clear sign that the ant
The police reopened the case at 9:17 a.m.
I knew the exact time because I was in the middle of cataloging tissue samples when my phone vibrated—three short pulses, the alert tone I had assigned to Officer Chen.
I didn't answer immediately.
Experience had taught me that the first words spoken after a case was reopened were rarely reassuring.
When I did pick up, Chen didn't waste time on greetings.
"They approved it," he said. "Internal review. Zhao Ming's death is officially under reconsideration."
I closed my eyes briefly.
"And?" I asked.
"And," he continued, "I was told—very clearly—to keep you out of it."
That part, I had expected.
"I'm guessing you ignored that."
There was a pause.
"Not entirely," Chen said. "We're meeting. One hour. District headquarters."
The line went dead.
District headquarters was louder than my lab, brighter too—rows of desks, ringing phones, officers moving with purpose. It should have felt reassuring.
Instead, it felt performative.
Chen met me near the elevators, his expression tight.
"You shouldn't be here," he said quietly.
"You asked me to come."
"I asked for a consultation," he replied. "Not a confrontation."
The elevator doors slid open. We stepped inside.
"Who objected?" I asked.
Chen exhaled slowly. "Everyone who matters."
The doors closed.
The conference room smelled like coffee and old paper.
Three men waited inside.
I recognized only one—Deputy Director Luo, mid-fifties, immaculate suit, eyes sharp with practiced authority. The other two were unfamiliar: one in plainclothes, the other wearing a badge I didn't recognize.
"Dr. Shen," Luo said, standing. "Please, sit."
I did.
"We've reviewed your amended report," he continued, folding his hands. "Very… thorough."
"Thank you," I said.
"Unfortunately," he added, "thorough does not always mean useful."
I met his gaze. "Truth usually is."
One of the other men shifted uncomfortably.
Luo smiled thinly. "Careful, Doctor."
Chen cleared his throat. "With respect, sir, the forensic inconsistencies warrant—"
"They warrant discretion," Luo cut in smoothly. "This case involves sensitive individuals."
That word again.
Individuals.
"Who?" I asked.
Silence.
Then Luo spoke again, voice calm. "People whose names you do not want attached to yours."
The room seemed to contract.
I felt the pressure behind my eyes return—not sharp, but alert, like a warning signal.
"Three people were present at Zhao Ming's death," I said evenly. "That much is certain."
The man in plainclothes stiffened.
Luo's smile didn't change. "Certainty is a luxury, Doctor. One that must be managed."
Chen slammed his palm lightly on the table. "Sir, with all due respect, are you suggesting we ignore evidence?"
"I'm suggesting," Luo replied, eyes never leaving me, "that some evidence creates more harm than justice."
I leaned forward. "Then why reopen the case at all?"
Luo studied me for a long moment.
"Because," he said slowly, "we needed to see how far you would go."
The meaning settled heavily.
This wasn't an investigation.
It was an evaluation.
"Your involvement ends here," Luo said. "You will submit no further reports. You will speak to no one about your conclusions."
"And if I refuse?" I asked.
The man with the unfamiliar badge finally spoke.
"Then we begin asking you questions."
His tone was polite.
The threat was not.
I left headquarters with the uneasy feeling of having stepped onto a narrow path with no guardrails.
Outside, Chen caught up to me.
"I tried," he said quietly.
"I know," I replied.
He hesitated. "They didn't tell you, did they?"
"Tell me what?"
Chen lowered his voice. "Zhao Ming wasn't just a random victim. He was an accountant."
I stopped walking.
"For who?"
Chen glanced around, then leaned closer. "A private investment group. Off the books. Government contracts."
The pressure behind my eyes flared sharply this time.
Three people.
One observing.
"Be careful," Chen said. "This isn't a case you solve. It's a case you survive."
Back at the lab, Ling was waiting.
"They came here," she said immediately.
My blood ran cold. "Who?"
"Two men," she continued. "Said they were from regulatory oversight. Asked about our licenses. Our funding. Our equipment."
I closed my eyes briefly.
"How polite were they?"
She gave a weak smile. "Very."
That was worse.
"They warned me," she added. "About working with someone who attracts… complications."
I felt something settle in my chest.
Not fear.
Resolve.
"Ling," I said quietly, "if you want to step away—"
She shook her head immediately. "No."
I looked at her.
"They're afraid of you," she said. "People don't threaten what they don't fear."
After she left, I sat alone in the lab, lights dimmed, the city humming beyond the windows.
Han Wei had been right.
The living were paying attention now.
And they would not stop at warnings.
I opened my notebook and added a new heading beneath the others.
EXTERNAL CONSEQUENCES — OBSERVATION
Beneath it, I wrote one sentence.
The truth does not surface quietly.
As I closed the notebook, my phone buzzed again.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
They asked you to stop.
I didn't reply.
Another message arrived.
Next time, they won't ask.
I looked at the autopsy table.
At the silence.
At the questions still unanswered.
Then I turned off the lights.