The inquiry moved forward.
Paperwork did what it always did—quietly, relentlessly, with no regard for the people trapped beneath it.
Lin Wan received the insurer's confirmation the next morning: external access had been authorized through a law firm. A cutout. Clean and professional.
Not Chen Jin.
Not his assistant.
A buffer designed to absorb blame.
She wrote the name of the firm on a slip of paper and stared at it until the ink looked unfamiliar.
This was her second knife.
Not a single piece of evidence.
A chain.
And chains could be broken—if you found the weakest link.
At noon, she returned to the hospital.
Wang Xiao's father was stable again, but "stable" was a shallow word. It meant the monitors weren't screaming. It didn't mean safety.
Wang's mother sat beside the bed, eyes hollow with exhaustion.
When she saw Lin Wan, she flinched as if bracing for another storm.
"Wanwan," she whispered, "please… don't come anymore."
Lin Wan's throat tightened.
"I'm not here to cause trouble," she said softly.
Wang's mother shook her head, tears gathering. "Just seeing you reminded him. Reminds us. We can't take more pressure."
Lin Wan swallowed the sharpness in her chest.
"I won't speak to him about it," she promised. "I'll just sit for a minute."
Wang's mother hesitated, then nodded, defeated.
Lin Wan sat on the chair by the window and watched the rhythm of the IV drip.
One drop.
Another.
Time was measured in surrender.
She stood a few minutes later and stepped into the corridor.
Her phone buzzed.
Chen Jin.
She didn't answer.
He didn't call again.
Instead, a message appeared.
Don't visit the hospital.
You're increasing stress.
Lin Wan stared at it.
Then typed back:
You're not his doctor.
Three dots.
Then:
No. I'm the reason his past stays buried.
Her fingers went cold.
So he would say it like that.
Plainly.
Not as a threat.
As a fact.
That afternoon, she met Zhou Yu.
Not at Night. Not near it.
A small noodle shop two streets away from the club district, where the tables were sticky and nobody looked up long enough to recognize anyone.
Zhou Yu stirred her drink with a plastic straw.
"You look worse," she said.
"I'm not sleeping."
"No kidding."
Lin Wan slid the slip of paper across the table.
The law firm's name.
Zhou Yu glanced down.
"Why are you showing me this?"
"Have you heard of them?"
Zhou Yu's eyes narrowed.
"Not directly."
"But?"
"But men like Chen Jin don't hire random firms," Zhou Yu said. "They hire firms that know which doors to knock on and which ones to keep closed."
"That's what I need," Lin Wan replied.
Zhou Yu stopped stirring.
"You're trying to find the door."
"I'm trying to find the hinge."
Zhou Yu watched her for a long moment.
"Lin Wan," she said quietly, "you know this is beyond you, right?"
"I know."
"Then why are you still moving?"
Lin Wan didn't answer immediately.
Because she couldn't explain what it felt like to wake up every day and remember someone was gone forever.
Because she couldn't explain how helplessness changed shape into something harder.
Finally, she said, "Because stopping doesn't bring him back."
Zhou Yu exhaled.
Then she leaned in slightly.
"I can get you a name," she said. "One person. Someone who worked with that firm before."
Lin Wan's pulse sharpened.
"Who?"
"A paralegal," Zhou Yu said. "She drinks at our place sometimes. Talks too much when she's nervous."
"What's her name?"
Zhou Yu wrote it on a napkin and pushed it over.
Lin Wan read it once, then folded the napkin carefully.
"Don't do anything stupid," Zhou Yu added.
Lin Wan looked up.
"Define stupid."
Zhou Yu's mouth tightened.
"Anything that makes him look in your direction too hard."
Lin Wan almost smiled.
"He's already looking."
Zhou Yu didn't smile back.
"That's not a win."
The paralegal's name was He Lin.
Twenty-six. Newly divorced. Loud online. Quiet in person.
They met at a café near the courthouse—neutral territory where suits walked in and out like moving walls.
He Lin arrived ten minutes late, hair damp from the rain, lipstick slightly smeared.
She looked surprised to see Lin Wan.
"You're… her," she said, her voice dropping.
Lin Wan didn't deny it.
"You wanted to talk?"
"Yes," Lin Wan said, and kept her tone mild. "About an external consultant."
He Lin's eyes flickered.
"I don't know what you mean."
Lin Wan slid her phone across the table.
A screenshot of the insurer's internal note—consultant authorization, firm name attached.
He Lin stared.
Then looked away.
"That's not my department."
"I'm not asking for files," Lin Wan said. "I'm asking for the name of the consultant."
He Lin swallowed.
"You shouldn't be doing this."
"I know."
Silence stretched.
He Lin's fingers tightened around her cup.
"There are non-disclosure agreements," she said.
"I'm not asking you to break one," Lin Wan replied calmly. "I'm asking you to tell me whether you recognize the name."
She tapped the firm's name on the screen.
He Lin's throat moved.
She nodded once, almost imperceptibly.
So she did recognize it.
"That's enough," Lin Wan said softly.
He Lin exhaled with relief—then realized the relief was premature.
Lin Wan leaned in slightly.
"I'm going to ask one more question," she said. "You can answer yes or no."
He Lin's eyes widened.
"Okay."
"Did they hire the consultant before the accident report was finalized?"
He Lin froze.
Silence.
Then, in a voice so quiet it barely existed:
"Yes."
Lin Wan's pulse remained steady.
But something inside her sharpened.
Before the report was finalized.
That meant they weren't reacting.
They were preparing.
"Thank you," Lin Wan said, and stood.
He Lin grabbed her sleeve.
"Don't," she whispered.
Lin Wan looked down at her hand.
"He'll ruin you," He Lin added.
Lin Wan met her eyes.
"He'd already tried."
He Lin released her sleeve like it burned.
That night, Chen Jin received a report from his assistant.
"She spoke to someone near the courthouse," the assistant said.
"Who?"
"A paralegal. He Lin."
Chen Jin's eyes narrowed slightly.
"What did she learn?"
"Unknown. But He Lin is shaken."
Chen Jin tapped his pen once against the desk.
Lin Wan was not searching randomly.
She was moving toward the hinge.
That meant she was learning where the structure bent.
He didn't like that.
But he also didn't destroy her immediately.
Not yet.
He opened a draft message to Lin Wan.
Typed one line.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Then finally sent:
Fourteen days means fourteen days.
Don't make me shorten it.
Lin Wan read the message under the dim light of her kitchen.
She stared at it for a long moment.
Then she opened her notes app and wrote:
Before the report.
She underlined it once.
Twice.
Her second knife had found bone.
Now she needed to decide whether to cut deeper.