Streetlights along the road began to come on,
daylight and lamplight layering into a pale gray haze.

By the time he left Shen Yanxing’s place, evening was already closing in.

No return home.
No notifications sent.

The car sped the whole way, almost straight back to the police station, as if afraid of missing a meteor that might appear only once.

When he entered through the underground parking garage, the lights in the lobby were already on.
The front desk had shifted to the night staff; seeing him, they simply nodded.

He returned the nod, never breaking stride.

Passing through the empty corridors, the cold white glow of fluorescent lights bleached the walls pale, his footsteps echoing through the space.

When he reached the door of the records room, the officer on duty had just looked up. He spoke first—

“Supplementary materials for a cross-case investigation. Cleared by Internal Affairs.”

No questions were asked.
The door was swiped open.

Inside was a closed database.
All records were stored within the internal system, accessible only through search codes or keyword filters.

Jiang Zhilin sat down.
His fingers hovered over the power button for a few seconds before pressing it.

The room was filled only by the gradual glow of the screen,
pale blue light resting on his face,
tracing his brow and cheekbones into a sickly pallor.

He stared at the display for a moment, then connected his phone and pulled up the screenshot.

The photos on the phone were low in resolution—only blurred headlines, the edges of an image, and the words “Nancheng District, Guangyuan Alley entrance.”

He opened the database, entered the location and keywords, then set the time range: June 1998.

The system ran for a moment and returned three sealed cases.

He opened them one by one—until the third.

An old photograph appeared on the screen.

Yellowed. Blurry.
A small boy in a dark blue top, his gaze angled slightly downward, not quite meeting the camera.

Breath held.

—This one.

He recognized it almost instantly.

The same image from Shen Yanxing’s phone.

After staring at it for a few seconds, he scrolled down and began reading the report details.

     Reporting party: Jiang Qiyang, Lin Huiqing.

…

Jiang Qiyang? Lin Huiqing?

His gaze lingered on those two names for a long time.

Not a coincidence of shared names—
they were truly his parents.

Fingers pressed unconsciously against the scroll wheel, the skin around the fingertips faintly reddening.

Scrolling down, he reached the missing person’s basic information:

     Name: Jiang Yichen.
     Gender: Male.
     Date of birth: June 13, 1995.
     Date missing: June 13, 1998.
     Location: Nancheng District, Guangyuan Alley entrance.
     Age: Three.

In the notes section below, it read:

     At approximately 4:00 p.m. that afternoon, family members took the child out to celebrate his birthday.
    During the outing, the child briefly left their line of sight.
    Police were notified within approximately ten seconds, but the search yielded no results.
    There were no nearby surveillance cameras. The alley was narrow.
    Abduction is suspected.

Something struck his chest, hard and sudden.

What surfaced in his mind was the photo on the phone—
the little boy standing stiffly before the camera, eyes avoiding the lens, yet carrying a shy smile.

Image and record matched, one by one.

Even the clothing was identical.

But the name was not Shen Yanxing.

It was Jiang Yichen.

Not a relative.
Not a friend.

A name entirely unknown.

He instinctively scrolled back up, eyes returning to the informant field, rereading the two names to be sure—Jiang Qiyang, Lin Huiqing.

They were indeed his parents.

This wasn’t a mistake.
Not a coincidence of shared names.

The report had been filed by his own family.

And he—had never known.

Searching through memories of growing up, there was no recollection of his parents ever mentioning it.

He had always believed himself to be an only child.

So who was this child named Jiang Yichen?

The data page held his gaze for a long time.

Blue-white light glowed quietly from the screen, reflecting in his eyes, laying bare the tremor in his pupils with merciless clarity.

At the very bottom was the final line of status information:

     No results after one and a half years following the report.
     At the request of the reporting parties, the case was sealed.
     Record updates terminated.

Looking at that sentence felt like watching a door gently close in front of him.

The child had been searched for over a year—
and then there was nothing.

Not found.
Not spoken of again.

His thoughts snagged on something unseen, unable to move forward, unable to turn back.

Only after a long while did he finally reach out and, slowly, print the page.

The printer’s hum sounded unusually harsh in the quiet room.

As the page slid out, it was caught with careful hands.

He didn’t know if this was truly the same person.
Nor did he know whether the thought itself was already too absurd.

But if he didn’t confirm it—
he knew he would never forgive himself.

He wasn’t even sure anymore
which version of himself needed forgiving.

By the time the file folder was placed inside the car, night had fully settled.

Sliding into the driver’s seat, he didn’t start the engine right away—only stared ahead in silence.

This was not something he could hand over to the system.

He didn’t want a record left behind.
Didn’t want to be asked for reasons.
And more than anything, didn’t want anyone to see the uncertainty before the answer was clear.

He pulled out his phone and dialed a number.

The call was picked up almost immediately.

“Didn’t expect you to be the one reaching out,” came the voice on the other end, faintly amused.

“Are you still in that line of work?” he asked.

“What line of work?”

“Data analysis. Genetic matching. Your old specialties.”

A soft chuckle followed, edged with teasing.

“So you’ve finally decided to admit I’m the most reliable one in your circle?”

No response.

After a brief pause, he named a location.

“Twenty minutes.”

Tucked away in an old residential block was an underground studio.

Its entrance lay hidden beside a convenience store’s back door—outside, only a dim yellow bulb and a broken sign reading “Under Repair.”

By the time he arrived, the other man was already waiting at the door.

Thin build, wire-rimmed glasses, an unremarkable black hoodie—someone who would vanish easily into a crowd.

“Didn’t think you’d still remember I was alive after all this time. I’m touched.”

Jiang Zhilin had no interest in small talk.
He simply handed over the document pouch.

“Run a comparison on a sample. Anonymous. Off the books.”

The man took the pouch without opening it, gave it a light shake.

“Hair and a toothbrush? That’s pretty old-school.”

“When you have results, send them straight to me. No intermediaries.”

Jiang Zhilin looked at him, his expression barely shifting.

The man tilted his head, studying him for a few seconds, then nodded.

“Fine. I won’t ask who it is, and I won’t ask why. But you—
you’ve never touched anything you weren’t sure about.”

“This time… it’s different.”

As Jiang Zhilin turned to leave, a gust of wind swept through the corridor.

Left standing in the doorway, the other watched his retreating figure, fingers brushing the pouch in his hand as he murmured to himself:

“…Just what is it you’re trying to confirm, Officer Jiang?”