Desperate people, accept the seed of my soul!

Two days later, the preparatory meeting for the year-end performance of the Department of Culture was held in the small auditorium of the Provincial Government Affairs Center.

The person on the podium was reading a lengthy report, while Zheng Hongwen leaned back in his chair, scrolling through his phone, his fingers aimlessly swiping through short videos.

His fingers suddenly stopped when the big screen switched to a video showcasing grassroots cultural achievements and the camera cut to the "Classic Recitation" activity at Chenxi No. 3 Middle School.

The female teacher on the screen is wearing a simple white shirt and is standing on the podium guiding students to recite. She has a faint smile on her profile. The camera slowly zooms in on her fingers holding the textbook, her fingertips clean and slender.

The screen quickly switched away, and Zheng Hongwen stared at the screen that had now shown a community Yangko dance performance. He nudged the person next to him and asked with a hint of excitement, "Which school did that female teacher go to?"

The person next to him shook his head and said he hadn't noticed.

Zheng Hongwen leaned back in his chair, tapped his fingers on his thigh twice, and pressed the tip of his tongue against his back teeth.

After the preparatory meeting ended, Zheng Hongwen did not leave immediately.

He leaned against the registration table and waited until the people who had gathered around the organizers asking for information dispersed before walking over and tapping on the edge of the table.

"Which school was that classical recitation from in the presentation video?"

The girl in charge of registration flipped through the process sheet: "Chenxi City No. 3 Middle School".

"Where is the contact person?"

The girl hesitated for a moment.

Zheng Hongwen smiled and said casually, "I'm from the provincial song and dance troupe. There's a collaboration segment in the performance, and I'd like to connect with them."

Seeing his confident demeanor, the girl assumed he wasn't faking it and handed him the last page of the sign-in sheet.

The document lists the contact information for each school. The section for the Third Middle School lists Su Wan, followed by her mobile phone number and detailed address.

Zheng Hongwen took out his phone, took a picture, pushed the sign-in sheet back, thanked him, and turned to leave.

As I walked to the entrance of the parking lot, I bumped into Lao Liu, a clerk from the Cultural Affairs Bureau office.

Old Liu, carrying two large bags of meeting materials, quickly stepped aside to make way for him, forcing a smile and greeting him. Zheng

Hongwen nodded and walked straight to his car.

Old Liu stood there, watching Zheng Hongwen's car drive out of the parking lot, before finally taking out his phone and sending a message to the number saved as "Commander Gu": Zheng has obtained the target's contact information.

Thirty seconds later, the reply was only five words: Delete this.

Old Liu pressed the delete button, a layer of cold sweat seeping from his back. Only after watching the message being completely deleted did he put his phone away, pick up his materials, and quickly leave.

Gu Mingyuan sat in his office, watching the messages on his phone being automatically cleared, and lightly tapped the table with his fingertips.

The sky outside the window had darkened, and the distant buildings were dotted with lights, like scattered stars on the ground.

He stood up and walked to the window, looking at the endless stream of cars below, a cold smile appearing on his lips.

Zheng Hongwen, don't let me down.

------

In the basement of the abandoned research institute, the smell of disinfectant mixed with the dampness of old wood slowly drifted through the air.

Shen Qinghou sat on the edge of the cot, his back to the only small window. Daylight streamed in from behind him, casting a long, thin shadow on the floor.

His left hand was wrapped with the last layer of off-white gauze. He gently pulled the end of the gauze with his fingertips and slowly unwrapped it along the curve of his knuckles.

The gauze was loosened layer by layer, revealing the wound underneath that had already healed.

The old scar on my wrist, cut by a blade, was still there, a pale pink raised bump. The wound on my palm, cut by a guitar string, had formed a deep red scab, with translucent dry skin peeling off the edges.

He pressed the scab with his thumb; it was hard but not painful.

Spread your fingers, bend them, and then extend them again. Repeat this three times.

The knuckles cracked slightly when rotated, no longer as stiff and painful as they had been a few days ago.

He crumpled the removed gauze into a ball and threw it into the trash can next to the bed.

His fingertips dangled from his knees as he stared at his hands for a long time.

Playing the piano might not be enough.

He thought that the strength and accuracy of his plucking the strings could never be the same as before, and he could never play the complete "High Mountains and Flowing Water" again.

But that's enough to kill people.

He turned to his side and pulled out the tattered sheet music that Chen Zhiyuan had copied for him from under his pillow.

The paper had been touched so many times that the edges were rough. Chen Zhiyuan's handwriting was neat and clean, and every note was copied meticulously. Like him, he was gentle and mild-mannered, but his back was straighter than anyone else's.

The tattered pages lay open on my lap, my fingertips slowly gliding along the ink marks, tracing the last few measures of the melody of "Guangling San". My fingertips brushed against the tiny bumps and ridges on the paper, as if touching the warmth left on it when Chen Zhiyuan copied the score.

The fingertip paused on the last note.

During his recovery, Chen Zhiyuan's face kept flashing before his eyes.

It was Chen Zhiyuan who dragged him out of the pool of blood, it was Chen Zhiyuan who cooked porridge for him, and it was Chen Zhiyuan who, in order to protect him, stabbed the nib of a pen into his own throat while his eyes were still looking in the direction he was running away.

He owes Chen Zhiyuan.

Next to the sheet music was a stack of photos cut from old newspapers. In the top photo, Zheng Hongwen was standing on the stage in a black tuxedo, his lips curled up in a glaring smile.

Shen Qinghou stared at that smile for a long time. Gu Yanzhi smiled like that when he stood at the door of the music room and mocked him, "Your mother died in vain." Old Zhang smiled like that when he threw his appeal materials into the trash can. Fang Heming must have smiled like that when he kicked open Chen Zhiyuan's door.

These people always laugh so self-righteously when they harm others.

That's disgusting.

The iron door to the basement was gently pushed open, and Lin Shen walked in carrying a canvas bag.

He placed the cloth bag on the old wooden table against the wall, took out a stack of printed documents from it, and pushed it in front of Shen Qinghou.

The first page shows Zheng Hongwen's address, along with the name of the residential complex, the house number, and the location of the surveillance cameras in the building, all clearly marked.

The second page lists his frequented places: the provincial song and dance troupe's rehearsal room, his usual private restaurant, and the golf course he visits every Saturday. Each location is marked with its level of security.

The third page shows his recent schedule, with a red marker marking "Two days later, the provincial song and dance troupe's annual performance rehearsal, completely closed, with only the small east gate for staff to enter and exit."

Finally, there's a blurry photo taken from a distance. Zheng Hongwen is standing next to a black Mercedes, looking down at his phone, with a platinum watch peeking out from his cuff, gleaming in the light.

Shen Qinghou picked up the photo, looked at it for a few seconds, and put it back on the desktop.

He was deaf and couldn't hear anything. He didn't want to speak either. He reached for the notepad and black marker on the bedside table, and wrote four words on the paper: When to make a move.

The handwriting is so strong it seems to penetrate the paper, each stroke as hard as a knife.

Lin Shen also picked up a pen and wrote below: Two days later, at the provincial song and dance troupe's rehearsal, he will have the most chances of being alone.

Shen Qinghou nodded, folded the note, and stuffed it into his coat pocket.

He reached out and picked up the guqin that was placed in the corner. The body of the guqin was made of dark brown old paulownia wood, and there was still a crack on it that Chen Zhiyuan had repaired for him.

He placed his fingers on the strings, gently turned the tuning pegs to tune the instrument, and plucked a deep note. The air vibrated, struck the concrete wall of the basement, and bounced back, chilling him to the bone.

During a break in tuning the strings, he looked up at Lin Shen, nodded, and thanked him.

Lin Shen waved his hand without saying a word, picked up the empty cloth bag, turned around and walked out of the basement. The iron door closed gently behind him, shutting out the coldness that filled the room.

Shen Qinghou's fingers were still on the strings.

He waited, and two days later, he crushed Zheng Hongwen's throat, just as Zheng Hongwen had kicked Chen Zhiyuan's Adam's apple to pieces back then.