Chapter One | Critical Point
Night lay thick and heavy. The entire port city was swathed in inky darkness and deathly silence. In an interrogation room deep within the Lugang Anti-Smuggling Bureau, a solitary lamp flickered faintly, its dim yellow light slanting across the cold concrete floor. The cramped space reeked of harsh disinfectant, intermingled with the mildewed stench of leather restraints and electronic equipment. The light sliced through the air like a blade; each breath seemed to pour bone-deep cold into the lungs, provoking a shudder. The corners of the room were cloaked in silent darkness, as if invisible eyes lurked there, watching every soul that entered—an oppressive, suffocating presence.
Just then, the door was flung open with an unnerving creak. Lin Mian stepped in slowly, her hands bound tightly in handcuffs, yet she held herself so upright it was as if defying the very heavens. Under the lamp's glow, her black trench coat cast a dark shadow. Though her stride quivered slightly, she maintained an almost meditative pace.
A gust of cold air seeped in through the doorway, making her shiver. She strove to suppress the trembling in her limbs, but could not halt the tempest raging inside her. Her heart churned in her chest as if about to tear through her ribs and burst out. A drop of cold sweat slid down her back, sending an involuntary quiver through her spine. Even so, not a hint of panic showed on her face. Her eyes were black and hollow, like water at the bottom of an abyss, quietly observing everything in the room.
The interrogation room held only a massive old wooden table and two rusty iron chairs. The tabletop was mottled and worn, its color as dull as dried blood—every glint of light seemingly devoured. The iron chairs stood pushed against the cold wall, heavy and forlorn, like silent judgment seats—whoever sat in them would first have to confront the chill rising from deep in their bones. Lin Mian was shoved up to the table, a wooden stool beneath her scraping with a shrill creak. She slowly sat, her body pulled taut like a fully drawn bow, her back pressed firmly against the chair, refusing to show the slightest weakness. Her chest rose and fell heavily; she tried to steady the turbulent rush of blood in her veins, but found every effort futile. Each breath only magnified the droning surge of blood in her head, until her eardrums felt as if they were being pounded from within.
The concrete floor at her feet was ice-cold, making her feel as though her legs were submerged in a pit of ice. She closed her eyes briefly, her long lashes casting a curved shadow on her face, and let her breathing slow into a steady rhythm that seemed calm and unruffled. Yet behind her closed eyelids, a tempest raged: fragments of the past flooded her mind like a rising tide—childhood faces, the murmurs of strangers, endless silence. She smashed those chaotic thoughts and forced herself to focus only on the present.
Lin Mian sat with her hands clasped tightly, her knuckles white. On the table before her lay all of her belongings—a powered-off satellite phone, several identification documents issued by different countries, and a passport that had been confiscated at the entry checkpoint.
All her lines of communication had been severed.
From the moment she was brought into this border-control facility, every channel of contact was severed. Every email account she had ever used went dead; the private channel code-named "Feather Harbor Tier-3" wiped itself clean; and the string of encryption keys used for her identity verification auto-deleted the instant her equipment was confiscated.
No one truly knew where she had come from—except those who needed to know.
She had no legal identity in this country, yet she possessed intimate knowledge of the transportation infrastructure of several border cities, and had even provided a critical piece of evidence during the investigation of a dark-web transaction at the port. Consequently, she was placed on the list of "important persons of interest."
She was no spy, but neither was she any ordinary stowaway.
In the distance, behind a frosted glass door, the faint sound of someone pacing could be heard. Dull, heavy footsteps echoed through the gap beneath the door, and the air grew thick with an oppressive aura of authority. Suddenly, a cold, piercing gaze turned toward the room, as if penetrating straight through the thick wooden door.
The lamplight fell across the woman's face, revealing the faint tremble in her clasped hands. Her fingers were tightly interlocked, her forefingers pressing into her palms, yet she could not entirely hide that subtle shake. Under the light, her skin was ashen, her veins starkly visible. Qin Zhaoan's silhouette appeared in the doorway, his tall, straight frame making the cramped interrogation room feel even smaller. His nose was high and sharply chiseled, and a cold, unyielding severity between his brows warned that he brooked no defiance.
Qin Zhaoan strode forward, his firm, ringing footsteps reverberating in the deathly silence. He sat down at the table with his back perfectly straight, leaning forward slightly as his gaze swept over her. Unhurriedly, he set down the file in his hand, his knuckles tapping lightly on the tabletop—a leisurely rhythm laden with menace. On the yellowed cover of the dossier, the words "Illegal Identity" were faintly visible, like an invisible shackle tightening around Lin Mian's chest.
As their eyes met, Qin Zhaoan's were cold and dark as obsidian, offering no place to hide. His voice was quiet and low, each word a cold arrow piercing into Lin Mian's heart: "Do you know where you are right now?"
Lin Mian did not respond right away. Her dispassionate gaze swept over the messy files on the table and a celadon teacup. She took a deep breath, as if trying to summon some force to calm the storm surging inside her. A trace of bitterness rose on her tongue, but she swiftly swallowed it down. Lifting her chin slightly, she answered in a voice that was startlingly calm, like lake water pouring into the silent night sky: "The interrogation room of the Anti-Smuggling Bureau."
As soon as she spoke, her pupils shrank sharply. In the cramped space, Qin Zhaoan suddenly felt the air grow still and heavy. He held his breath, scrutinizing the woman before him—though she was in custody, her eyes remained tranquil.
Qin Zhaoan's brow creased faintly. He lowered his voice and repeated, enunciating each word, "Anti… Smuggling… Bureau… interrogation room." His tone flowed like a dark undercurrent, laced with both skepticism and warning as it reached Lin Mian's ears.
Her face didn't so much as flinch; her thin lips never curved, but a trace of coldness crossed them. "…Yes."
Qin Zhaoan abruptly rose and circled to the front of the table, bracing his back against the wall to block her last path of escape. His eyes were as piercing as a hawk's. He leaned in close to her ear and murmured, "You entered the port using a fake ID. This is no place for lies."
Lin Mian's knee gave a small, resisting jolt, yet inside she was as still as stagnant water. She responded haltingly, her voice barely above a whisper: "I… didn't…" The rush of blood in her head surged again; she knew that the slightest hint of irregularity would be noticed. She bit down on her lower lip, despair and reason battling in her mind, and in the end could only keep the conversation to the bare minimum.
Qin Zhaoan lifted an eyebrow, emphasizing each word: "Don't lie to me! I have evidence of everything about your background, including the surveillance footage of when you vanished at the port."
Only then did she slowly lower her head, her long hair falling over her shoulders to hide the trembling of her throat. Her jet-black tresses hung like a still pool of water, rippling with the slightest tremor. Yet in her hastily lowered gaze, Qin Zhaoan glimpsed an endless, pitch-black night. Her tightly controlled breaths quivered faintly in the lingering warmth at her fingertips.
A faint pain throbbed in the centers of Lin Mian's clenched fists, but she compelled herself to remain silent. Her blood was rampaging through her veins, her mind aflame with lightning and thunder—she could clearly hear the furious roar of her own heart.
Qin Zhaoan suddenly faltered, sensing that she was not behaving as expected. The oppressive authority he usually wielded seemed to have met an invisible resistance. A premonition chilled him to the bone: the Lin Mian in front of him was no ordinary girl.
An oppressive silence descended once more. Only the tick-tock of the wall clock remained, each second slicing at his nerves.
Inside the interrogation room, the lamplight settled back into stillness. Qin Zhaoan closed the door behind him, his silhouette drawn long at the far end of the frigid corridor. In the depths of the night, that unspoken warning kept resounding in his heart: The real puzzle had only just begun.