It wasn't fully light yet. He went back to the flea market.
The ground was wet. It had rained last night. A stray cat crouched on a trash can lid at the alley entrance. When it saw him, it jumped down and ran. The lid wobbled twice. Puddles reflected gray-white light. He stepped through them, his boots splashing.
The old vendor sat on a folding stool, a stack of old books in front of him. He looked up, said nothing, and went back to flipping through his newspaper. The paper was yellowed, edges curled. The old man flipped slowly. He wasn't really reading. Just flipping. He crouched down and started going through the books one by one. Rustle, rustle, rustle. Like mice burrowing through paper.
On the third stack, his fingers stopped. A thin booklet, no cover, edges worn. He opened it. First page blank. Second page blank. In the middle, a line written in pencil, so faint it was almost lost in the paper grain: "No. 17 Southeast Road. Below."
He flipped to the last page. In the corner, smaller handwriting, shaky: "Third piece. Clock tower."
Clock tower. The abandoned one in the old city. Demolition had stopped halfway. Nothing left but rubble, and the tower standing alone. Wind howled through the broken holes. Locals said it was haunted. He didn't believe in ghosts. He believed in that line.
"How much?"
"Twenty."
He pulled out a twenty, put it on the stall. Stood up and walked away. The old man didn't call after him, didn't pick up the money. Just kept flipping his newspaper.
A black sedan parked by the roadside. The body was dusty. Last night's rain left streaks. He opened the door, sat inside. Took out the booklet, opened it again. Checked the line. No mistake. Southeast Road. Clock tower.
He put the booklet on the passenger seat, pulled out his phone. Scrolled to an unsaved number. Dialed. Three rings. She picked up. Didn't speak. Just breathing.
"Third piece is at the clock tower."
A pause on the other end. Not empty silence. Digesting. Then her voice, a little raspy. "You sure?"
"Chu Yunfei's notes."
"The clock tower..." She hesitated, like she was thinking. "Be careful. Someone might be watching."
"I know."
"I'm not kidding. Last time you checked Southeast Road, a black van was parked at the alley entrance. Didn't drive off until you went in. I saw it from the building across."
He froze for a second. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I only found out later who that van belonged to." Her voice dropped. "Don't rush to the clock tower. Find out who's active there first."
He tapped the steering wheel. Leather, worn smooth, cold. Three taps. Stop.
"No time. If someone else gets there first, I lose it."
"Then at least take someone with you."
"No one to take."
Silence. Papers rustling on her end. Fast. "I'll find someone for you."
"Who?"
"You'll know when you get there." She hung up.
He stared at the screen. It dimmed, reflecting his face. Pale. Dark circles. Unshaved stubble. He tossed the phone aside. Started the engine. It roared. A sparrow by the roadside fluttered up and flew away.
---
The Abyss library. Door open. Dark inside.
He walked in. Combat boots on wood, no sound. The books on the shelves glowed — blue, green, gold. The light fell on the Librarian's face. Pale white. The Librarian stood among the shelves, gray eyes watching him.
"Old Zhou?"
"Out."
"That file. Southeast Road. Old Zhou took it."
The Librarian said nothing.
"Three years ago. Su Yuan's case. One page was torn out."
The Librarian looked at him. "You've been digging for three years."
"Yeah." He pulled out a photo, slapped it on the shelf. A middle-aged man in a Dreamkeeper uniform. His face had been scratched out with a ballpoint pen. Hard. The paper was torn through. "Who is this?"
The Librarian glanced at it. Looked up. "You're not supposed to know."
"He killed Su Yuan."
The Librarian didn't answer. The light from the books shifted across his face — blue, green, gold — like ripples on water.
"You know who. You've always known."
The Librarian still said nothing. He waited more than ten seconds. The library was quiet. He could hear his own heartbeat. Thump, thump, thump. Beating along with the lights.
"Fine." He put the photo away. Turned. At the door, he stopped. Didn't look back. "Tell Old Zhou I came."
The Librarian finally spoke. "He can't come."
He turned. "What?"
"Sick. He passed out in the library two days ago. Su Wanqing took him home."
He was stunned. Old Zhou, sick? That man was always behind his desk, drinking tea. His cup had a chipped rim, but his hands never shook. Now he was passing out.
"What's wrong with him?"
The Librarian didn't answer. He had already turned and disappeared behind the shelves. Only the glowing books remained — like stars, like eyes. He stood there for a moment, then pushed the door open and left.
---
The hallway was dark. Two motion-sensor lights were broken, flickering on and off. He walked heavy, boots thudding. At the stairwell, Qin Shou leaned against the wall, holding an unlit cigarette. He'd lost weight. Cheekbones higher, eyes deeper.
"Hound," Qin Shou said.
He stopped. Didn't turn around.
"My brother knew you."
"Yeah."
"He said you were a good man."
He turned. A thin line of light came through the window at the end of the hallway, falling on the floor. Qin Shou's face was half-lit, half-shadowed. His eyes caught the light.
"Your brother was wrong."
"He said you wouldn't say that." Qin Shou tucked the cigarette back into his pocket. "He said you'd say you're not a good man."
He didn't answer. Silence pressed down. Neither spoke.
"What you're digging into," Qin Shou said, "is it connected to my brother's disappearance?"
"Maybe."
"Then I'm coming too."
"Where?"
"Clock tower." Qin Shou looked at him. "You think I didn't know? I saw the words in that booklet too. I was behind your car when you left the flea market."
He was quiet for a few seconds. The hallway was silent. He could hear their breathing — one fast, one slow.
"You could die."
"My brother's already dead." Qin Shou's voice was flat, like he was talking about something he'd already accepted. "Tell me. Did he go to Southeast Road too?"
He thought about it. "Yeah."
"What did he find?"
"Don't know. He didn't get a chance to say."
They stared at each other. The motion-sensor lights went out. Only the light from the window remained, fading. His face half-lit, half-dark. Qin Shou's face completely in shadow, only his eyes reflecting.
"Tomorrow night. Seven. Clock tower."
"Okay." Qin Shou turned and walked away. His footsteps faded into the darkness.
He stood there, watching Qin Shou's figure disappear into the stairwell. Then turned and went downstairs.
---
Windy. He walked to the car, opened the door, sat inside. Didn't start it. Pulled the sausage from his pocket. The wrapper had faded. The print was illegible, only the characters "Master Kong" still vaguely visible. The expiration date was gone — just a gray smudge. Three years old. Su Yuan's. That night he'd gone to Su Yuan's dorm. Su Yuan was already gone. Eyes open. Pupils dilated. A spilled bowl of instant noodles on the floor, noodles congealed, broth dried. The sausage was still on the desk, unopened. He took it. Three years. Stayed in his pocket.
He put the sausage on the dashboard. Stared at it. There was dust on the dashboard. He blew it off. It flew up, then settled again. Started the engine. Drove.
---
The next night, seven. Clock tower.
Dark. The streetlights weren't on yet. In the distance, a construction site searchlight swept orange beams back and forth. He stood at the iron gate, smoking. The cigarette glowed in the dark, lighting his fingers. Short nails. Thick knuckles.
Qin Shou arrived. Black hoodie, no hood, holding a bottle of water. He walked over from the alley, stepping on broken bricks. Crunch, crunch.
"You're early," Qin Shou said.
"Yeah." He stubbed out the cigarette, dropped it on the ground, ground it out with his boot. "Let's go."
They pushed the gate. Heavy iron. It groaned, the sound echoing through the empty tower. Inside, dark. The phone light didn't reach far. The beam swept across the space, stirring up dust.
"How long since anyone's been here?" Qin Shou asked.
"Years. They tore everything down. This is all that's left." He swept the light around. Graffiti on the walls, messy. Broken glass on the floor. Cigarette butts. Dried mud.
The stairs were wood. Creaked. Some steps were soft, like stepping into mud. He tried to step lighter. Still creaked. Qin Shou followed, his steps lighter, like a cat.
"When did you last see my brother?" Qin Shou asked.
"Three years ago. A week before he disappeared."
"What did he say?"
A broken window on the stairwell landing. Wind blew in, damp, carrying the smell of rotten wood. "He said he'd found something. Said if he didn't make it back, I shouldn't look for him."
"Did you listen?"
"No."
Qin Shou didn't ask again. They kept climbing. Footsteps echoed, one by one, like someone following. Neither looked back.
(Continued in Part 2)