You're just a locksmith! What are you doing catching swindlers at the start?

The alley was lined with densely packed self-built houses, walls against walls, windows facing windows.

A clothesline stretched out of the second-floor window, hanging with bed sheets and thermal underwear, swaying gently in the breeze. "Number seventeen. It should be in the middle of the alley."

The three people walked into the alley.

Su Wan walked at the front. She wasn't wearing a police uniform, but her pace was the same as when she was investigating the crime scene—each step was the same length, neither fast nor slow, and her eyes scanned the door numbers on each door.

Number 13, number 15, number 17.

Number 17 is a three-story self-built house with white tiles on the exterior walls. It has been in disrepair for many years, and several tiles have fallen off, revealing the gray-black cement behind them.

The iron gate on the first floor was closed, and a handwritten "For Rent" sign was pasted on it. The red paper had black characters, and the edges were wet from the rain, causing the writing to bleed.

Su Wan reached out and pushed the iron gate.

The door wasn't locked and creaked open.

The door hinges were rusty, and the sound carried far in the quiet alley.

The first floor is a small foyer with black and white checkered floor tiles, several of which are cracked.

A row of mailboxes hung on the wall, three of which were stuffed with utility bills. The stairs were on the left, with concrete steps and the paint on the handrails mostly peeling off, revealing rusty iron pipes underneath.

One hundred and two.

Old Zhou checked the information on his phone and walked to a door.

The green security door had an even older paint job than Lin Zhou's, and an upside-down "福" (good fortune) character was pasted on the door frame.

He raised his hand and knocked three times.

The fist struck the metal sheet, producing a deep, resonant sound that echoed through the narrow corridor.

No one answered.

He knocked three more times.

Dragging footsteps came from inside the door.

It's not the kind of sluggishness where you shuffle along the floor in slippers; it's the kind of sluggishness where your heels are afraid to touch the ground.

The footsteps stopped behind the door.

After a few seconds of silence, a hoarse voice came from under the door: "Who is it?"

"Property management. Check the water meter."

There was a longer silence inside the door.

Then the door opened a crack. The security chain was still on, and a dark red face peeked out from the crack.

His cheekbones were high, his beard sparse, and his lips dry and chapped. His eyes darted around through the crack in the door, first landing on Old Zhou's face, then on Su Wan's, and finally on Lin Zhou.

His pupils contracted slightly.

That's not fear.

That was the devastating experience of someone who meticulously planned a scheme, only to discover after several hours that they had been completely exposed.

He spent the entire morning breaking into his house and stealing the lock, thinking his revenge was foolproof. He even bought a pack of cigarettes on his way back to celebrate. Now, the other party is standing right in front of his house.

The man locking the car trembled slightly on the security chain, the metal chain gently tapping against the door frame with a soft clatter.

He took a half step back, his heel hitting the threshold, and his body swayed. Then he suddenly used his shoulder to push against the door, trying to slam it shut.

Old Zhou's foot was already stuck in the door crack. The sole of his leather shoe was pressed between the door frame and the door panel, preventing the door from closing.

His voice was flat, exactly the same as when he read the statement of rights and obligations in the interrogation room.

"I still have the guarantee I wrote yesterday. Add another charge of burglary, and you'll be punished for both crimes."

The man who locked the car slid off the door.

He stood at the door, the security chain still hanging, his face peeking out from the crack in the door.

His lips moved slightly, his dry, chapped lower lip separating from his upper lip, then closing again.

Old Zhou took his ID card out of his pocket and held it up to the crack in the door.

The police badge reflected the dim light in the corridor, its lettering cut in half by the crack in the door.

"Open the door."

The man who locked the car slowly lowered his hand from the door handle.

He looked down at the leather shoes that were stuck in the door crack, and then at Lin Zhou behind Lao Zhou.

The young man was wearing a blue down jacket, had a tool bag slung over his shoulder, his hands in his pockets, and was tilting his head to look at him.

The posture was exactly the same as yesterday at the entrance of Crescent Moon Bend.

He took off the security chain.

The metal chain slid across the door frame with a soft click.

The door opened.

A smell mixed with the scent of smoke and mothballs wafted out of the room and spread through the narrow corridor.

The room wasn't big.

A bed, a plastic wardrobe, and a folding table.

On the table was a half-eaten boxed lunch, several empty beer cans, and an old screwdriver with its handle wrapped in tape.

Newspapers were pasted on the window, and sunlight filtered through the gaps in the newspapers, casting streaks of light on the table.

But it wasn't these things that made everyone stop in their tracks.

Lock cylinders were everywhere—on the TV cabinet, on the bed, on the folding table, and even on the floor.

The copper-yellow and silver-white components, from door locks to car locks to combination lock modules, were half-disassembled, with pins scattered all over the floor and the plastic panel pried open.

All twenty-odd lock cylinders of his are here, not one missing, but each one has been forcibly dismantled.

Lin Zhou's row of lock cylinders were arranged on the TV cabinet according to size, from left to right, from smallest to largest.

The man who locked the cars even numbered them, sticking small slips of paper next to them with crooked handwriting in ballpoint pen: Number 1 Anti-theft door lock, Number 2 Car lock, Number 3 Combination lock.

It seems he hadn't finished his research and was still sorting things when the police arrived.

Old Zhou picked up a lock cylinder that had been dismantled and was in pieces from the TV cabinet.

The outer casing was forcibly pried open, and the marbles inside were scattered on the cabinet. The retaining spring was bent, and the spring flew out and disappeared somewhere.

He looked down for a few seconds, then looked at the man who locked the car.

"You stole the locks, took them apart to look inside, and then went out and picked locks for people? And then used those lock cylinders as teaching aids to become self-taught locksmiths?"

The man locking the car stood next to the folding table.

His fingers tapped lightly on the edge of the table, without rhythm, his nails making a soft tapping sound as they struck the wood.

His lips moved several times before he finally managed to squeeze out a sentence: "I...I just wanted to see."

Lin Zhou walked over and stood in front of the TV cabinet.

He picked up the broken lock cylinder, turned it over, and looked at the pry marks on the outer shell—it was pried open with a screwdriver, using a lot of force, and a piece of the metal on the outer shell was pried up.

He put the lock cylinder back and dusted off the metal shavings from his hands.

"You pried it open with a screwdriver. This lock cylinder has a hidden latch between the outer shell and the lock body, about three millimeters directly below the keyhole. You can't pry it open no matter how much force you use if you don't find the hidden latch. You forced it open and bent the retaining spring."

He pulled the wire from his toolbox and waved it in front of the man locking the bike: "That's the difference. You use a screwdriver, I use this."

The comments section exploded.

"The man who locked the car was kneeling on the ground picking up marbles. He spent half a day stealing them, and he broke them all. He didn't use a single one. The Three-Second King can pick locks in three seconds, but it takes him half an hour to pick a single lock. He thought that by stealing more than twenty lock cylinders, he could learn how to pick locks, but he didn't know that once a lock is taken apart, it's just a bunch of copper plates and springs, which are useless. The real skill in picking locks lies in your own hands and ears."

"The Three-Second King's words really hit home: 'You use a screwdriver, I use this.' This wire opened a German military-grade safe."

Update released! Book lovers, go read Cola Novels!