Chapter 3: Han Tie Changes His Tune

Lin Zhao stepped into the underground lab, his boots crunching on the shattered concrete beneath him. With every step, dust billowed through the beam of his headlamp, swirling like restless ghosts. The air was thick with a nauseating mix of scorching ash and the cloying sweetness of volatile chemicals, a concoction that made his throat tighten with every breath.

He ignored the sound of Cheng Yu wailing from the corner, his knees sunk deep in the sewage. The noise was like sandpaper on skin—grating, desperate, and pathetic. Lin Zhao’s gaze cut through the gloom, locking onto the pristine black metal canister sitting center stage on the workbench.

The date on the canister’s label was three months in the future. This wasn’t a clock error; it was fabricated “future” evidence, a calculated move to mask illegal storage and throw the timeline of the Fire Investigation Section into a logical knot that no one could untangle.

A warm breeze, carrying the scent of diesel and that sickly-sweet chemical reek, still poured from the ventilation shaft. But Lin Zhao stopped focusing on the eerie, blue-tinged flame flickering in the distance. He reached out, his fingertips lightly brushing the edge of the canister, touching the metal where the fire hadn’t fully charred it.

What his touch registered wasn’t heat. It was a cold, logical fracture, like feeling a puzzle piece forced into the wrong slot. The discomfort shot up his nerve endings straight to his brain, instantly reverse-engineering the thermal conduction path.

Cheng Yu looked up, eyes wide with terror. His forehead pressed against the cold wall as cold sweat trickled down his temples. “Secretary Lin, if you just walk out of this basement today, I can open doors for you on every project I have in the city. Even that fire safety certification that’s been giving you headaches...” His voice trembled, dripping with desperate, fawning hope.

Lin Zhao slowly withdrew his hand, wiping the metallic residue off his trouser leg. His tone was flat, devoid of emotion, like he was just reading a menu item he didn’t particularly like. “Mr. Cheng, once a criminal case is filed, commercial leverage is worth less than scrap paper. You’re suspected of intentional evidence tampering and arson. Every second you stay here just adds to your sentencing.”

Before the words fully landed, a heavy crash shattered the silence of the underground space. Han Tie kicked open the rusted iron door, the hinges screaming in protest before snapping off entirely, leaving the door hanging crookedly in the frame. He was still dusted with smoke from the surface fire, unextinguished embers sparking on the cuffs of his gear, glowing faintly in the dark.

He stomped toward Lin Zhao, his boots shattering the glass litter on the floor. His rough voice echoed off the concrete walls. “Well, you little clerk! Sneaking through a crawlspace in the middle of the night with a crew. What, did your nose pick up a scent? Or is that tiny head of yours finally acting like a fire alarm radar?”

Lin Zhao didn’t answer. Instead, he moved aside with fluid, precise grace, making room for Han Tie to pass. He pointed to an anomaly on the bottom of the canister, his headlamp beam focusing tightly on the spot. Han Tie frowned and leaned in, wiping smoke and soot from his eyes with his glove. He realized the lump wasn’t a weld point. It was a crystalline scar, formed by cooling after extreme thermal erosion.

The texture of the scar was sharp and angular, displaying a bizarre radial pattern. It looked nothing like the residue of a standard fire, which Han Tie had seen a thousand times—standard fires left layers of soot and uniform oxidation. This looked like it had been torn apart and stitched back together by some kind of extreme force.

“Squad Leader, you’ve saved lives, but you don’t read the picture.” Lin Zhao’s voice remained slow but crystal clear, dropping a stone into murky water and sending ripples outward. “If this canister had been stored normally, the heat damage on the bottom would be uniform, covered in layered ash. But these erosion marks? They cooled from a lateral thermal burst. Which means it was positioned on the side of the fire’s core zone.”

Han Tie’s expression shifted. He hammered his gloved hand against the canister, producing a dull, hollow thud. The sound didn’t match solid metal; it had a weird, empty ring to it, as if it were filled with voids. “Lateral heat? That’s a secondary drop? These bastards hid the Accelerant underground, waiting for the fire department to breach in before they detonated?” His voice spiked, anger barely held in check.

“Yes.” Lin Zhao nodded, his gaze calm as still water. “It wasn’t an accident. It was a trap laid with long-term intent. I traced the beam structures on the surface; the thermal flow vector pointed here. That’s why I dared to enter. Squad Leader Han, you don’t have to trust my intuition, but can you trust the physical state of this canister?”

Han Tie stared at the crystalline scar, his breathing growing heavy. After a moment of silence, a complex smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth—a mix of awe, self-deprecation, and respect. “Damn, you’re a god. I thought you were just a lucky cat catching a dead mouse, but you count the fur on the mouse’s tail. Seriously.”

At that moment, Zhou Jingtang arrived with two technical staff. The elevator doors slid open, revealing him in a crisp uniform, the badge on his chest glinting coldly under the lights. His gaze swept over Lin Zhao with assessing chill, as if evaluating a new piece of equipment for quality control.

He didn’t spare a look for Cheng Yu. That prisoner belonged to the police. Zhou Jingtang cared only for the truth. He walked straight to the canister, pulled out a tape measure, and began gauging the height of the scar. The metal tape extended, the markings intersecting with the shadows on the metal surface.

“Little Lin, what’s your basis? Relying purely on visual inspection for lateral heat? The evidence chain isn’t closed.” Zhou Jingtang’s voice was low, carrying an undeniable authority.

“The molten metal residue at the bottom hasn’t fully solidified yet. Combined with the deformation vectors of the three steel beams on the surface, I can back-calculate the heat source angle.” Lin Zhao’s answer was concise, stripped of fluff, every word as precise as a nail driven home. “Captain Zhou, I’m the only one who touched these residues on-site. The data is in my head; I can’t just display it, but the logic is reproducible.”

Zhou Jingtang retracted the tape measure. A flicker of approval crossed his eyes, but his expression remained stern, like a shield of hard steel. “Impressive reasoning, but it lacks the theoretical framework of systematic Fire Investigation training. Starting today, you report to the Fire Investigation Section. I want to see you write reports using scientific language, not ‘intuition.’”

This was both an order and a form of protection, pulling Lin Zhao out of the gray zone of frontline rescue and back into the rigid legal framework.

“Understood.” Lin Zhao didn’t argue. He knew Zhou Jingtang wasn’t insulting him; he was protecting him. Within the system, unexplained ability without theoretical packaging only brought bigger trouble, or became a handle for others to attack you.

As Cheng Yu was dragged away by two officers, the chains on his feet clanked harshly against the ground. He turned to glare at Lin Zhao, his mouth twisted to reveal yellowed teeth. “You’ll regret this! Do you have any idea who backs my company? The insurance payout on that fire is tens of millions. Even if I go to prison, it’s worth it!” His screams echoed in the underground space before being drowned out by the wail of a police siren.

Han Tie walked behind Lin Zhao, rubbing his hands as he looked down. Those hands had once pried open a thousand-pound car door with bare strength, but now they looked awkward. “I’m... sorry, Little Lin. I pushed it a bit with that interrogation earlier. You’ve got a brain that’s way better than those useless teammates of mine who just shouted orders.”

“Don’t mention it, Squad Leader,” Lin Zhao said lightly, his steps steady. “As long as there’s a fire scene, I still need guys like you to get me into the building. I don’t trust me, but I trust physics.”

The two moved toward the elevator. The metal doors slid shut, sealing off the chill of the basement. Su Wan walked out of the monitoring room, clutching a file box. Wearing white gloves, she scanned Lin Zhao’s wrist with cold eyes. That was where the old scars were starting to throb, and beneath the skin, faint blue-black patterns were visible, as if something was churning underneath.

“Secretary Lin, the Fire Investigation Section is waiting for you.” Su Wan’s voice was flat, like ice chips hitting the ground—crisp and cold. “But before you go, explain why your pupils dilate in a rhythmic pattern after touching residues? That’s not a normal physiological response.”

Lin Zhao paused, looking at Su Wan. The elevator doors were about to close. In the cramped space, their eyes met. He knew the real storm was just beginning.

Lin Zhao didn’t turn back. He simply let the cold metal doors close behind him with a dull *click*, swallowing his reflection whole. He didn’t answer Su Wan’s question about his pupils, because right now, the scar on his wrist was spreading like a living thing, each heartbeat accompanied by a sharp, electric sting.

He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t let any anomaly show in front of this sharp-eyed woman. If she could see the irregularity in his pupils, she could see every other reaction that defied common sense. The word “intuition” was no longer a safe barrier in front of her; it was a window pane that could be shattered at any moment.

Stepping out of the underground garage, the cold morning wind hit him, mixed with the smell of burnt ash. In the distance, the burning office tower was still belching thin black smoke, looking like a dying beast. The Fire Investigation Section’s office was on the third floor. The corridor was empty, save for the monotone hum of the vending machines.

Han Tie walked ahead, deliberately slowing his pace to give Lin Zhao time to catch his breath. He turned his head, his expression complicated as he studied Lin Zhao’s pale but composed face. “Little Lin, the Fire Investigation Section under Captain Zhou is deep water. A few senior technicians have been there before you, and none lasted half a year. They either quit... or got transferred to the archives room.”

Lin Zhao didn’t stop, just adjusted his breathing slightly to quell the restlessness inside. “Thanks for the heads-up, Squad Leader. But since I’m here, I’m not planning on just sitting around gathering dust.”

Han Tie blinked, then let out a bitter laugh and shook his head. “You’re a genius, but also a jinx. That guy? You’d best tuck away that ‘physical logic’ of yours. Zhou Jingtang is an old-school dog. He believes in authority, in experience, in the iron laws written in the books. To him, precision without theoretical backing is the biggest threat there is.”

Before he finished, the office door opened. Zhou Jingtang stepped out, holding a cup of strong tea. In the swirling steam, half-lidded eyes cut through Lin Zhao’s composure like a scalpel. “Lin Zhao? Thinner than I expected. The Fire Investigation Section doesn’t need poets; it needs craftsmen. Tomorrow at 8:00 AM, you’re going with me to re-examine the residues from that fire. Don’t disappoint me, or your ‘intuition’ will become your epitaph.”

Lin Zhao stood at the door, meeting the oppressive gaze. He didn’t flinch, not even a blink. He knew Zhou Jingtang wasn’t an enemy, but a more dangerous mirror. In this mirror, every flaw was magnified to the extreme.

“Captain Zhou,” Lin Zhao spoke, his voice terrifyingly calm. “If a craftsman can’t create a miracle, then the miracle itself is just an unrecorded process. Look forward to my ‘report.’”

The corner of Zhou Jingtang’s mouth curled into a mocking arc. He turned and walked back into the office, slamming the door shut behind him.

Lin Zhao looked down at his left wrist. The blue-black pattern had spread to his elbow, pulsing faintly beneath the skin, like a countdown timer. He clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm. The real test had just begun.