Chapter 26: Doorplate 0723

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At five in the morning, River City was still shrouded in a blue-gray mist. Song Zhao pressed the waterproof document pouch to his chest and, before leaving, reached out to touch his father’s old police cap hanging behind the door—the faded badge beneath the brim was something he’d polished three times before going to bed the night before.

When the glass doors of the provincial hall slid open before him, Dong Lan was already waiting in the lobby. The female forensic doctor, who usually wore pearl hairpins, had no adornments today. The discipline button at her white coat’s collar was fastened tightly, and she gripped a laptop in her hand. “The voiceprint database finished expanding at three this morning. I had the tech department reserve a dedicated line.” As she took the document pouch, her fingertips brushed over the scrape on the back of Song Zhao’s hand—a mark left from lock-picking the previous night. “Did you sleep at all?”

“The rain from twenty years ago,” Song Zhao replied, following her toward the tech department, his steps heavier than usual, “it’s been falling all this time.”

The seventh-floor tech lab was chilled by strong air conditioning. Blue light from the monitors cast cold, sharp angles across Dong Lan’s face. She inserted a microcassette into the professional reader, her mouse scrolling rapidly. “The last words your father spoke—‘Her name is…’—were drowned out seventy percent by the sounds of struggle, but the residual breath pattern is still there.” The clatter of keys was like a barrage of drums. “I’m running a fuzzy match now, filtering out dialect variations and environmental noise…”

Song Zhao’s fingernails pressed into his palm. Staring at the shifting green waveform on the screen, he suddenly remembered the photo Su Wan had sent him last night—a pale pink scar on the inside of her wrist, as if pricked repeatedly by a needle.

A soft “ding” sounded as the system displayed the match. He nearly collapsed in his swivel chair.

“Su Wanqiu,” Dong Lan announced, sliding the report toward him, the printout still warm with the scent of fresh ink. “Ninety-six point one percent phonetic match. When your father said ‘Her name is…,’ the frequency of his laryngeal tremor was identical to yours last week when you pronounced Su Wan’s name.” She paused, laying a steadying hand over his trembling one. “Old Song gave his life to protect the girl you once saved.”

Song Zhao’s gaze fixed on the name “Su Wanqiu.” He remembered six years earlier, in the human traffickers’ den, the little girl cowering under the bed, mumbling “Su Wan” indistinctly—she hadn’t been unclear; her true name, “Qiu,” had been washed away.

“Now it’s my turn.” He stuffed the report into the document pouch, knocking over a paper cup as he stood—cold water splashing on Dong Lan’s white coat. “I have to tell her.”

“Wait.” Dong Lan caught his sleeve, pulling a silver USB drive from her drawer. “Lu Yuan sent this half an hour ago. Zhou Mingyuan had a heart attack in the detention room at five this morning. The ambulance is heading to the outskirts now.” She brought up a GPS route on the USB—the red line took a bizarre turn on the map. “The provincial commission people are in pursuit, but…”

“But the person in the car is a decoy,” Song Zhao finished, bitterness clogging his throat.

He knew this game all too well—when his father’s autopsy was stamped “classified” years ago, the same tricks had been used.

At nine in the morning, sunlight filtered through the blinds in the provincial commission’s office, scattering slivers of light across Lu Yuan’s epaulets.

He hung up the last call, knuckles knocking heavily on the desk. “Zhou Mingyuan’s private jet applied for a temporary route three days ago. He’s probably already in international waters.” His phone vibrated. Glancing at the screen, he looked up, eyes burning. “But Lin Haoyu’s private jet is scheduled to depart at ten tonight. Flight number XJ723.”

“Seven-two-three.” Song Zhao repeated the number, recalling the copper tag with wall dust from the night before.

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He pulled out his phone, opening his chat with Su Wan—she’d messaged him at six that morning: “I remember the hidden wall at 72 Yong’an Lane.”

At noon, the ruins of Yong’an Lane were tinged with the smell of scorched earth. On the crumbling wall gnawed by bulldozers, half a faded Spring Festival couplet still clung.

Su Wan crouched before the rubble, her fingertips tracing an almost invisible scratch at the base of the wall. “I used to hide candy wrappers here as a child.” When she looked up, sunlight fell on the scar at her wrist. “The hidden wall your father wrote about in his notes should be beneath this spot.”

Song Zhao pulled out a Luoyang spade he’d borrowed from the evidence center. The moment the blade touched earth, there was a faint “ka” sound.

As the rusted copper box emerged, Su Wan suddenly grabbed his wrist. “Wait.” She squatted down, gently scraping mud from the lid with her fingernail—revealing a tiny plum blossom engraved in the metal, identical to the motif on the paperweight in her antiquities restoration studio.

“I carved this,” her voice trembled. “I keep dreaming… dreaming of a man in a white coat holding my hand, saying, ‘Xiao Qiu is the bravest. Carve a plum blossom and it won’t hurt.’”

The instant the copper box opened, Song Zhao’s breath caught. He recognized the handwriting on the DV tape label instantly—it was his father’s, each stroke full of force: “2001.10.3 Lin Haoyu Experiment Site Recording.”

“Are you ready?” He placed the tape in the evidence pouch, looking up to see Su Wan’s lashes trembling like dew-laden butterflies.

“If memory is painful,” she replied, gripping his hand in return, the warmth of her palm seeping through the evidence pouch, “let me shoulder it with you.”

At four in the afternoon, blackout curtains were drawn in the provincial hall’s secure lab.

As Dong Lan adjusted the projector, Song Zhao stood protectively behind Su Wan, his hands hovering at her shoulders.

The screen flickered to life; Su Wan seized his wrist—on screen, Lin Haoyu, clad in a white coat, was pinning a five-year-old girl to an operating table, a syringe glinting coldly.

“I’m not Number Seven! I’m Xiao Qiu!” The child’s cries pierced Song Zhao’s eardrums like needles.

He recognized the basement—it was the one under Yong’an Orphanage, the place his father always said “the disinfectant smell wasn’t right” twenty years ago.

The camera shook violently. His father’s voice shouted, “Stop! I’ve already called the police!” Then a heavy impact. Lin Haoyu’s face suddenly loomed into the lens, curling into the “philanthropist’s smile” Song Zhao had seen in case files. “Old Song, how much do you think these little beggars’ lives are worth in compensation money?”

The screen went black. Su Wan’s nails dug deep into Song Zhao’s hand.

She stared at the blank screen, tears streaming down to the floor. “I remember now… he said, ‘Xiao Qiu’s mind is good for remembering maps,’ then the needle went in, and I remembered nothing after that…”

Dong Lan’s voice spoke from behind. “Metadata confirmed. Footage shot October 3rd, 2001, 21:17, in the basement of Yong’an Orphanage.” She slapped the forensic report onto the table, the special seal for criminal science and technology still fresh with ink. “Now, Lin Haoyu can be charged with ‘intentional injury resulting in serious harm’—against a minor.”

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By seven in the evening, rain was falling again.

Song Zhao stood before his father’s grave; rainwater dripped from the umbrella’s ribs onto the metal box beside the urn. He gently placed a copy of the videotape inside, running his fingers over the name engraved on the headstone: “Song Jianguo.” “Dad, I found the child you spoke of. Her name is Su Wan now. She restores ancient books and makes ginger tea for me when I have headaches…”

His phone vibrated in his pocket. Lu Yuan’s voice, wind-blown, came through: “Lin Haoyu’s private jet is departing early, at nine. He’s at airport security now.”

“Seven-two-three.” Song Zhao gazed at his father’s photo on the headstone; the police badge gleamed blindingly in the rain. “Lu Yuan, have the control tower hold him for ten minutes.” He turned and dashed into the rain, car keys biting into his palm. “Dong Lan, initiate Operation Ashes—I want Lin Haoyu to hear Number Seven’s voice before he takes off.”

As the wail of sirens grew nearer, Song Zhao’s phone lit up with a message from Su Wan: “I’m waiting for you in the lab.” He floored the accelerator; in the rearview, his father’s photo swept past under the windshield wiper, as if smiling at him.

At three in the morning, the motion-activated lights in the secure lab’s corridor flickered on with each step.

Song Zhao leaned against the wall, clutching a freshly copied videotape.

At the far end, the emergency exit sign glowed red, like the streetlight that had illuminated his father’s badge the night he bled out in the rain, twenty years ago.

He pulled out his phone; Su Wan’s chat was paused on a message from half an hour before: “The backup is ready. They say it needs your voiceprint authorization to play.”

Song Zhao slipped the tape into the evidence pouch hanging from the lab door handle, his fingertips gliding over the seal.

From a distance came the “ding” of the elevator. He looked up, catching a fleeting glimpse of a figure in a black coat at the end of the hallway—it eerily resembled Zhou Mingyuan’s gait from surveillance footage.

The rain kept falling.

Song Zhao pulled his father’s old police cap over his head and walked toward the stairwell.

Puddles on the steps reflected his silhouette, merging with the image of the young policeman who, twenty years ago, had chased traffickers through a narrow alley.