The voice recorder had been well preserved for over a decade. William Thornton must have studied it carefully; part of the casing was damaged, but none of the internal components were harmed.

The technical investigation team quickly extracted the complete audio file. A group of people sat in the conference room, drawing the curtains, tightly shutting the doors to block out all noise, and began to listen to its contents.

Zoe Collins, the journalist who tragically died eleven years ago. She had the habit of carrying a voice recorder with her, and this one was a new tool she had just purchased a few days before the incident. At the time of her murder, she was sitting in a rain shelter pavilion, recording the events of that night.

In the background, the sound of raindrops shattering on the ground could be heard, interspersed with various footsteps and distant car horns. A woman's low, gentle voice vibrated in the air, recreating that chaotic, rainy night.

She was in a good mood. After reporting on the day's interview progress, she began to hum softly. Amid the intermittent melody, a second person's voice appeared...

The first segment of the audio finished playing. When the mixed background noise abruptly stopped, it was as if the tide had receded from the edge of the sea, leaving behind only a vast, empty beach. A hollow silence filled the conference room, and everyone in the criminal investigation team felt a similar, indescribable emotion.

They had pursued the truth day and night, but when the truth finally arrived calmly, they found themselves unable to accept it with the same calmness.

There was some regret, and a sense of loss. A relief at finally reaching the end, yet also a lingering sadness that things were not entirely complete.

The case was closed.

This time, it really could be closed.

...But it was already too late. Too many people were gone.

It all felt like a cruel twist of fate.

In the dim light, shadows drew closer to one another, and soon, the soft murmur of private conversations rose, accompanied by the rustling sound of pens writing.

The technicians quickly pulled up the recording from the previous day. Everyone fell silent again, focusing on capturing the key information in the audio.

After a long while, the curtains were drawn open again. Harsh light poured in through the windows, along with a rush of fresh air. The expanded view and the scent helped dispel some of the stifling atmosphere inside.

Everyone turned their gaze to the front row, waiting for Henry Harris's instructions.

Henry Harris held a black pen between two fingers, habitually spinning it, leaving a black mark on her fingertip. After a moment, she turned her palm over and knocked the pen heavily on the table.

That crisp sound broke the silence in the room.

Her not-so-tall figure stood up, straightening her back with a leader's authority. In a deep voice, she called out, "Quinn Shelby."

Quinn Shelby stood at attention and responded loudly, "Here!"

·

Henry Jameson was extremely uncooperative. As he was escorted in by the police, he kept shouting.

"Why are you looking for me again? Why are you calling me again! Haven't you had enough? I admit to the fight on the street, but you can't keep interrogating me about other cases! Do you hear me? Hurry up and prosecute! Go to trial! I don't want to stay in the detention center!"

He was still wearing the prison uniform from that morning, and he smelled of sweat. Having just come down from a drug high, he was weak, and even the scratch marks on his neck were fresh.

Two young police officers firmly pressed him down in front of the table, the chains clanking as he struggled.

Quinn Shelby watched Henry Jameson's antics coldly. After a while, seeing he still wouldn't settle down, he slammed the folder on the table and warned, "That's enough, don't make me get rough with you!"

Henry Jameson stopped, sniffed, and glanced at him sideways. He immediately recognized him as a relatively inexperienced officer and said with a hint of disdain, "Why is it you? Where are those two women?"

Quinn Shelby sneered, "What do you think this place is? You think you can order people around? Even a twenty-year luxury apartment lease wouldn't be enough for you. Sit properly."

Henry Jameson seemed to sense what was coming, the corners of his mouth curling into a reckless smile. Yet there was no real joy in that smile—just a stiff expression to mask his feelings.

He adjusted his posture, faced them directly, and for the first time lifted his head with some spirit, as if waiting for them to announce his fate.

Quinn Shelby nodded to the person beside him, who promptly pressed play on the computer, and a woman's voice rang out in the room.

They had only selected a very brief segment of audio, less than thirty seconds, but it clearly recorded the situation Zoe Collins faced at the time of her murder. The technician set it to repeat, letting the victim's final question echo endlessly in the room.

At first, Henry Jameson was visibly affected, but as he listened further, he became completely silent, his expression calm. He tilted his head, his unfocused gaze landing on the door, his demeanor nothing like the arrogance he showed when he first entered.

Then, as if something occurred to him, his chest shook and he let out a series of strange laughs.

Quinn Shelby observed him and signaled for his colleague to stop the recording.

The sound ceased, and the torture that had cut through Henry Jameson like a saw finally ended. Henry Jameson exhaled and slumped dejectedly against the table.

When the most terrifying thing finally arrived, what he felt was not fear, but an unprecedented sense of relief.

"So it really existed? You found it so quickly?" Henry Jameson squinted and smiled. "Looks like it really is fate. Even after all these years, she still hasn't let me go."

Quinn Shelby opened his notebook and asked, "Henry Jameson, who was the person that helped you bribe a witness and instructed you to frame Harry Forrest?"

Henry Jameson didn't answer. He pressed his face against the cold wood, making meaningless sounds, letting his saliva run down his cheek onto the table, completely giving up.

Quinn Shelby pressed his lips together and said, "Henry Jameson, if you're willing to cooperate and identify the accomplice, we can put in a good word for you."

Henry Jameson asked vaguely, "Put in a good word? Will the court really reduce my sentence?"

"Putting in a good word is an opportunity, not a guarantee," Quinn Shelby replied coolly. "Henry Jameson, do you have any other options?"

"The death penalty, right?" Henry Jameson said with certainty. "The impact is especially bad—drug use, assault, high social harm, it's definitely the death penalty."

Surprisingly, his assessment was quite accurate, and Quinn Shelby couldn't refute it.

Given the severity of the case, Henry Jameson was most likely facing the death penalty.

Henry Jameson moved, wiping the saliva from the corner of his mouth with his sleeve. He rubbed so hard that a faint red mark was left on his skin.

He found himself rather ridiculous.

If he had come forward back then, made up a better excuse to turn himself in at the police station, shown a good attitude and genuine remorse, maybe by now he would have already been released after serving his sentence.

He had dragged out these eleven years, during which he distanced himself from family and friends, abandoned his beliefs, lost his dignity, lived like a walking corpse, lost all semblance of a normal life, and became addicted to the illusory pleasure of drugs, living like a rat in the gutter. What was it all for?

What was it for?

As the days slipped by, he found it harder and harder to understand.

Humans can escape the law, but they can never escape themselves.

"Who was that person?" Quinn Shelby's tone softened, trying to close the distance between them. "The one who really ruined you was him. But in the end? You're here facing punishment, while he's still out there, free. Don't you feel wronged?"

Henry Jameson slowly blinked, as if he hadn't heard a word.

Quinn Shelby raised his voice and continued, "Besides you, he's used this method to harm many others. As they say, a dying man's words are kind. Just think of it as doing one last good deed—identify him, and give those victims an answer."

He picked up two photos from the table, holding them up as he asked, "Leonard Campbell, or Zachary Campbell?"

It took a long time for Henry Jameson to pull himself out of his emotions. He held his position, his eyes finally regaining focus, staring intently at the photo on the left, and squeezed out three hoarse words from his throat: "Li... Lingsong."

·

Henry Harris pushed the door open with her foot, set a cup on the table, politely slid it over, and greeted, "We meet again, Professor Campbell."

"Mm."

Leonard Campbell was extremely calm. Even though he had been forcibly summoned to the Public Security Bureau by two police officers, he still appeared composed and unhurried. He hadn't even tried to find out why he had been called in on the way over.

"Thank you." Leonard Campbell didn't touch the cup on the table. His gaze followed Henry Harris, and only then did he ask, "Why did you call me here this time? Is there something you need?"

Henry Harris walked unhurriedly to the opposite side, pulled out a chair and sat down, nodding. "There is something. We've found a piece of evidence left from many years ago, and we'd like you to take a look."

"I hope I can be of help," Leonard Campbell said. "Hopefully, it's just a misunderstanding."

The high-definition camera recorded every wrinkle on his face, but still failed to capture any sign of him losing composure.

Henry Harris raised her hand slightly, and the person beside her understood, starting the playback.

"...Today marks exactly three months since Nina passed away... I've discovered that more than one person shares the same situation as Nina. She may not be the only one..."