After breaking up with my boyfriend, I made a fortune and rose rapidly in my career.

I clenched my five fingers, and the metallic coolness of the doorknob crept up my palm.

November 17, 1999. The day after my father submitted his report. In all the official records, there is only one line for that day: "Comrade Chen Shuyuan suffered a sudden myocardial infarction due to overwork and passed away that evening despite all efforts to save him."

"I'm going to see him."

Cheng Yuan stood up.

"Think carefully. Wei Liangjun is a detainee; every word he says could be bait."

"I know." Chen Ping released the doorknob and turned around. "But the date he gave is correct. November 17, 1999, officially recorded as a heart attack. But my mother told me a detail—at 9:20 that night, when she received the call and rushed to the hospital, my father's office light was still on. How did someone who died suddenly from a heart attack get from their office to the hospital? Who brought them? It's not written in the medical records, nor in the death report."

Cheng Yuan remained silent for four seconds.

"I'll arrange it for you. Tomorrow morning, at the provincial detention center."

At 8:40 a.m. the next morning, Chen Ping's car was parked at the west gate of the provincial detention center.

The iron gate opened, followed by two security checks and three signatures. At the end of the corridor was a special meeting room, seven square meters in size, containing a table, two chairs, and a half-height tempered glass partition. A security camera in the corner had its red light constantly on.

The door lock popped open.

Wei Liangjun was brought in by two bailiffs.

He looked noticeably thinner than the last time we met. His cheekbones were prominent, accentuating his sharp jawline. The prison uniform hung loosely on his shoulders. But he still had spirit—he sat up straight, his hands resting steadily on the table, fingers interlaced.

"Secretary-General Chen, you've been promoted."

Chen Ping pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down.

"You want to see me? Go ahead and say it."

Wei Liangjun rubbed his thumb against the back of his other hand's fingers.

"Did you find the attendance book?"

Chen Ping did not answer.

"You found it." Wei Liangjun nodded to himself. "The first line, Zhou Dingbang. You used a UV light to see it, right? That ink blot was added later, but the signature is original."

How did you know about the attendance book?

My dad told me.

Wei Liangjun stopped moving his thumb.

"Song Baiqing. You should have checked my file. I took my mother's surname. My biological father was named Song Baiqing. In the year of Gengchen, he was the deputy director of the Administrative Office of the Provincial Government Office, specifically in charge of logistics support and document destruction."

Chen Pingfang's spine tensed up, vertebra by vertebra. The documents were destroyed. His father's report had disappeared from the archives.

"On November 16, 1999, your father submitted that report." Wei Liangjun's voice was very low, each word barely touching the table. "That afternoon at four o'clock, the Provincial High-tech Industry Leading Group held an emergency meeting. There weren't many people present, only five. Zhou Dingbang didn't show up, but his instructions were conveyed through someone—He Yongnian, then Deputy Secretary-General of the Provincial Government Office."

He Yongnian. Chen Ping had seen this name on the sign-in book before; it was listed as number eleven.

"The meeting only reached one conclusion: have your dad sign a statement acknowledging significant errors in the data in the report and voluntarily requesting its withdrawal. As long as he signs it, nothing will happen. The project will still be completed, the funding will still be allocated, and your dad will still be at the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences."

"He didn't sign it."

"He didn't sign it," Wei Liangjun repeated. "At 11 PM on November 17th, He Yongnian brought someone to your father's office. It wasn't a negotiation."

A faint humming sound came from the air conditioning vents in the meeting room.

"What was that person's name?"

"I don't know. My dad only saw him once. He wasn't very tall, had a buzz cut, and wore a dark jacket. He Yongnian called him 'Little Guo.' He brought a thermos with him."

Thermos cup.

"Your dad's office is at the far east end of the third floor of the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences. My dad was working overtime that night, and his office was next door—the third floor of the building shared by the administration office and the Chinese Academy of Social Sciences. Around 7:15, he heard an argument next door, then it was quiet for about ten minutes. At 7:30, He Yongnian came out of your dad's office, looking very upset, and said something to my dad."

Wei Liangjun paused for two seconds.

"Call an ambulance, heart attack."

Chen Ping's ten fingers lay flat on the table, motionless. His fingernails gleamed with a cold, white light.

"What's in that thermos?"

"Potassium chloride solution. High concentration, administered orally." Wei Liangjun's Adam's apple bobbed. "Your father had underlying heart disease, clearly stated in his medical records. A large dose of potassium chloride induced arrhythmia, causing cardiac arrest within twenty minutes. When he arrived at the hospital, all signs pointed to an acute myocardial infarction. Blood tests couldn't detect it either—potassium ions are a normal component of the human body, and their concentration naturally increases after death; a forensic doctor would never consider that."

The meeting room lights shone a harsh, white light on the two people's faces. The red light on the security camera flashed intermittently.

"Did your dad see it with his own eyes?"

"No. But he heard it." Wei Liangjun's fingers interlaced again, his knuckles clenching tightly. "My dad is timid, but not stupid. That night, after he returned to his office, he used a mini recorder in his drawer to record everything He Yongnian told him. He Yongnian told him to go to your dad's office the next morning to 'clean up the scene'—to wash the thermos on the table and change your dad's attendance record for that day to say he left at 5 pm."

"Where is the recording?"

Wei Liangjun raised his head and stared straight at Chen Pingfang across the glass.

"In the old library of the Provincial Academy of Social Sciences, on the third floor in the humanities and social sciences reading room, on the seventh shelf, the third shelf from the left, there was a set of 1963 edition of 'Das Kapital' published by the Foreign Languages ​​Press of Moscow, in three volumes. The cassette tape was in the interlayer of the second volume. My father disassembled the spine of the book, stuffed the microcassette tape in, and then glued it back together. No one borrowed that set of books for twenty years."

Chen Ping went through the information in his mind. Third floor, seventh row, third column from the left, of the old library of the Provincial Academy of Social Sciences: Volume II of *Capital*.

Why didn't your dad report it to the police?

Wei Liangjun smiled. His lips were chapped, and a trace of blood seeped from the cracks.

"Report a crime? To whom? The provincial public security bureau chief at the time was promoted by Zhou Dingbang. Do you know why the case file number you have, Su Gong (Gengchen) Xing Fu Zi No. 0037, is called 'review'? It's because your mother reported a crime back then. She reported it twice. The first time, the police station rejected it because of 'natural death and no basis for criminal prosecution.' The second time, she wrote a letter directly to the provincial public security bureau, which initiated the criminal review procedure. Halfway through, the case file was taken away from the archives. The person who took it signed 'Guo,' without their full name."

Xiao Guo.

The crew-cut man who brought a thermos into the office.

Chen Ping put his hands back on his knees. Ten faint fingerprints were left on the table.

Why are you only saying this now?

Wei Liangjun leaned back in his chair, his collarbone showing through the neckline of his prison uniform.

"Because my dad died last month. He had late-stage lung cancer, and before he passed away, he told me all about this. He had carried it all for 25 years. For 25 years, he dreamed of the third-floor corridor of that building every night."

Wei Liangjun closed his eyes briefly.

"He asked me to tell you this. He said he owed your father a life. If he had stood up back then, your father wouldn't have been sealed with a death certificate for 'heart attack'."

The bailiff knocked twice on the door. It was time for the meeting.

When Wei Liangjun was lifted up, his lips moved again.

"Chen Pingfang, on that tape, He Yongnian said exactly what he said: 'Old Zhou's meaning is that this matter must be settled tonight.' The person who should hear that is you."

The iron gate closed. The footsteps in the corridor grew fainter and fainter, finally swallowed up by the concrete wall.

Chen Ping remained seated in the meeting room. The white light from the overhead lamps shone on the tempered glass, reflecting half of his face.

The old library of the Provincial Academy of Social Sciences. Third floor. Seventh row of bookshelves. Third shelf from the left. Volume II of *Capital*.

He stood up, pushed open the door, walked through the corridor, and stepped into the sunlight.

My phone vibrated. A text message from an unknown number.

Six characters.

"The old building will be demolished next week."