breath felt like swallowing a handful of searing iron grit.

Wallpaper curled into ash-black fragments, edges rolled like withered leaves, trembling in the breeze—wounds stripped of skin, oozing dark pus. The metal remains of the kitchen’s gas valve glinted coldly in the rain, rust spreading like spider webs: the arsonist’s first breach.

Song Zhao reached out to sift through the remnants of his desk. Charred splinters of wood tumbled away; suddenly, his fingers encountered something alien—a half-burned notebook page, its edges carbonized and curled like butterfly wings brushed by fire. In the center, a line of pencil barely legible: “SMZ2003 → Logistics Intranet →…”

“SMZ…” he whispered, his Adam’s apple bobbing, voice rasping like sandpaper against iron.

SMZ was the initialism of his father, Song Mingzhao; 2003 was the year his father’s disaster struck.

The instant his fingertips touched the paper, golden patterns flickered in his pupils, his temples pulsed as though needles pierced his skull.

A vision flashed, blinding white—at 3:17 a.m., streetlights blurred in the rain, distorted shadows reflected in the puddles.

A figure crouched outside the door, left hand gripping a gasoline bottle, right hand clad in police-issue rubber gloves, knuckles pale from strain; a shoulder badge gleamed in the water, its cracks branching in a “Y” shape, like a vicious scar, quivering with the ripples.

A sudden explosion of pain split his head. Staggering, Song Zhao braced himself against the wall, palm scraping the peeling paint, rough particles embedding in his skin as darkness clouded his vision and his eardrums roared like the tide.

Through the haze, a faint voice pierced the chaos: “…Don’t leave fingerprints. Use tweezers.” His lashes trembled violently—since the awakening of his “Eye of Truth,” it was the first time he’d heard a voice from beyond the vision. It sounded like current leaking from a scorched wire, tinged with the chill of metal.

“Song Zhao!”

Su Wan’s voice called from behind.

She ran over, umbrella held high, its ribs whispering in the wind. Water dripped from her hair, staining her shoulders with dark spots, a plastic bag clenched in her hand. “I bought hot porridge. You haven’t eaten since last night—”

She broke off, her gaze landing on his pale, trembling knuckles.

Song Zhao looked down. Only then did he realize his hand, clutching the half-burned page, was shaking—the carbonized edge almost crumbling, its sharpness biting into his palm and leaving faint scratches.

He took a deep breath and carefully slipped the page into an evidence bag. “To the provincial bureau. Find Dong Lan.”

The technical lab at the provincial bureau was chilled by strong air conditioning, cold wind brushing his arms and raising goosebumps.

Dong Lan removed her blue-light glasses. The red beam of the infrared scanner danced across the charred paper, like a mechanical insect crawling over burnt ash.

“Ninety percent of the IP records were destroyed, but the remaining port numbers match the encrypted protocols of the 2003 logistics intranet.” She pushed the comparison report across the table, the sound of paper scraping unusually clear in the silence. “Y-shaped fracture shoulder badge—throughout the city, only Deputy Section Chief Zhao Zhenbang of Logistics and two patrol officers have badges with this aging mark.”

“Patrol officers?” Song Zhao tapped the report with his fingertips, his voice deep.

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“Last night, I reviewed their patrol logs.” Dong Lan pulled up surveillance screenshots, blue light reflecting in her glasses. “At three a.m., those two officers were dealing with a drunken brawl at the South City night market—impossible for them to be at your apartment.” She opened Zhao Zhenbang’s office login log. “Look here—at 3:14, he remotely accessed the intranet using a backup laptop, timing perfectly with the arson.”

Song Zhao stared at the timestamp on the screen, his throat tightening. “Systemic parasitism.”

“Exactly.” Dong Lan compressed the evidence into an encrypted file, her keyboard clicks crisp as rainfall. “They didn’t act alone—they used logistics permissions to cover up the traces of arson.” She suddenly looked up, her gaze piercing through her glasses. “What will you do?”

“Bait them.” Song Zhao pulled out the iron box his father had left. The handwriting on the film glowed warm yellow in the lamp light, the metal edges cold and tingling against his fingertips. “They want to burn my home? I’ll give them something they want to burn even more.”

Su Wan’s attic apartment in the old district was cramped, its walls mottled, the floor squeaking beneath every step.

While Song Zhao tucked a forged “Sketch of Zhaoyang Lane Relocation Fund Flow” into an old case file, Su Wan pressed a teacup into his hand.

Warmth seeped through the ceramic, spreading from his palm and dispelling the chill in his fingertips, the rim bearing a faint trace of her lips.

She asked softly, “Do you remember what you said when you rescued me that day?”

Song Zhao’s movements paused.

Ten years ago—a memory blurred like a waterlogged newspaper, all that remained was the blood at the alley’s mouth and her trembling breath.

“You said, ‘Don’t be afraid. The evidence will speak.’” Su Wan’s fingertips brushed the clue map on the wall, the sound of paper so soft it was almost a sigh. “Now, it’s beginning to listen to you.”

Song Zhao gazed at the stray hair atop her head, sunlight slanting through the window and catching it in a pale glow. He smiled suddenly.

He pressed the film beneath his notebook, its edge biting into the back of his hand—painful, yet a confirmation: reality could still be touched.

The next day at noon, the steel cabinets of the technical team’s archive room gleamed coldly, their doors screeching as they opened and closed.

Clad in a faded police uniform, Song Zhao signed the ledger. “Requesting a review of ‘2003 Zhaoyang Lane Relocation Compensation Details (Copy).’” The administrator glanced at his suspension notice, hesitated, then handed over the key.

In the surveillance footage, an hour later, Sun Lihua’s intranet account suddenly logged in.

She had been suspended and under investigation for three days; now, she huddled on the sofa of her rented apartment, her phone screen glaring blue. The text came from an unknown number: “If you want to save your son, open this link.”

Her trembling finger tapped it.

The file title that popped up on the screen made her pupils contract: “Analysis of Abnormal Fund Flows in Zhaoyang Lane Relocation.”

The mouse clicked download uncontrollably—three times.

“They’re still crawling data using her identity,” Song Zhao said into the phone, eyes fixed on the surveillance replay, speaking to Dong Lan.

He looked out at the overcast sky, dividing the real evidence into three pieces. The cadastral map was stored in the urban construction archive, where the administrator asked, “Why suddenly check the old district?” He simply replied, “Sorting my father’s belongings,” his tone as calm as discussing the weather. The ledger number was entered into the evidence labeling system, which prompted “Associated with the unresolved case from 2003,” the sound clear as a bell. When Li Xiaoyun’s photo was embedded in the library’s facial database, Su Wan flashed an “OK” gesture in the rare books restoration room, her fingertip lightly touching her lips, as if sealing a secret.

On the third evening, the rare books department’s alarm pierced the dusk, its shrill electronic sound echoing through the empty corridors.

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Su Wan stared at the computer screen, fingers flying over the keyboard, the clatter as urgent as heavy rain—someone was exporting “Scholarship Program Student Borrowing Records” in bulk, the IP address jumping to the city bureau’s intranet.

As she uploaded the screenshot, Song Zhao’s phone vibrated.

“It’s the full activity map of Li Xiaoyun.” He imported the screenshot into the analysis software; twenty-seven borrowing sites connected on the map, forming a net tightening around the city.

Su Wan leaned closer, her hair brushing his hand, a ticklish sensation. “It matches the parts you’d pieced together before.”

Song Zhao launched the “Reverse Tracking Protocol,” embedding a lightweight log tracker into the data packet. When he pressed Enter, it made a crisp “click.”

Six hours later, the tracker returned its location—third-floor private room at Yinlu Club.

In the surveillance footage, Zhao Zhenbang and a man in a baseball cap clinked glasses, the sharp sound of collision echoing through the audio. Spread across the table, an A4 sheet showed the floor plan of Song Zhao’s apartment, three key areas circled in red ink, the marks still damp and glistening under the lights.

“Time to close the net.” Song Zhao shut the laptop and dialed Dong Lan.

Thunder rolled outside. He inserted the recorder into a USB port and murmured, “This time, it’s my turn to speak.”

At five a.m., the rain stopped.

Song Zhao lay on the attic’s folding bed, listening to the sounds of Su Wan warming milk in the kitchen—the hiss of the pot on the flame, the gentle clink of a ceramic spoon, all unusually clear in the quiet.

His phone screen suddenly lit up—a message from Dong Lan: “Sun Lihua’s account login record has locked the IP, right near the bureau.”

He turned over and sat up; daylight filtered through the torn mesh of the window, illuminating the clue map on the wall.

Li Xiaoyun’s photo, Zhao Zhenbang’s badge, Sun Lihua’s work card—all the fragments formed a net in the morning light.

At six a.m., the city bureau’s disciplinary interview room was lit with harsh white light, making the walls look like mortuary tiles.

Sun Lihua curled on her chair, clutching her son’s old backpack, its canvas corners worn to expose the cotton lining.

She stared at the surveillance replay on the table—the image showed her finger clicking “download,” but it wasn’t her action at all.

The door suddenly swung open; she jerked her head up, seeing Song Zhao standing at the threshold, his gaze sharp as a blade forged in ice.

“They used your son to threaten you,” Song Zhao said softly. “But now, it’s your turn to speak.”

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