At six in the morning, the tranquility of Binhai's old town was shattered by the wail of police sirens.
Lin Xi was awakened by the sounds. Not the sirens themselves—they were still several alleys away, muffled and distant, like a fly trapped in a glass bottle. What truly roused her was the vibration in the stairwell. Someone was running, hurried footsteps echoing up from the first floor, accompanied by Old Lady Wang's panicked shouts.
"Something's happened! Something's happened in the alley!"
Lin Xi opened her eyes. Her sleep had been light, but sufficient to restore her body. The moment she awoke, her consciousness became like a drawn blade—sharp, clear, with no need for transition.
She didn't get up immediately. She lay in bed, listening to the sounds outside—the sirens drawing closer, at least four vehicles. Footsteps reverberated in the alley; there was more than one person, many people. There was also the crackle of walkie-talkies, harsh static interspersed with muffled commands.
The body had been discovered three hours earlier than she had anticipated.
According to her calculations, the man's corpse shouldn't have been found until after nine in the morning—when a cleaner swept the alley, or when some early-rising resident passed by. But it was six now, dawn had just broken, and someone had found the body sooner than expected.
Perhaps it was an elderly person out walking their dog, perhaps a worker returning from the night shift. It didn't matter. What mattered was that the police had arrived.
Lin Xi sat up in bed. Her movements were still silent, but twice as fast as usual. Three seconds to dress—an ordinary gray long-sleeved shirt, a pair of dark jeans. Five seconds to retrieve the screwdriver from under her pillow, wipe it carefully with a cloth to confirm no traces remained, and place it in her toolbox.
The toolbox was one she'd brought back from the repair shop, containing several commonly used wrenches and screwdrivers. The modified screwdriver mingled among them, looking no different from the others.
Her gaze swept the room. The photographs on the wall—thirteen faces, lines drawn in red pen—that was something impossible to explain. Any police officer who saw that wall would instantly make her the prime suspect.
Lin Xi walked to the wall and began tearing down the photos. Her movements were swift but methodical. She removed the top ones first, then the middle, then the bottom. She flipped each photo over, face-down on the folding table. The red lines and annotations were wiped away with a cloth, leaving the wall restored to its original gray-white, water-stained state.
Two minutes. All thirteen photos were removed. The wall was as it had been.
She stacked the photos, secured them with a rubber band, and stuffed them into the lining of her canvas bag. The notebook and map went into the same compartment. She pushed the canvas bag to the deepest corner under the bed and covered it with a few pieces of old clothing.
Next was the phone. She powered off the basic mobile, removed the battery and SIM card, hiding the three items in three separate places—the phone tucked into a gap in the ceiling tiles, the battery wrapped in a sock and tossed into the laundry basket, the SIM card pressed against the inner ceramic wall of the toilet tank.
By the time she finished, the sirens outside were right on top of her. Voices clamored in the alley, someone shouting "Make way," someone else reporting over a walkie-talkie.
Lin Xi stood in the center of the room, giving it a final check. Floor—clean. Table—only a lamp and a water cup. Walls—blank. Window—sealed, nothing unusual.
She went into the bathroom, turned on the faucet, and splashed water on her face. The face in the mirror was calm as still water. She dried it with a towel, hung the towel back in its place, returned to the main room, and sat on the edge of the bed.
Then she waited.
The knock came fifteen minutes later.
"Anyone home? Police." The voice was young, with an officious stiffness.
Lin Xi stood and walked to the door. She didn't open it immediately, asking first: "Who is it?" Her voice carried a trace of just-woken grogginess—a deliberate touch she added to her performance.
"Police. An incident has occurred in the alley. We're conducting routine inquiries. Please open the door and cooperate."
Lin Xi opened the door.
Two men stood at the threshold. In front was a young uniformed officer in his twenties, holding a notebook, wearing an expression of forced seriousness. Behind him was a detective in plain clothes, around forty years old, wearing a dark jacket. His face showed fatigue, but his eyes were like a dull blade—not sharp, but weighty, commanding respect.
The young officer's gaze swept past Lin Xi into the room. It was very small, visible at a glance—a bed, a table, a chair, a canvas bag, a few clothes hanging on the wall. Nothing unusual.
"What's your name?" the young officer asked.
"Lin Xi."
"How long have you been living here?"
"About ten days."
"Where were you last night?"
"Here. Sleeping."
The young officer scribbled in his notebook, then looked up and said in a routine tone: "A man's body was found in the alley. We need to verify the whereabouts of nearby residents. Did you hear anything unusual last night?"
Lin Xi's expression changed just right—her eyes widened slightly, her lips parted a little, as if startled by the news. This was an expression she had practiced many times, in Somchai's clinic, in front of a mirror, over and over.
"A dead body? In the alley?" A hint of tension crept into her voice. "Who was it?"
"Still identifying." The young officer didn't answer her question. "Are you sure you didn't hear anything last night?"
"No. I went to bed early, around ten."
The young officer made more notes, then glanced back at the plainclothes detective. The detective hadn't spoken, just stood at the door, his gaze resting on Lin Xi for a few seconds before shifting to scan the hallway, the stairs, the neighboring doors.
"What do you do for work?" the detective asked suddenly. His voice was deeper than the young officer's, with an unhurried rhythm, like a man slowly reeling in a fishing line.
"I'm a mechanic. Old Zhou's Auto Repair at the alley entrance."
"How long have you been in Binhai?"
"About ten days. Just found the job."
"Where were you before?"
"My hometown in Sichuan."
The detective nodded, as if confirming something. His eyes fell on Lin Xi again, lingering a bit longer this time—moving from her face to her hands, then back from her hands to her face.
Lin Xi's hands were clean. She had washed them three times with soap the night before; there was no residue in her fingernails. Her expression was normal, too—an ordinary working girl woken by a knock from the police, a bit nervous, a bit confused, but nothing suspicious.
"What time did you come back last night?" the detective asked.
"A little after six. I had some wontons at the alley entrance, then came straight back."
"Anyone who can verify that?"
"The wonton stall owner should remember me. I eat there every day."
The detective nodded, finally shifting his gaze away. He turned to the young officer and said, "Let's go. Next one."
The young officer closed his notebook, nodded to Lin Xi, and said, "Sorry to bother you. If you remember anything, you can call this number." He handed her a card bearing the insignia of the Binhai Public Security Bureau's Old Town Branch and a phone number.
Lin Xi took the card, glanced at it, and put it in her pocket.
"Okay. I will."
She closed the door and heard footsteps fade down the hallway, then the sound of descending stairs. She didn't relax immediately but leaned against the door, eyes closed, listening to the activity outside.
The police were knocking on doors one by one. Next door, Old Lady Wang; the tenants downstairs; the other residents in the alley—everyone was being questioned. This was standard procedure, the routine canvas after a homicide. She was fine. Her identity was clean, her room was clean, her behavior was normal.
But the detective's gaze made her slightly uncomfortable. Not fear, but alertness—those eyes weren't looking at an ordinary citizen; they were sizing up a possible suspect. He might not have found any flaw, but his instinct told him something in this room was off.
Instinct was a cop's best tool, and the most unreliable. It couldn't convict, but it could get someone targeted.
Lin Xi walked to the window, lifted a corner of the black plastic sheeting with her fingernail, and looked down.
Crime scene tape had been strung across the alley, the yellow plastic fluttering slightly in the morning breeze. Several police officers were busy inside the cordoned area—some taking photos, some measuring, some bagging evidence. The body's location was in that doorway—the spot where she had acted the night before.
From her angle, she couldn't make out details of the body, but she could see the outline traced in chalk on the ground. The posture matched what she'd left behind—slumped on the ground, head drooped against the chest.
The coroner had probably done a preliminary examination. Cause of death: heart pierced by a sharp object, instantaneous. No signs of struggle, no evidence of a fight, no witnesses. To an ordinary cop, this was a difficult case—a body, a weapon (though they hadn't found it yet), but no suspect, no motive, no leads.
But to that detective, it might be a signal.
Lin Xi let the plastic fall and walked back to the center of the room. She sat at the folding table, picked up the cup of water that had gone cold, and took a sip. The water was cold, but her mind was colder.
She was running through it again.
Had last night's operation left any traces? The screwdriver had been cleaned, now mixed in with her toolbox. Her clothes had been changed and were soaking in a washbasin; any blood had long been washed away with soap. Her shoes—she glanced down at the canvas sneakers she'd worn last night—had no bloodstains on the soles, only some dirt and mud from the alley, no different from anyone else living in the old town.
The phone, map, notebook—all hidden. The photos on the wall—all put away.
No traces. No evidence. Nothing that could connect "Lin Xi" to the man dead in the alley.
But she knew that detective wouldn't let it go. Not because her performance had any flaws, but because of the man's identity.
A man carrying a Glock, communicating with code names, had died in an alley in the old town. This wasn't an ordinary homicide; it was a premeditated assassination. And the target he'd been following—a female mechanic who'd been in Binhai for barely ten days, living in a slum—would become the starting point of this investigation.
Not the end—the beginning. That detective would look into her identity, her background, her life before coming to Binhai. And the "Lin Xi" identity couldn't withstand deep scrutiny.
It could withstand ordinary checks—household registration, ID card, clean criminal record—all of that was fine. But if someone really dug deep, went to that small county in Sichuan for an on-site investigation, they would find something off—that "Lin Xi" had indeed existed, but she had left her hometown three years ago, and where she'd gone, what she'd done—no one knew. That blank space was the biggest flaw.
She needed time. Time blurred memories, broke leads, made investigators lose patience. But she also knew that detective might not give her much time.
Lin Xi stood up, walked to the bed, crouched, and pulled the canvas bag out from underneath. She didn't take out the photos or notebook but reached into the lining and pulled out one thing—the copied data from Liu Dayong's phone, stored on a micro SD card.
She pinched the SD card between her fingers, went to the window, and lifted the plastic sheeting again.
The police were still busy in the alley. A crowd of onlookers had gathered outside the cordon, Old Lady Wang among them, whispering animatedly with her neighbor. Old Zhou was nowhere to be seen—he should already be at the shop.
Lin Xi's gaze cut through the crowd, settling on the alley entrance. A police car was parked at the curb, the detective leaning against the door, making a phone call. His expression was calm, but his lips moved rapidly, clearly discussing something important.
She made a decision in her mind.
She needed to accelerate. Her original plan had been to play the long game, but the police's involvement changed everything. If they identified the tail—if something on him pointed to "Ouroboros"—the whole old town would become a tightening net. She had to finish what she needed to do before the net closed.
Liu Dayong. Scarface Liu. These two had to be dealt with before she was locked in.
Not now. The police were still in the alley; the whole old town was on high alert. Any unusual move would attract attention. She needed to wait until the heat died down, until the cordon was removed, until the police shifted their focus elsewhere.
But "waiting" didn't mean doing nothing.
Lin Xi tucked the SD card back into the canvas bag's lining and pushed the bag under the bed. She stood up, straightened her clothes, took the card the police had left from the table, glanced at the number, and put it in her pocket.
She opened the door and went downstairs. Passing the second floor, she ran into Old Lady Wang, who had just returned from outside. The old woman grabbed her arm.
"Xiao Lin! So terrifying! Someone's dead in the alley! I heard he was killed!"
"I heard." Lin Xi's expression was appropriately shocked and unsettled. "Who did it?"
"Who knows! These days, all kinds of crazies are around!" Old Lady Wang patted her chest. "You shouldn't walk alone at night from now on, it's too dangerous!"
"Mm, I'll be careful."
Lin Xi exited the stairwell and walked through the alley. The cordon was still up, but she didn't need to pass by that doorway—the repair shop was in the opposite direction. She took a detour, weaving through the back alleys until she reached the shop's rear entrance.
Old Zhou had already opened up and was organizing tools inside. He looked surprised to see Lin Xi come in through the back.
"Why are you coming from the back today?"
"The front is blocked. Police aren't letting anyone through."
"Oh, right, that business." Old Zhou shook his head. "I heard the dead guy was an outsider, no ID on him, nobody knows where he came from. The police asked around; nobody recognized him."
He glanced at Lin Xi and asked casually, "Did the police talk to you?"
"Yes. Routine questions."
"That's good. Cases like this have nothing to do with honest folks like us." Old Zhou hung a wrench back on the wall. "By the way, not much work today. If you're feeling off, you can take the day off."
"No need. I'm fine."
Lin Xi walked to the tool wall, picked up the modified screwdriver, inspected it, and put it back. Her movements were natural, like a mechanic checking her tools.
But she knew that from today onward, she couldn't take that screwdriver out of the repair shop again. It had to stay here, mixed in with all the other tools, becoming one screwdriver among countless ordinary ones.
She needed a new tool.
And she already had one in mind.
At three in the afternoon, Lin Xi asked for two hours off, saying she needed to buy some things at the supermarket. Old Zhou didn't ask questions and waved her off.
She didn't go to the supermarket. Instead, she went to a hardware store on the edge of the old town and bought a new screwdriver—identical to the one she used at the repair shop. Then she went to a food market and bought a boning knife—the blade wasn't long, but it was sharp enough.
She brought both items back to her rental unit.
In her room, she dismantled the new screwdriver's handle, packed a few lead pellets inside—brought back from Somchai's, hidden all along in the canvas bag's lining—then reassembled it. She sharpened the blade with sandpaper, making it thinner and keener than before.
She didn't modify the boning knife. It didn't need modification. It looked like an ordinary kitchen knife, the kind that wouldn't draw attention in any kitchen. But its steel and blade angle were enough to cut a throat.
When she finished, she hid the screwdriver under the bed frame and placed the boning knife on the kitchen chopping board—mixed in with a few other old kitchen knives, it looked like an ordinary set of kitchen cutlery.
Then she sat on the edge of the bed and looked out the window.
The cordon was still up in the alley, but there were far fewer police officers now. Only two uniformed officers remained to guard the scene; the coroner and the detective had already left. The crowd of onlookers had dispersed, and the old town had reverted to its usual gray, silent stillness.
The detective had left. But he would be back.
Lin Xi took out the business card and looked at the name on it—Binhai Public Security Bureau, Old Town Branch, Criminal Investigation Unit, Deputy Captain—Shen Mo.
Shen Mo. Silent Shen. Silent Mo. A silent man was often the most dangerous.
She tucked the card back in her pocket, stood up, and walked to the window. Through a gap in the black plastic sheeting, she could see the single streetlight still lit in the alley. During the day it was off, but it was there, like a silent sentinel.
Tonight, she would not act. Nor tomorrow. She would wait until the police's attention had completely shifted, until the old town had sunk back into its customary numbness and oblivion.
But before then, she would prepare.
Lin Xi retrieved the stack of photos from the canvas bag and pinned them back on the wall. Thirteen faces. Thirteen lives. She wrote a line next to Liu Dayong's photo—"A frightened rat, might flee at any moment." Next to Scarface Liu's photo—"The port chain's hub, must be prioritized."
Then she stepped back two paces and looked at the wall.
The police had come, but found nothing. The detective named Shen Mo had looked at her, but hadn't seen through her. She was still in the shadows, still invisible, still slowly weaving her net in the depths of this city.
But that net would have to be tightened faster.
Outside the window, the sun began its descent. Binhai's skyline was dyed a dark orange, like a sea of fire about to be extinguished. In the old town's alleys, streetlights flickered on one by one, casting mottled shadows on the ground.
Lin Xi turned off the light in her room and sat in the darkness, watching the thirteen faces on the wall.
The first blood had already been spilled. The second would not be far behind.