Chapter 341: 2:38 a.m.

2:38 a.m. Three knocks on her door, a pause, then three more.

She opened it in the dark. The hallway's sound-activated light came on. Lu Jibai stood at the door in a sweater with no coat over it, just socks on his feet, his phone screen turned toward her.

"Awake?" he said, not waiting for an answer, pushing the screen a half-inch closer.

The footage showed the village committee courtyard. The iron-shaded wall lamp lit half the yard. The white strip of the seal on the archive room door sat at the edge of the light, blackness beyond it. She stared for a long moment before she registered her own heartbeat.

"Just now," he said. "2:38 a.m. That's when it triggered."

He pressed his thumb to the bottom edge of the screen, dragged it back a little, and played it again.

A beam of white light swept out from the corner of the wall at the lower left, flat against the ground—once, twice, a third time higher this time, grazing the doorframe, then moving out of frame—toward the back of the building. After the third sweep, the screen showed nothing. Just the lamp, the seal, the dark.

"Is there more?"

"That's the whole clip."

"Play it back."

"The phone only pushes this segment. The full footage is on the card inside the camera."

"Did you record it?"

"I started recording the moment it went off. 2:39." He flipped the phone over to show her the red recording dot in the corner. "The push notification only keeps one clip. It'll be gone soon."

"A screen recording isn't the same as the actual footage."

"I know. It only proves which alert the machine triggered." He turned the phone back around, his voice dropping. "The real footage is on the card. The card's in the camera. The camera's bolted to the wall."

She glanced at the top-right corner: 2:41 a.m. The two of them stood in the hallway. The sound-activated light had gone out, and in the dark only the screen glowed, lighting his jaw. When the light came back on, she saw the back of his hand, the old scar across his knuckles showing as a thin white line.

"Could it be a cat?" she asked.

"The light hugs the ground, moving in steps, like it's following someone walking. Cats don't carry flashlights."

She took the phone and watched it herself, then watched it again. On that third sweep, when the beam reached the doorframe, the edges scattered—flare. A person walking with something in their hand. She looked up. "It's 2:44. Call it in."

Lu Jibai dialed 110, put it on speaker, and kept his voice level: location, the Qingshi Village village committee; what was in the yard—court-sealed samples, a court seal on the door; what had happened—the camera mounted out front had triggered at 2:38 a.m., and the footage showed a flashlight beam entering the yard, moving toward the back of the building; where they were now—a guesthouse outside the village; had they gone to look—no; was anyone hurt—no.

The operator asked twice how the address was spelled, told him not to go in, not to touch the door, and said the town police station would dispatch officers immediately. He answered each question with no extra words.

The second call went to the court clerk. He repeated the same account, then added: "You have the key. The one to the door. The courtyard gate key is with Director Fu. When we get there, we won't enter the courtyard. We'll wait outside the gate."

There was a pause on the other end. "Don't open any doors. I'll leave the city at five."

"Five," he repeated, glancing at her.

The door on the third floor opened on the second knock. Hu Yongnian was already dressed, though one button on his padded jacket was off by one, camera hanging around his neck. He didn't ask what had happened, just said, "Talk downstairs," pulled the door shut, and as he walked down the stairs, unbuttoned and redid the buttons.

On the second floor, he finally asked, "What time was the footage?"

"2:38."

"And you've been watching ever since?"

"Watching the whole time."

He nodded once and didn't ask more, pressing the camera against his chest like he was holding something down.

Cai Qingru's room was at the end of the hall. By the time Shen Zhixia knocked, there was already movement inside. Cai Qingru opened the door with her coat on, car keys in hand. She looked down the hall once—three people standing there, no one saying a word—then locked her door and only spoke when she reached the stairs: "What time was the footage?"

"2:38."

"Get in the van."

At 2:51 a.m., the Qinghe van backed out from behind the guesthouse, headlights on low beam. Once they cleared the town entrance, Cai Qingru said, "I'll cut the lights at the village entrance. I know this road." She didn't ask whether they'd called the police or whether officers were coming. Both hands sat steady on the wheel.

At 2:58 a.m., the screen in Lu Jibai's hand stayed glowing. He kept the feed open the whole drive, holding the phone up in front of his chest with one hand, the other thumb pressed against the screen's edge.

"There," he said.

On the village road in the lower-right corner of the frame: two red points. The van's taillights. Red, heading toward the town side, gone at the edge of the frame. No license plate visible. Couldn't even tell if the rear end was round or square.

"We took the upper road," Cai Qingru said. "It took the lower one."

She pulled the wheel slightly, tires crunching over gravel at the shoulder.

At 3:10 a.m., the van stopped in the open ground outside the courtyard gate. No one got out to direct, no one asked questions. The gate was shut—bar-style iron gate. Through the gap, the wall lamp still burned, and the strip of seal across the archive room door sat exactly where it had been, stark white and clear.

The four of them stood three steps from the gate. No one moved closer.

Hu Yongnian stood at the side of the gatepost, camera around his neck, never once raising it. She lifted her phone to take photos. He saw and said, "Go ahead. Your phone, your call." He paused, then added, "I'm not taking photos tonight. If I shot tonight and showed it tomorrow, and someone asked me which section the notarization certifies, I couldn't tell them."

"Notarization is all from the daytime."

"Right," he said. "This overnight segment—I'll remember it for you in my heart, but I won't put it on paper for you."

She photographed the gate, the gap, the old scratch on the gatepost, the strip of seal inside the yard—one shot after another. When she finished, she checked the time: 3:14 a.m.

[Thud. 2:47 a.m.]

The phone in her hand stopped mid-air.

She slid it into her coat pocket, pulled the notebook from her bag, and flipped to the very last page. The line that had read "That segment at night—who's watching" had since gained a half-line: "Machine on the front door, nothing at the back." Below it she started a new line and wrote: 2:47 a.m.

She didn't show the line to anyone. She didn't know what it was herself. Her hand had written it before she could think.

At 3:25 a.m., a white police car came up the village road, no siren, roof lights off. Two officers got out—one older, one younger—both in reflective vests, each carrying a high-powered flashlight.

"Who called?"

"I did." Lu Jibai held out his phone. "2:44. It's in the call record."

"And you are?"

Cai Qingru stepped forward half a pace. "Jiangzhou Qinghe Environmental Public Interest Service Center. I'm the director. These two are plaintiff's counsel, and this is a notary from Chengnan Notary Office. We spent all day yesterday on-site, sealing samples."

The older officer clamped his flashlight under his arm, pulled a small notebook from his vest pocket, and asked question by question, writing: four names, affiliations, phone numbers, arrival time, when they'd called, whether they'd entered the courtyard. On that last one, Cai Qingru answered, "No. The van is parked outside the gate. We've been standing outside the gate."

"The gate's locked?"

"Locked. The key is with Director Fu in the village—the courtyard gate key. The archive room key was taken by the court clerk yesterday."

The younger officer had already circled around to the back. His flashlight swept along the foundation wall, then back, then held still.

"Sir," he called.

The older officer went over. She took two steps to follow, but Lu Jibai's arm came out, stopping her—he put himself in front and they went together. There were no lights out back. Only the flashlights.

The security bars on the rear window, lower-right corner: two of the iron rods had been bent outward, pried into a narrow gap, paint flakes still hanging from the bent metal. On the concrete windowsill was half a muddy print—sole cross-tread, toes pointing inward. In the wet dirt below the sill, one complete print, about a size 40, facing the window.

"Don't get closer," the older officer said, lowering his light toward the ground. "Aim at the sill. Don't step in the mud."

"It rained these past few days," the younger one said.

"It's not the rain." The older officer squatted, sweeping his light sideways across the half print. "The mud's wet. The edges haven't dried."

The beam angled through the gap and into the room—catching the corner of a metal cabinet, a table leg, the white shape of the cold storage chest against the wall, its lid crossed with two strips of seal tape.

"Stop," Lu Jibai said.

Both officers looked at him.

"Shining light in there won't show anything," he said. "Wait for the court to open it. Everything inside is in a specific position right now. Every extra minute we shine lights in here is one more argument to make tomorrow."

The older officer studied him, then pressed his flashlight down, the beam landing on the patch of ground directly in front of his own feet.

"Fine," he said. "Then no one goes inside." From the other pocket of his vest he pulled a roll of tape, red and white, tying one end to the iron gatepost, looping it around the locust tree, over to the foundation wall, circling the back of the building, returning it to below the window. "I'll string this line up for now. When the court comes at dawn to open it, none of you go in ahead of them."

She asked, "The two bent bars on the window—can I photograph them first?"

"Take your photos," the older officer said. "But don't reach through."

She photographed them. Hu Yongnian stood outside the tape line, watching, but didn't come over.

At 3:40 a.m., Director Fu arrived. Padded jacket draped over his shoulders, cap brim askew, cloth shoes on his feet, an iron flashlight in one hand. He didn't stop until he reached the tape.

"I locked the courtyard gate at ten last night."

"Locked it properly?"

"Locked it properly. I always give the gate two tugs after locking." He looked into the courtyard, saw the seal still in place, and his voice eased a little, then his gaze followed the younger officer's flashlight to the back of the building.

He stood looking for a long time, long enough that the flashlight beam wavered.

"That rear window," he said, "I put those bars up myself the year before last."

"Screwed in?"

"Screwed in." He gestured at about waist height. "I had to stand on a stool to reach."

"The bars were bent outward," the older officer said. "Whoever did it pried from outside."

Director Fu didn't answer. He pulled his jacket up around his shoulders, standing outside the tape, both hands clasped together.

After four, the wind came across the ditch. The older officer told them to wait in the van, said he'd keep watch here. The four of them climbed back in. Cai Qingru sat in the driver's seat without starting the engine. She pulled the key from the ignition and rested it on her lap.

Shen Zhixia found the thermos in the back and poured into two cup lids. Steam rose as the hot water hit the plastic, dissipating slowly inside the van. She handed one over.

When he took it, the cup wobbled in his hand, water spilling out, landing on his knee.

"You're scared," she said.

"It's not someone coming that I'm scared of."

"Then what?"

He turned the cup half a rotation in his hands, slowly. "I'm scared it'll all be over, and there won't be a single word on paper."

From the front seat came the sound of a key tapping against a leg. Cai Qingru didn't turn around.

"There are words today," she said. "2:38 a.m., a timestamp, a beam of light, a screen recording, a window pried open, a wet print in the dirt."

"Those words are only on our paper right now."

"Five minutes ago, they were also in a police officer's notebook."

At exactly five, his phone lit up. The clerk: "Leaving the city at five, will be at the village entrance at 7:30. No one touches any doors." He replied "OK" and set the phone on his knee, the screen's glow lighting his jaw again.

A little after five, the sky began to pale above the gray. The younger officer came around from the back of the building, flashlight still on, the beam sweeping across the van windows, into the van, cutting across his face.

In that instant, she saw clearly—there was no color in his face at all. Whiter than the flashlight beam.

"This time," he said, "someone's watching."

She opened the notebook, flipping to the very last page. The line reading "That segment at night—who's watching," and below it the timestamp she'd written in the night. Beneath that, she added one more line:

Someone came. The machine was awake.