Chapter 40: The Secret Language of the Cat Collar

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At six twelve in the morning, the plane tree leaves rustled at the alley on the east side of the city library.

Song Zhao crouched at the base of the wall in a surveillance blind spot, the brim of his black baseball cap pulled low, the rubber eyepiece of his binoculars pressed to his socket, a thin fog upon the lens—his breath condensing in the chill.

Lin Wei’s balcony was on the third floor, a blue-and-white striped cat bowl hanging from the iron railing.

Promptly at six fifteen, the balcony door slid open. A woman in a cream-colored nightdress stepped out, carrying a glass plate, her movements slowed as if the world had pressed pause: she bent to place the bowl, reached to touch the tabby cat at her feet, her fingertips barely grazing the cat’s back before she recoiled, her hand trembling gently at her side.

“Her pupils are heavily dilated,” Song Zhao whispered into the miniature microphone clipped to his collar, Adam’s apple rolling. “Same time as yesterday. The feeding routine splits into seven steps—place bowl, step back, touch left wrist, touch right wrist, touch nape, touch cat, retreat. Mechanical, like a wind-up toy.”

Through the earpiece, Su Wan’s voice came, accompanied by the papery rustle unique to the rare book restoration room. “I just finished reviewing nearly three months of her medical records. Every Wednesday at seven PM, she’s scheduled for ‘Dr. Zheng’s’ psychotherapy. The diagnosis column says post-traumatic stress disorder, but the prescription is clozapine—a potent antipsychotic for schizophrenia.”

Song Zhao’s thumb paused on the binocular’s focus ring.

As Lin Wei turned, the sleeve of her nightdress slid to her forearm, revealing a shallow red mark like a worm crawling along the inside of her skin, perfectly matching the restraint strap Song Zhao had seen last week at the Lin Haoyu Foundation’s counseling room.

“She’s not here for treatment,” his voice sank, like a pebble plunging into a deep pool, “she’s here to be brainwashed.”

At ten seven in the morning, the air conditioner in the library’s tech room hummed.

Su Wan’s fingers flew across the keyboard, importing the last three therapy session recordings into the voiceprint analysis system. On the screen, the waveform pulsed, urgent as an EKG.

“Listen to this.” She pressed play, and Lin Wei’s voice emerged, muddled with sleep: “…the ledger is…Song Zhao…USB drive…” With each key word, there was a half-second gap in the tail, as if the tape had been snipped by scissors.

“Point three seconds delay, slight inhale after each keyword.” Su Wan pulled up the voiceprint comparison chart, the blue curve spiking at “ledger,” “Song Zhao,” “USB drive.” “This is classic hypnotic suggestion—commands implanted in the subconscious, totally forgotten when awake.”

On another monitor, Dong Lan’s video window popped up, the overhead light of the provincial tech bureau casting a white shadow on her glasses. “I matched the Foundation’s internal communication logs. All these keywords appeared in encrypted emails two hours after the recording ended. Sender’s IP…” Her mouse hovered, a red mark flashing, “…is the counseling room’s landline.”

Song Zhao pressed his knuckles to his chin, his gaze roaming over the reflected images of the three.

Su Wan’s hair tips clung to glue from restoring ancient tomes, Dong Lan’s collar revealed half the bureau’s badge, and in Song Zhao’s own shadow, the back of his left hand still bore the bloodstain from scraping a metal doorframe in the server room last night.

“They’re using Lin Wei as a living bug.” His voice was taut as steel wire. “Chen Mo’s wife has become an intelligence relay.”

At twelve fifty-six, sandalwood wafted through the rare book restoration area.

Su Wan sat in a rattan chair, gently brushing insect holes from the third volume of “Records of Yong’an.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Ah Zhen approach, pushing a cleaning cart.

The cleaner’s blue apron was damp, the cart wheels squeaking—a half-beat longer than usual.

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“Su, you know, leaving these books here attracts bugs.” Ah Zhen bent to wipe the table, and suddenly the magnetic clasp fell from the cart with a clatter, the metal piece sliding to Su Wan’s feet.

She crouched, her fingertips brushing the clasp, sensing something hard inside—a miniature memory card.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Sister Zhen.” Su Wan smiled, picked up the clasp, and slipped it into the bottom drawer of her workstation.

As soon as Ah Zhen’s cart rounded the corner, Su Wan pulled out the card and, using tweezers, handed it to Song Zhao.

When the “Eye of Truth” activated, Song Zhao’s pupils shone with a golden pattern.

The instant his fingertips touched the card, a sharp pain stabbed his temple, snow flurries danced before his eyes.

—The tiles in the women’s restroom glimmered coldly, Ah Zhen pressed against the door, her hands trembling.

She unfolded a scrap of paper, the writing crooked: “Wednesday, seven PM, bring out the third volume of ‘Records of Yong’an.’”

The vision abruptly ended.

Song Zhao covered his eyes, cold sweat seeping between his fingers. “Chen Mo is transmitting instructions through his family… but he doesn’t know Ah Zhen and Lin Wei have been monitored for a while.”

“So this card was actually planted for us to find by Lin Haoyu’s people?” Su Wan pressed her fingertips to her lips. “They want us to believe Chen Mo’s still in control, but actually…”

“Actually, every move Chen Mo makes is under their surveillance.” Song Zhao took the warm water she handed him, gulping to suppress the headache. “We need to feed them some real information, mixed with bait.”

At four nineteen in the afternoon, a faint breeze whispered through the air duct of the rare book restoration room.

Song Zhao deliberately raised his voice, as if chatting idly with Su Wan. “That brat Zhou Ziheng, rumor is he fled to Phnom Penh, took thirty million funneled out by Lin Haoyu.”

Su Wan leafed through “Records of Yong’an,” her pen scratching softly on the paper. “I’ve got an overseas funds flow chart, tucked into the third volume—if someone takes it, maybe we can trace the trail.”

As they spoke, dust in the vent vibrated—tiny monitoring devices picking up the sound.

That evening at eight, Ah Zhen came, as usual, to collect “Records of Yong’an.”

Su Wan watched her slip the book into the cart’s hidden compartment. As she turned, her skirt brushed the workstation, knocking a scrap of paper to the ground.

Su Wan crouched to pick it up, glimpsing a faint purple bruise on the back of Ah Zhen’s neck, shaped like a thumbprint.

At the provincial tech bureau’s monitoring screen, Dong Lan’s fingers struck the table. “There’s an IP logging into the Foundation’s intranet from the counseling room, downloading files related to ‘Phnom Penh.’”

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Song Zhao gripped his phone, knuckles white.

He stared into the deepening night outside the window, murmuring, “They’ve taken the bait.”

At nine oh three, after the library closed, the desk lamp in the rare book restoration room cast a warm golden halo above Su Wan’s head.

She opened the spine of the third volume of “Records of Yong’an,” prying apart the compartment with a bamboo tool—inside, where her forged funds flow chart ought to have been, lay a faded group photo.

In the picture, two young men in police uniforms stood at the police academy shooting range. On the left, Song Jianguo in his twenties; on the right, Chen Mo, still bearing the air of a student.

The background slogan had faded, but the words “Trust is a gun; pull the trigger and it fires” remained clear.

Su Wan’s breath caught.

She took a photo with her phone, her finger hovering over the send button for two seconds, attaching a message: “He’s reminding you—trust no one.”

At the same time, in Ah Zhen’s bedroom, Lin Wei curled under the quilt, her lashes trembling violently.

Her lips moved, mumbling through tears, “He said if Daddy doesn’t obey… I’ll never see Mommy again…”

The red indicator of the recorder by the bedside flashed, etching the words onto the magnetic track.

At three oh seven in the morning, the library’s tech room air conditioner suddenly made a strange noise.

Su Wan, clutching “Records of Yong’an,” pushed open the door to find Song Zhao staring at the surveillance monitor—the lights in the rare book restoration room flickered as if someone was moving inside.

“Dong Lan said the backup server in the tech room was activated half an hour ago,” Song Zhao turned, the police badge glinting faintly in the darkness. “Someone… is tracing our tracks.”

His voice was swallowed by the hum of the air conditioner.

Su Wan gazed at the flickering server indicator lights behind him, suddenly recalling the blood-stained gingko leaf from earlier that day—now, on the tech room’s windowsill, lay another leaf, its tip stained a deep crimson, brighter than it had been at dawn.