Chapter 78: The Witness

8:50 a.m., City Bureau Grand Conference Room.

The air hung thick and sodden, pressing down like damp cotton, suffocating all within. Outside, the daylight was cold and pallid, fractured across the polished surface of the conference table into shards of icy brilliance.

Song Zhao sat in the front row of the observers' section, fingertips resting on his knees, knuckles bleached white. He wore an old jacket, zipped up to his chin, its cuffs frayed—his habitual attire before suspension, donned today as a silent declaration.

The door opened, a heavy tread shattering the silence.

Xiao Liu entered.

His ill-fitting gray shirt hung off a frame pale as paper, cheekbones protruding, eyes sunken, as if he had clawed his way out of the grave. Yet his gaze struck the center of the room like a nail.

Two plainclothes officers flanked him, movements taut and discreet, living shields.

“Today, we add witness Xiao Liu for questioning,” Director Wang’s voice rang out, dry and laced with an almost imperceptible tremor.

He sat at the head, a stack of documents spread before him, fingers unconsciously caressing the edges as though verifying their reality.

Song Zhao’s attention didn’t linger on Xiao Liu; instead, he glanced to the doorway.

Xiao Lin stood there, immaculate in his police uniform, shoulder insignia gleaming. He bowed his head, earpiece flickering, the ring finger of his left hand tapping his trouser seam—once, twice, thrice... stopping abruptly at the seventh tap.

The gesture was too familiar.

Song Zhao had seen it three times in surveillance footage; each time, it heralded the “Lamp Slave” purge.

Now, Xiao Lin’s right hand hovered at his waist, thumb idly brushing the safety catch of his sidearm.

Click.

A faint metallic slide, audible only to Song Zhao.

His pupils constricted.

The right shoulder would dip first.

It was the muscular forewarning before the “Lamp Language” initiated.

He had spent three days reviewing seven camera angles to catch that fleeting 0.3-second sign.

Song Zhao slowly slid his right hand beneath the table, palm pressing against the hidden recorder in the inner lining.

The chill of the metal shell made his fingertips tremble.

He didn’t press the button—he waited.

9:23 a.m., the evidentiary phase began.

The opposing counsel, a middle-aged man in a sharp suit, wore a professionally cold smile.

He stood and strode toward Xiao Liu, leather shoes beating a rhythm of intimidation against the floor.

“You were dismissed for serious misconduct, and now you recant, appearing here—” The lawyer’s tone suddenly sharpened. “Is this out of spite, seeking vengeance?”

The conference room was deathly still.

Xiao Liu raised his head, Adam’s apple bobbing.

His voice, although not loud, sliced through the silence like a blade on glass:

“I hid the samples because I knew they would be swapped. I signed because they threatened my mother’s life.”

He held aloft a yellowed submission slip, its corners curled, edges scorched.

It was the key evidence reconstructed from the B-7 freezer’s original log, numbered 030720-1.

“But I did not lie.” Xiao Liu stared at the lawyer, each word deliberate. “This signature is real.”

Song Zhao closed his eyes.

He knew the price behind that signature—a mother in a care home, dead from “sudden cerebral hemorrhage,” resuscitation futile; a sister reassigned to a border quarantine station, all contact cut off.

Eighteen months spent in shadow, until last night, when he crawled from beneath a funeral van’s rear wheel, palm stained with blue paint, and rang Su Wan’s doorbell.

10:07 a.m.

The conference room’s rear door suddenly swung open.

Xiao Lin strode in, tension etched across his face: “Report! Suspicious package detected behind the observers’ section, possibly ****, immediate action required!”

Everyone erupted, rising in alarm.

Security instinctively turned toward the rear corner.

Director Wang sprang up, his expression transformed.

The lawyers’ team was in uproar.

Only Song Zhao remained unmoved.

He fixed his gaze on Xiao Lin’s right shoulder—at the moment he entered, it dipped imperceptibly, as if tugged by an invisible cord.

It was here.

Almost simultaneously, Song Zhao pressed the button beneath the table.

The recorder activated.

Next second, Xiao Lin launched forward like a leopard, targeting Xiao Liu’s seat!

His movements were unnaturally swift, more machine than man, as if driven by some programmed routine.

Song Zhao was quicker, rising to shield Xiao Liu.

Bang!

Xiao Lin crashed into his chest, the force staggering them both.

Security, belatedly alert, surged forward, pinning Xiao Lin to the ground.

His gun was snatched away, earpiece ripped, fragments scattering.

Silence reigned.

Song Zhao, breathless, drew out the recorder from beneath the table, raising it high.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” his voice was hoarse but steady, “let us listen—what is a ‘purge command’?”

He pressed play.

After a burst of static, a man’s voice came through, distorted by electronic modulation:

“...Target in the observers’ section, execute purge. Codename ‘Silence,’ incinerate upon completion.”

A two-second pause, then another voice—young, composed, Xiao Lin’s whisper from the surveillance blind spot the night before:

“Received. Lamp Language, Tier Three. Executing.”

The recording ended.

The conference room was as silent as a tomb.

Director Wang sat frozen, fingers digging into the document edges, knuckles pale.

He slowly lifted his gaze to Song Zhao, then to Xiao Lin struggling beneath the security’s grip, lips trembling.

Song Zhao placed the recorder gently on the table; metal striking wood sounded like a bell.

Like a funeral bell.

He looked at Director Wang, saying nothing, only nodding slowly.

Some truths require no proclamation.

They need only to be heard.

At that moment, the wind swept in from the river, passing through the half-open window, stirring the curtains and lifting a corner of the “Clean Source Operation” dossier—Director Wang’s fingers tightened inch by inch.

11:49 a.m., City Bureau Grand Conference Room.

The air felt vacuumed, every breath tinged with the taste of rusted metal.

Everyone held their breath, eyes fixed on Director Wang’s trembling hand.

Before him, the document’s edges were crumpled and torn, deep finger marks gouged in, like a mask ripped and patched again and again.

Director Wang rose slowly, his back ramrod straight, as if resisting some invisible weight.

His voice began weakly, seeping up from the depths, but grew clearer and firmer with each word:

“According to current evidence, the original sample source is legitimate, substitution confirmed.” He paused, gaze sweeping the lawyers’ pale faces. “Clean Source Operation’s handling of Xiao Liu shows procedural abuse.”

His words landed, the room deathly silent.

He raised the red-stamped document—“Urgent Directive to Terminate B-7 Freezer Evidence Validity”—the word “Confidential” on the cover, red as fresh blood.

Everyone watched as he tore it with both hands, the ripping sound sharp as a knife.

Page by page, the entire file became a shower of fragments, gray butterflies settling on the table.

“This case’s chain of evidence is intact. The original verdict stands.” He spoke each word with iron certainty, his voice no longer trembling but striking like a hammer. “I vote in support.”

Silence.

No applause, no discussion, only hearts thundering in the hush.

The lawyers’ faces were ashen; someone fumbled through documents, still searching for loopholes, but even their fingers quivered.

Dong Lan, on the remote video feed, closed her eyes, lips moving as if whispering, “Finally.”

Song Zhao remained seated.

He stared at the pile of paper scraps, mind flashing back seventeen years to the meeting when his father was declared “accidental drowning”—the same cold light, the same silence, the same file stamped “closed.”

Then, no one stood, no one tore paper; justice rotted in the seams of procedure.

But today, someone tore it.

Not him, not Su Wan, not Xiao Liu, but a man within the system who had once bowed his head, and finally raised it.

12:03 p.m., the meeting ended.

The crowd dispersed slowly, footsteps irregular and subdued.

Song Zhao helped Xiao Liu to his feet; the youth’s frail body nearly leaned on his shoulder, lips cracked, but he managed a smile: “I…I didn’t lose that slip.”

“You held onto it,” Song Zhao murmured, “cleaner than anyone.”

They moved toward the door, sunlight slanted in from the corridor’s end, dazzling.

As they were about to leave the conference room, Director Wang suddenly approached, holding a battered brown envelope, its edges worn as if hidden for years.

He didn’t look at Song Zhao, only pressed the envelope into his palm, the gesture light yet weighty as a monument.

“This is the list of all technicians ‘cleansed’ by Clean Source over the years.” His voice was nearly inaudible. “Seventy-three people, forty-six transferred, nineteen ‘voluntarily resigned,’ eight…never seen again.”

He paused, Adam’s apple bobbing. “I don’t know if you’re right or wrong…but I can’t pretend to sleep anymore.”

Song Zhao looked down at the envelope, fingertips brushing the rough inner page, as though touching countless erased names.

He did not thank him, only nodded gently.

Stepping out of the City Bureau, the noon sun poured like molten gold.

The river wind rushed in, carrying moisture and dust.

He helped Xiao Liu into the car, watched the ambulance drive away, and then slowly lifted his gaze.

The sky was deep blue, clouds parted in a rift, a shaft of light descending to earth.

He watched that ray and whispered, “Someone has lit the lamp.”

Deep in the City Bureau’s archive room, behind the blind spot of surveillance, Xiao Lin’s private journal lay open.

Last night’s final entry—“Lamp Language, Tier Three, execute purge”—had been violently struck through, the ink scored like a blade.

Below, in careful strokes, he had written anew:

“The lamp is extinguished, but the fire remains.”