Chapter 20: The Bait Stirs, the Wind Rises

At six in the morning, the evidence analysis meeting room at Jiang City Bureau was shrouded in gloom, sliced open by the faint daylight that seeped through the blinds like the edge of a rusted blade. Dust particles floated in the air, rolling lazily within shafts of slanted light, mingling with the musty odor from the old carpet and the lingering scent of last night's unwashed coffee.

The sound of Song Zhao's cane tapping the floor—"tap, tap, tap"—struck the nerves of everyone present, echoing deep in the ear like a pendulum’s relentless beat. The cleaning lady, her hand frozen mid-wipe, stared at him—this former technical officer, suspended for nearly half a year, now with his left eye wrapped in a faintly blood-stained bandage and his right eye bloodshot from a sleepless night. His faded police jacket hung loosely off one shoulder, exposing a white shirt stained with coffee and, at the collar, a smudge of graphite from last night’s late hours.

"Officer Song?" Young Liu on duty looked up from his mountain of documents, his voice thick with sleep and a subtle swallow audible as his Adam’s apple moved. Song Zhao didn’t reply; he walked straight to the projector, the metallic click of the plug echoing crisply in the silence. A gentle tremor of electricity, and the projector whirred to life.

The screen unfurled on the wall, blue tire comparison lines appearing like serpents, slithering into everyone’s sight. Cold light reflected from glass lenses, scattering ghostly blue spots across the room.

"Based on the distribution of rubber molecules extracted from the wall at No. 72 Yong’an Alley," Song Zhao’s voice was colder than the wind outside. His finger traced the projection, the old crack at his nail’s edge scratching against the screen with a faint, sandy sound. "Apart from Zhou Zi Heng’s Porsche that night, a black modified SUV also paused briefly in the area."

A gasp rippled through the meeting room—Zhou Zi Heng, the rich heir who had run into Song Zhao half a year ago, had since been sent abroad. This was the first time the existence of another vehicle was placed squarely on the table.

The wind from the air conditioner suddenly strengthened, rustling loose papers at the table’s edge.

Chen Mo sat in the third row of the corner. The epaulets on his black police uniform glinted coldly in the dim light; his usually neat hair stood up in a tuft as he bent over an old case file of indeterminate age. The sound of paper turning was dry, brittle, like dead leaves crushed underfoot.

Song Zhao’s gaze swept over his clenched fingers—knuckles pale, fingertips rubbing the pages until their edges frayed, leaving dark traces of sweat. It was Chen Mo’s old nervous habit; ten years ago, when they staked out a drug den, he had similarly crumpled the field notes and stuffed the wad in his pocket, which had pressed against his thigh the next day.

"Tread pattern characteristics," Song Zhao paused deliberately, his eyes passing over the stunned department heads at the table, his voice even lower, "match almost exactly with a scrapped vehicle from the bureau’s emergency fleet."

Silence fell like a stone. Someone knocked over a teacup—the porcelain hit the floor, water splashing, startling everyone as droplets landed on Chen Mo’s shoes. He didn’t move, only his Adam’s apple contracted sharply.

Suddenly, Chen Mo stood, his chair scraping harshly against the floor. "Has the technical department verified this?" His voice was hoarse, as if squeezed from gravel, his Adam’s apple bobbing. "Song Zhao’s current state..."

"Captain Chen, are you questioning my expertise?" Song Zhao turned, the red threads in his right eye glaring under the morning light, the whites veined as if torn by invisible hands. "Thirteen years as an evidence analyst, seventeen cold cases. You once said my comparison reports were more accurate than DNA."

Chen Mo’s face flushed instantly, sweat beading on his temple and sticking to his hair. He tugged at his tie, grabbed his notebook. "I’m going to the restroom."

As he passed Song Zhao, the breeze snatched half a document—the "Scrapped Vehicle Register" Song Zhao had intentionally placed beside the projector. The top page had the license plate of "Emergency Fleet No. 07" circled three times in red, the ink so deep it had nearly bled through.

In the monitoring room, the duty officer stared at the screen. As Chen Mo’s figure vanished at the corridor’s end, his phone lit up—a number not registered. He answered with his back to the camera, his shoulders taut as string, his breath echoing faintly in the empty hall.

That night at eight, rain threaded with chill seeped into collars, cold and slick like a serpent’s tongue against skin.

Song Zhao’s old Jetta rattled onto the off-ramp at Zhaoyang Bridge, the wipers squeaking across the windshield. The rubber had aged, leaving two blurred fan-shaped streaks. The taillights smeared a dull red in the puddles, like congealed blood.

He deliberately slowed to twenty kilometers per hour, the window half-open, letting damp air carry the scent of stagnant water from beneath the bridge, mingled with mud and rust, making his nose sting.

"We’re here," he whispered to the empty air, his breath fogging briefly on the glass.

The bend’s central mirror was fogged by rain, like a pair of cloudy eyes reflecting twisted car shadows.

When the engine’s roar exploded from a side alley, Song Zhao’s right hand was already on the door handle, the metal icy and biting.

The shadow of a black, unlicensed SUV lunged through the rearview mirror. He jerked the wheel, the car scraping the guardrail and sparking, the shrill screech of metal instantly extinguished in the rain.

The crash thudded dully, like a blow to the chest. The rear left door crumpled into junk; his forehead slammed into the steering wheel, the mingled scent of leather, metal, and blood filling the air, the taste of iron swelling on his tongue.

As fragments flew, his fingers brushed against a sharp piece of the shattered mirror, its edge slicing his fingertip. A bead of blood seeped out, mingling with rainwater as it dripped away.

Gold flecks exploded in his pupils as twenty seconds of darkness were torn open—

The man in the driver’s seat wore a black tactical cap, brim low, revealing only a tight jawline, muscles bulging from clenched teeth.

From the passenger seat came English, deliberately rasped, every syllable rough as sandpaper: "Captain Chen said this time, he must be out permanently."

When the flashback ended, a spike of pain stabbed his temple, tinnitus ringing, his vision fading.

Clenching his teeth, Song Zhao fumbled for the evidence bag; the fragment still carried the opponent’s paint—an eerie blue, shimmering faintly in the rain. He tucked the bag into the innermost lining of his jacket, the fabric warming against his skin.

His consciousness blurred, but before it faded he saw the SUV’s taillights vanish in the rain, the temporary license plate dissolving in water to reveal the faint "Jiang A·07" beneath.

The emergency room’s harsh white lights were blinding; fluorescent tubes buzzed like old transformers.

Su Wan gripped the armrest, her knuckles pale, nails wedged into the plastic seams. She stared at the "In Emergency" red light above the door, its blinking rhythm echoing her heartbeat. Dong Lan’s voice crackled from her phone: "He refused a CT scan? Ridiculous!"

"Song Zhao said twenty-four hours’ observation for concussion is enough." Su Wan glanced at her wristwatch; the hands pointed to two a.m., the ticking of the second hand unnaturally loud in the silence. "He told me to fetch the USB drive from the third drawer in his computer before the news conference tomorrow."

"Are you sure you want to do it?" Dong Lan’s voice deepened, keyboard clicks in the background. "What’s in that USB..."

"He said it’s the last thread of the web." Su Wan pulled out her book restoration knife, its blade reflecting her reddened eyes, the metal cool against her palm. "He saved me back then the same way—knowing the danger, still using himself as bait."

The door creaked open.

Song Zhao was helped out by a nurse, new gauze wrapped around his forehead, his face paper-white, lips bluish, breaths weak.

Seeing Su Wan, he tugged a smile. "Don’t worry, old injury." To the nurse, he said, "No need for admission, just some painkillers."

As Su Wan helped him into the car, he whispered, "The USB is in the third drawer, bottom of the blue box." She nodded, her fingers quietly brushing the spot where he hid the evidence bag—still warm, like an ember not yet cooled.

The next morning at ten, the magnesium lights in the bureau’s press hall were blinding, a wave of white flashes forcing pupils to contract.

Song Zhao entered on his cane. The microphones below were a forest, their metal rods reflecting cold light, red recording indicators densely aglow.

The host had barely finished reading the official statement on "recent case progress" when Song Zhao abruptly removed his sunglasses, his swollen, reddened eyes staring directly at the main camera. "I want to ask—who wants me silenced forever?"

The hall erupted.

Someone shouted "Officer Song!" Others pressed forward with recorders, shoes thudding chaotically on the floor.

Song Zhao pressed the remote, and the big screen jumped to an AI reconstruction of the rainy night: the SUV’s shadow, the collision in slow motion, and the English from the passenger seat highlighted word by word.

"This wasn’t an accident. It was a purge." His voice was raw as sandpaper, throat cracked, each word tearing at flesh. "Zhou Zi Heng’s dashcam was linked to the police intranet. That night’s duty logs were altered three times." He turned to the dumbstruck leaders, his gaze sharp as a blade. "And the one who gave the order for ‘permanent removal’..."

Live comments exploded across the streaming platform.

"Give Officer Song his job back!" "Investigate Chen Mo!" "Deputy Mayor Zhou, explain!" The screen trembled from the digital storm.

A reporter called out, "Officer Song, do you have evidence?"

Song Zhao drew the evidence bag from his jacket, the paint on the fragment shimmering blue under the lights. "This was left by the car that hit me last night." He raised his phone, playing a voiceprint comparison—"permanently out" in English, overlapping with a field recording of Chen Mo from three years ago. "Match rate 92.7%."

Three hours after the press conference, vehicles from the provincial commission’s supervisory team parked at the bureau’s entrance, tires splashing dirty water.

Chen Mo sat in the interrogation room, his police uniform’s second button undone, shirt creased, fingers unconsciously rubbing the edge of his badge, the metal biting into his skin.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. The encrypted message contained four words: "Plan exposed, cut losses."

He gazed at the overcast sky outside, recalling the first time Song Zhao had led him through a crime scene ten years ago.

Back then, Song Zhao had crouched by a bloodstain, tweezers lifting half a fingerprint. "Evidence doesn’t lie. People do."

Now, he pulled out his phone, opened the voice memo, his voice barely audible. "On the night of Song Zhao’s crash, I swapped the backup hard drive of the scene’s surveillance... but the order came from Zhou Mingyuan’s office."

The moment he uploaded the recording to an anonymous channel, he deleted all records. When he looked up, his eyes were wet—not with regret, but a release after years of suppression.

At the same time, Song Zhao in the attic stared at the voiceprint comparison chart as the rain began tapping the window, its rhythm ticking like a countdown.

He knocked gently on the desk, speaking to Dong Lan on the video: "The net is tightening."

Outside, the rain intensified, beating on the tin roof, echoing the sound from that rainy night twenty years ago.

Back then he had crouched under the bed, listening to his father being dragged away, hearing the whispered, "That boy Song Zhao needs to be dealt with," the light beneath the floorboards blocked by leather shoes, the air thick with tobacco and fear.

Now, he drew out the copper badge from his pocket, his fingertip tracing its blurred engravings—the web, at last, was closing.