I was adding a sausage to my instant noodles when the news popped up.

My phone buzzed with a push notification: Female body found in Thai reservoir, identity confirmed—Xu Yanliang, 34, from Huaihua, Hunan.

Same name, same age, same hometown. Not a single character off.

I froze. The sausage dropped onto the table.

I looked down at myself—alive, still breathing.

“Same name, probably,” I muttered, and kept eating. Three bites in, my stomach still wouldn’t settle.

I screenshotted it and sent it to my mom, asking if I had a twin sister.

She replied with a voice message instantly: “What kind of corpse nonsense? You’re alive and well.”

In the background, I could hear her coughing and square-dancing music on the TV.

I zoomed in on the photo. The news image was pixelated, I couldn’t make out the face, but the height and weight looked about right.

I put down my chopsticks, opened a search engine, and typed “Xu Yanliang Huaihua.”

The results pulled up my Weibo, old photos, even the alumni directory of Huaihua No. 1 Middle School. I scared myself—there was so much of me online.

I clicked into the alumni directory. In the photo, I had a ponytail and a goofy grin. The “me” in the news was already bloated from the water, probably unrecognizable.

I called the local police station and asked if they could check for duplicate names.

The officer on the line asked for my ID number. I gave it to him. He checked and said, “There’s only one Xu Yanliang in the system. No duplicates.”

I hung up. My heart dropped.

No duplicate name. Then who was the dead one?

I took three days off and bought a high-speed rail ticket back to Huaihua.

The train was crowded. I squeezed into the aisle while the uncle next to me took off his shoes—sauerkraut smell everywhere.

I wore a mask, but my mind wouldn’t stop racing.

I’d stayed up all night scrolling my phone, searching “Thai female body,” “suitcase,” “breast augmentation.”

The implant serial number came up: MW-1998-07-14. The more I stared at it, the more familiar it felt. I remembered that summer of my second year in high school, I’d gone to my aunt’s place in Shenzhen and had a small incision under my armpit—they called it a “sweat gland surgery.”

I asked my mom about it. She’d been vague: “Minor surgery, healed long ago.”

After arriving, I took a taxi straight to the People’s Hospital to find my old medical records.

The front-desk nurse searched for a while and said the 1998 archives were still in the warehouse—I’d have to wait.

I sat on a bench in the corridor. On the wall opposite, a “Painless Breast Augmentation” ad in pink font glared at me until my eyes watered.

I looked down at my left armpit—a pale scar, like something had been sliced open there. I touched it. No sensation, but my stomach started doing somersaults.

My mom called, asking where I was. I said the hospital. She cursed: “Are you out of your mind? Get home now!”

I hung up, walked to the bathroom, and lit a cigarette.

The lighter clicked. I suddenly remembered that in the news photo, the corpse’s left shoulder seemed to have a birthmark too. I took off my jacket and twisted to look in the mirror. A light brown patch on my left shoulder, shaped like a crumpled leaf.

My hand shook as I smoked. Ash fell onto my shoe, burning a tiny black spot.

The old man in the archives room made me fill out a form and asked for a work-unit certificate. I told him I didn’t have a unit—I was freelance.

He rolled his eyes: “Can’t do that. Personal privacy.”

I offered him a pack of cigarettes. He pushed it back: “No smoking in the hospital.”

I put the cigarettes away, pulled out fifty yuan, and slid it across the table. He glanced at it, stood up, and said, “Wait here.”

Ten minutes later, he came back with a stack of yellow folders. I flipped through July 1998. My name wasn’t there, but I found a record: “Liu Yu, female, 15, appendicitis.”

I froze. I’d never heard that name.

I kept flipping. At the very bottom, I pulled out half a sheet of paper. The header read “Huaihua Maternity and Child Health Hospital.” A cigarette burn had holed through the paper; the birth weight was missing a digit, only “*.4kg” remained. Mother’s column: Lin Chuntao.

My head buzzed. Wasn’t that my mom?

I grabbed the half-sheet and rushed out, calling my mom. She was silent for a few seconds, then said: “Come home and eat. Stop asking nonsense.”

I took a taxi back to the paper mill dormitory. The hallway smelled like mildew.

My mom opened the door. Her face had an unhealthy gray pallor, a cigarette between her fingers. I waved the paper: “Lin Chuntao—did you give birth to Liu Yu, or Xu Yanliang?”

She took a drag and blew smoke in my face: “I told you you were adopted. You had to go digging.”

My throat went dry. “Then who exactly is the dead one?”

She pressed the cigarette butt against the wall. Ash flaked off: “Eat first. I’ll tell you after.”

The dishes hit the table: Zhijiang duck, konjac stir-fried with cured pork, chili mashed eggplant—all aggressively spicy. I took two bites and my throat burned so bad I coughed.

My mom poured herself a cup of rice wine and downed it in one go.

“Winter of 1990, I went to Qiancheng Hospital to pick up medicine. There was a cardboard box by the bathroom door, a baby inside. A note had the birth date, no name.” She picked up a piece of duck skin. “I brought her home, named her Xu Yanliang, and pulled strings to get the household registration done.”

My chopsticks stopped mid-air. “What about Liu Yu?”

“There was half a handkerchief in the box too, embroidered with the character ’Liu.’ I figured if the birth mother came looking, it’d match.” She poured another cup. “The girl who died in the news—eight or nine out of ten, that’s Liu Yu.”

My brain couldn’t keep up. “Why are our names mixed up?”

“How should I know.” She lit a cigarette, her hand shaking. “There was a power outage that year, the hospital was chaotic for a while. Some people said babies got switched. I didn’t bother checking—as long as I had one to raise, that was enough.”

I pulled out my phone, searched for the implant serial number from the news, and handed it to her. She glanced at it, her face darkening further: “You went to Shenzhen that summer of your second year in high school, came back with gauze under your armpit, said it was sweat gland surgery—what you actually did, you know better than me.”

My throat tightened. I tried to defend myself, but she waved me off: “Enough. After dinner, go cancel your household registration. Save the police the trouble.”

I stared. “Cancel my registration? Then what am I?”

She blew a smoke ring: “Become yourself—not someone’s name, not someone’s corpse.”

I didn’t sleep all night. I sat on the bed scrolling my phone, rereading that news item a dozen times.

In the comments, someone said the corpse had breast implants; someone said there was an old scar under the armpit; someone else mentioned a birthmark on the left shoulder.

I looked in the mirror. That “crumpled leaf” was still there—faint, but clear.

At dawn, I went to the police station.

The officer on duty was a young woman this time. After I explained, she frowned: “Household registration can’t be canceled arbitrarily. You need a death certificate.”

I said I wasn’t dead. She frowned harder: “Then what are you canceling?” I explained the whole situation. She looked at me like I was insane: “Stay right here. I’ll get my supervisor.”

The supervisor came—mid-forties. After hearing me out, he pulled out his phone, compared it with the news photo, checked my ID, and finally said: “There’s only one of you in the system, alive and well. Stop making trouble. If you really want to investigate, go through proper channels—start with a DNA test.”

I nodded. He wrote me a letter of introduction and sent me to the municipal bureau’s criminal investigation division.

I took the subway, waited in line for two hours, and had a vial of blood drawn. The staff said results would take at least a week.

I walked out of the building. The sun burned my scalp.

Suddenly my phone rang—an unknown number. I answered. The voice said: “Xu Yanliang? My name is Liang. I’m from Nanshan AI Lab. Your alumnus Du Fan gave me your number, said you needed a facial comparison.”

Then I remembered—I’d posted on my Moments asking for help last night, and Du Fan had left a message saying his colleague would contact me, someone trustworthy.

I said, “Where are you?”

“Parking lot downstairs. Black SUV, license plate ends in 787.”

I walked over. The driver’s window rolled down. A crew-cut man handed me his work ID: Liang Zhao, algorithm engineer.

He told me to get in, turned on the AC, and handed me a bottle of ice water. “I fed your photos and the news profile shot into the model. Initial similarity is 94%. Come on, record a dynamic clip—I’ll run the data back at the lab.”

I nodded. He held up his phone and had me turn my head left and right. After filming, he typed on his keyboard. Two lines popped up on the screen:

Implant serial number MW-1998-07-14, signature—Xu Yanliang, handwriting slanted 15 degrees right.

I stared at the numbers. My right shoulder suddenly tensed up.

Liang Zhao glanced at me: “July 14th—where were you?”

I swallowed. “In Huaihua, at summer camp. There’s a group photo.”

He turned the screen toward me: “Either the hospital made a mistake, or the photo is wrong, or—”

He stopped. I finished for him: “Or there were two of me that day.”

I sent him the summer camp group photo. Liang Zhao zoomed in and studied it for a long time without speaking. Only the air conditioner hummed in the car.

I said, “Can you find out who signed the hospital record?”

“Let me try.” He pulled out his laptop, tethered to his phone hotspot, and typed away. Ten minutes later, he shook his head: “The signature block is a scan. Only your name, no doctor’s stamp.”

I leaned back against the seat. The back of my head went cold. Liang Zhao handed me a cigarette. I lit it, took a deep drag, and coughed twice.

He suddenly asked: “That scar under your armpit—how long is it?”

I held up my fingers to measure—a little over three centimeters. He nodded, about the same as what he’d seen in my photos.

He opened the glove compartment and took out a plastic bag containing a scrap of paper: “A friend of mine works in logistics at Nanshan Hospital. Found a shredded medical record. It says ’Liu Yu, female, 15, implant insertion,’ same date.”

I stared at that name. My heart pounded. Liang Zhao looked at me: “Want to find out the truth?”

I exhaled smoke: “Yes. Otherwise I won’t even know who I am.”

He shifted into gear: “Fine. Back to the city first. I’ll find you the archives.”

The car pulled onto the highway. The sun was blinding. I stubbed out the cigarette and cracked the window. Hot air rushed in, stinging my scalp.

Liang Zhao parked behind Nanshan Hospital and gave me a badge that read “Maintenance Department.” I followed him inside. The hallway reeked of disinfectant, making me wince.

He led me into a stairwell, pulled out a key, and opened a small iron door. Inside, piles of old medical records.

He shone a flashlight, rummaged for a while, and pulled out a yellow folder, handing it to me: “Liu Yu, July 14, 1998, implant insertion. Chief surgeon: Lin Jianguo.”

I opened it. On the first page was a black-and-white photo—a girl with short hair, a round face, and a light brown birthmark on her left shoulder, shaped like mine but bigger. My fingers trembled. The photo fell to the floor.

Liang Zhao bent down to pick it up, looked at the photo, then at me: “Look alike?”

I nodded, my throat dry.

He kept flipping. The next page read: “Donor: Xu Yanliang, 15, cartilage harvested from armpit.” My head buzzed. I almost sat down on the floor.

I grabbed his arm: “What does ’donor’ mean?”

His face wasn’t good either. “It means they took something from you and put it into her.”

I cursed and turned to walk out. Liang Zhao chased after me: “Where are you going?”

“To find Lin Jianguo. Get answers.”

He pulled me back: “Dr. Lin immigrated long ago. It’s all in the file.”

I stood still, cold all over.

Liang Zhao handed me a bottle of water. I chugged it, crushed the bottle, and threw it in the trash. The bin thudded—like something hitting my heart.

I wiped my face: “Let’s go. Back.”

He looked at me: “Still investigating?”

I gritted my teeth: “Yes. If he’s not here, I’ll go to Thailand and dig Liu Yu up.”

I went home to pack. Rummaging through a drawer for my passport, I first found an old train ticket: 1998.7.13 Huaihua—Shenzhen, hard seat, fare 47 yuan.

I stared at the ticket. My head buzzed—on the last day of summer camp, I’d clearly taken the school charter bus back to Huaihua. Where did this ticket come from?

I photographed it and sent it to Liang Zhao. He replied instantly: “You came to Shenzhen a day early?” I said I didn’t remember. He wrote back: “Bring the ticket. Tomorrow morning we’ll go to the station together, check the boarding records from that year.”

I didn’t expect to find anything. The old station’s freight building was broken and empty, only two retired aunties shelling vegetables in the duty room. I handed over the ticket and explained. One auntie shook her head: “Ticket stubs from ’98? Burned for firewood long ago.”

The other, thinner one took it, held it up to the light, and said: “You won’t find jack. But the window ledgers are still around—in the warehouse. Too much trouble to flip through, though.”

I pulled out fifty yuan and set it on the corner of the desk: “Auntie, I just want one look. I’ll make a copy and leave.”

The thin auntie pushed the money back, asked for the ticket number first, then led us to the old warehouse out back.

The warehouse smelled like mildew. She climbed a wooden ladder, pulled a plastic-covered ledger from the top shelf, brushed off the dust, flipped a few pages, and pointed at a line in pencil: “Here, July 13th, 47 yuan, hard seat. I sold this ticket myself.”

I leaned in. Sure enough, there was the number. She pointed at a scribbled note in the margin: “Crying—birthmark.”

I froze. “You remember that?”

“Remember my ass,” she laughed. “That day my niece skipped class, I had her cover the window while I ran out to buy Zhijiang duck. Came back to a huge line complaining—said some little girl was crying her lungs out, another girl was comforting her. I scribbled a note in the margin to balance the cash later, so the numbers would add up at night.”

She closed the ledger: “If you hadn’t come today, I’d never have flipped to this page in my life.”

I made a copy, folded it, and stuffed it in my backpack.

Walking out of the warehouse, the sunlight was harsh. Those four pencil words kept flashing in my head: crying, birthmark.

Liang Zhao patted my shoulder: “Well, at least it proves you were really there that day—and you weren’t alone.”

I walked out of the police station with the DNA report. I wasn’t panicked—if anything, I felt unshackled. Not Lin Chuntao’s biological daughter meant one less thing for her to hide.

I kept digging not because I wanted to find my birth family, but because I was afraid of being mistaken for someone else again.

The night before last, my Alipay got frozen. Customer service said “the system has determined you are deceased.” Yesterday, my art studio contract was suddenly terminated—they said “identity is in dispute.”

At this rate, my work card, bank card, social security—everything would get shut down.

I couldn’t wait to die. I had to cut off the source. That old train ticket, the handkerchief, the name “Liu Yu”—I had to get to the bottom of it, or next time they’d lock me up as a person.

In the taxi, I called the medical records office at Qiancheng Hospital, gave them my birth date. They said the 1998 paper archives were still there, but I needed a work-unit introduction letter.

I didn’t have a unit. Only a DNA exclusion report. I said I’d come take a look first. They grunted an acknowledgment.

I hung up. My palms were sweating—not from excitement, from annoyance. I didn’t want to acknowledge any birth mother. But I had to nail the name “Xu Yanliang” firmly to myself, and never let anyone use it for a corpse again.

Qiancheng Hospital was old, peeling walls. The medical records office was in a row of bungalows out back. I pushed the door open—mildew smell. The woman in charge was eating rice noodles. After I explained, she held out her hand: “Introduction letter.”

I handed her the DNA exclusion report. She glanced at it and frowned: “This won’t do. Need proper paperwork from the community or police.”

I pulled out fifty yuan and set it on the table: “Just let me look first. I’ll get the proper paperwork later.”

She pushed the money back and stood up: “Don’t try that. I can’t afford the trouble if something goes wrong.”

I had no choice. I stepped outside and messaged Liang Zhao: “No introduction letter, can’t get in.” He replied: “Wait. I’ll send you an electronic letter with our lab seal. Print it out.”

There was no print shop nearby. I walked two kilometers, found a stationery store, and paid two yuan to print the letter. Back at the hospital, the auntie had finished her noodles and was wiping her mouth.

I handed her the A4 sheet. She scanned it and nodded: “Fine. Looking only, no copying.”

She led me into the warehouse, pulled out a yellowed newborn registry, flipped to July 14th, and her finger stopped on a line: birth time 15:40, weight 3.4kg, mother’s column blank, infant name—Liu Yu.

I pointed: “Why is the mother’s column blank?”

She shrugged: “Power outage that year, total chaos. Handwritten records got missed, never filled in later.”

I kept scanning down. The three characters “Xu Yanliang” never appeared.

I had my answer: the one born first that day was Liu Yu.

I pulled out my phone and took a photo of the page. The auntie heard the shutter click and turned: “I said no copying!”

I put my phone away: “Not copying. Just taking notes.” She glared at me, closed the book, and pushed me out the door.

I stood at the hospital entrance. The sun made my head groggy, but my mind was clear: Liu Yu was born first, I was born later—or we’d been swapped the same day, same box.

I had to find her, or find her death certificate, to nail my name back to myself.

I walked out of the hospital, the sun weighing heavy on my eyelids. My phone rang—an unknown number. I answered. A hoarse voice said: “Xu Yanliang? This is Yang Jianshen. I drive the long-distance bus.”

I blinked, then remembered Liang Zhao mentioning he’d found the driver who used to run the Huaihua-Shenzhen route. I grunted. He asked: “Got time? I’m at the old station parking lot. Got some old things to show you.”

I said I’d be right there, hailed a three-wheeler, and bounced over to the lot in five minutes. A beat-up gray bus sat in the corner, its front sporting a faded “Huaihua-Shenzhen Express” sign.

At the rear, a middle-aged man was squatting, wiping a tire. He looked up—his face sunburned red-black.

He waved me over, pulled a photo album from the driver’s seat, and flipped it open. Page after page of three-inch black-and-white photos, rows of passengers’ backs. He pointed to one page: “July 13, 1998. You were there too.”

I looked closely. Two little girls sitting side by side—one crying, one turning to look out the window. The crying one’s left shoulder showed a sliver of birthmark.

I pointed: “Who is she?”

Old Yang shook his head: “Only know she was called Xiaoyu. It was on the ticket.”

I looked up at him: “Can I have this photo?”

Old Yang pulled it out and handed it to me: “Keep it. Nobody cares anyway.”

I pocketed the photo. He suddenly lowered his voice: “There was another person on the bus that day. Wearing a white coat, holding a document bag that said ’Nanshan Hospital’—I watched him put the crying kid on the bus. I remember it clearly.”

My stomach tightened: “What was the doctor’s name?”

Old Yang thought for a moment, fished a yellowed business card from a cardholder in his pocket, and handed it to me: Lin Jianguo, Plastic Surgery, Shenzhen Nanshan Hospital. On the back, a handwritten mobile number. I called it—a mechanical female voice announced the number was out of service.

I looked up and saw, in the bus’s rearview mirror, a woman in a baseball cap watching us. Old Yang noticed too and whispered: “That person’s been coming around these days, asking about ’98 tickets. Be careful.”

I pocketed the card and nodded at Old Yang: “Thanks. I’ll find you if I need anything.”

I turned toward the exit. The woman under the cap immediately looked down, hands in pockets, melting into the crowd.

I quickened my pace, cursing under my breath: someone really didn’t want me to know what happened back then.

I left the parking lot, ducked into a convenience store, bought a bottle of ice water, and stood behind the freezer watching outside.

The baseball-cap woman didn’t follow out—probably still milling around inside.

I chugged half the bottle, pulled out the card, photographed it, and sent it to Liang Zhao: [Lin Jianguo—can you trace this card?] Seconds later he replied: [Dead number can’t be traced, but hospital HR has records. Wait for me.]

I put my phone away, hailed a motorbike taxi, and told the driver to take me to the nearest internet cafe.

He dropped me on the second floor of a commercial street. I rented a machine in the corner, plugged in a USB drive, and saved all the photos, the card, and the hospital registry into cloud storage, then backed them up to email. Done, I leaned back in the chair and exhaled—if I lost the originals, at least I had copies.

A “ding” in my headphones. Liang Zhao sent a file: a screenshot. HR records showed Lin Jianguo resigned on July 15, 1998, reason: “personal immigration application.” No records after that.

I frowned: surgery on the 14th, he flees on the 15th? The timing was too tight.

I was thinking when a short-haired woman sat down at the adjacent terminal, head down, typing.

I glanced sideways and my stomach dropped—the cap was gone, but the face wasn’t. It was the same woman from the parking lot.

She didn’t seem to recognize me, kept typing. I pretended to stare at my screen while watching her from the corner of my eye. She’d opened the old Nanshan Hospital HR system—and “Lin Jianguo” was floating there on the page.

I quietly pointed my phone camera at her screen, recorded ten seconds, and hit save.

Then I stood up, walked around behind her, and cleared my throat. Her hand jerked. She slammed the laptop shut and turned to me, eyes darting.

I said quietly: “If you want to see something, wouldn’t it be better to look together?”

She grabbed her bag to leave. I put a hand on her shoulder: “Who sent you?”

She shook me off and sprinted toward the stairs. I chased out, but only saw her back disappear into the crowd.

I sent the video to Liang Zhao with a line: [Someone’s more desperate to find Lin Jianguo than I am, and she’s already in your system.]

Seconds later, Liang Zhao replied with three words: “Don’t be alone.”

I left the internet cafe. The sun had dipped behind the rooftops.

My phone vibrated. Liang Zhao sent a location: the lab. Told me to come. I texted back: “Eat first. I’m hypoglycemic from hunger.” He replied: “Hurry. Someone’s watching you.”

I hailed a three-wheeler and told the driver Nanshan intersection. He gunned the engine and honked the whole way, giving me a headache. I pulled my cap low and checked the rearview mirror—no tail.

The lab was on the 19th floor of an office building. Access required a card.

Liang Zhao came down to get me, handed me a temp badge, and said: “I traced the woman in the video. IP from near Tongdao Dong Village, using public WiFi. Identity not locked yet.”

I frowned: “She’s after Lin Jianguo too?”

“Looks like it.” He led me into the server room. The AC was so cold I got goosebumps.

He pulled up a monitor and brought up the old hospital HR database. “Lin Jianguo’s last operation before resigning—creating an electronic medical record for ’Liu Yu,’ timestamp 1998-07-14 23:47.”

I stared at the screen: “And after that?”

“After that, the system was wiped. No backups.” He typed a few times and a log appeared. “Wipe command source account: MW-admin.”

I read it aloud: “MW—doesn’t that look like both our serial numbers?”

Liang Zhao didn’t answer. He just copied the log to a USB drive and handed it to me: “Keep this. Don’t put it on the cloud. Where to next?”

I felt the old train ticket and business card in my pocket and said: “Find the paper records Lin Jianguo left behind. No matter how clean they wiped the hospital, someone always got lazy and didn’t burn everything.”

Liang Zhao nodded, grabbed a micro-scanner from a drawer, and tossed it to me: “If you find paper docs, scan first, take later. Don’t expose originals.”

I pocketed the scanner. My phone vibrated—a text from an unknown number, only six characters:

“Keep digging, you die.”

I showed it to Liang Zhao. He curled his lip: “Hmph. Empty threats. Let’s go. Need to get back to the city before dark.”

I turned off the screen and hung the USB drive around my neck. Thought: they’re getting desperate, which means I’m getting closer to the truth.

I didn’t reply to the unknown text. Just sent the number to Liang Zhao. He called it on the spot—went straight to voicemail. Then he ran it through the database. Blank result. Probably a fresh SIM card.

By the time we went downstairs, it was already dusk.

I was so hungry my stomach touched my spine. We ducked into a roadside fast-food joint and I ordered two rice bowls.

Liang Zhao said he wasn’t hungry. He sat across from me, plugged in his power bank, and reread the logs on the USB drive. Suddenly he said: “MW-admin’s last login IP is also near Tongdao Dong Village—same range as the woman at the internet cafe.”

I shoveled rice into my mouth and mumbled a curse: “Persistent bastards.”

Just then, a shadow flickered past the glass door.

I looked up. A man in a delivery uniform with a yellow food box stood by the roadside on the phone, but his eyes were scanning the restaurant.

I kept eating, watching him from my peripheral. He hung up, pushed the door open, walked straight to our table, and handed me a plastic bag: “Ms. Xu? Your delivery.”

I didn’t order anything. Something was off.

Liang Zhao took the bag and opened it. Inside was only a disposable food container. On the lid, written in red oil marker: Stop.

The delivery guy turned and left.

I chased out, but he’d already mounted his electric scooter and zipped into traffic. I came back and looked at the container—empty, a hole burned through the bottom, like a cigarette had been stubbed out there.

Liang Zhao frowned: “Local.”

I stared at those two characters. My stomach churned.

They could not only get my phone number—they knew my favorite hometown dish. They were telling me: they knew everything about me.

Liang Zhao photographed the container a few times, tossed it in the trash, and said: “Stop eating. Find a safe place to store the materials first.”

I wiped my mouth and stood up: “To my uncle’s place. He guards a warehouse in the industrial zone. Got a dog, got security cameras.”

We took a taxi straight to the western suburbs.

On the way, I compiled the text message and the delivery incident into one message and sent it to Old Yang: “Someone warned me to stop looking into the ’98 tickets.” Seconds later he replied with a voice message, background noisy: “I got followed by a motorbike on my way home. You be careful too.”

I turned off my phone and said to Liang Zhao: “They’re not just threatening. They really don’t want us finding Lin Jianguo.”

Liang Zhao nodded, took the USB drive from around his neck, and tucked it inside my collar: “You keep this safe. I left a backdoor on my computer for remote monitoring. Tonight we sleep separately. Don’t go home.”

I grunted. My palms were sweaty.

Streetlights flashed past the window, and those red characters “Stop” kept swirling in my head.

At the western suburb warehouse, a mongrel dog charged out barking. I called “Heizi!” and it immediately wagged its tail—I’d spent summers here as a kid, and the dog still remembered me.

My uncle poked his head out of the guardhouse, surprised: “Niu Niu? What are you doing here at night?”

I briefly said I had materials to store. Without another word, he led us into the duty room and opened a metal cabinet: “Lock it in here. You keep the key.”

I put the USB drive, old train ticket, and handkerchief into a waterproof bag and locked it.

My uncle handed me a cold beer, then nodded at Liang Zhao: “Boyfriend?”

“Friend.” I didn’t bother explaining, tilted my head back, and drank half the bottle.

Outside, the iron gate clanged. The dog barked again. My uncle frowned: “Why so many visitors tonight?” He grabbed a flashlight and went out to check.

A moment later, he led someone in. A girl, early twenties, short hair, a washed-out backpack, sweat streaks on her face. She saw me and froze: “You’re Xu Yanliang?”

I nodded. She pulled out a crumpled piece of paper: “I’m Wu Shuang, from Hecheng Criminal Investigation. I’m looking for you privately.”

Liang Zhao raised an eyebrow: “ID.”

The girl pulled out a police badge, flashed it—real enough.

She lowered her voice: “I’m investigating an identity-trafficking case. Leads point to Nanshan Hospital in ’98. Lin Jianguo is key. Someone inside is suppressing it. I’m running this solo.”

I studied her: “Why me?”

“Because you’re living proof.” She looked up, gaze steady. “And I found out Liu Yu’s death certificate is forged—the signature matches yours exactly.”

My uncle was in the next room, the light dim and yellow. I set down my beer and asked: “What do you want?”

“Cooperation.” Wu Shuang pulled out a USB drive. “I have a backdoor into the HR system. We swap intel. You tell me where the paper records are, I’ll help you tear up that fake death certificate.”

Liang Zhao crossed his arms: “Why should we trust you?”

Wu Shuang pulled out her phone and played a recording. After static, a man’s voice said: “Xu Yanliang can’t live much longer. She knows too much.” I’d heard that voice before—it was the supervisor at the police station.

I gripped the beer bottle, knuckles white. Wu Shuang stopped the recording and said quietly: “Now we’re all in the same boat.”

I slammed the beer bottle on the table, foam splashing over my hand: “Cooperation, fine. First, spill everything you know.”

Wu Shuang didn’t waste words. She plugged the USB into Liang Zhao’s laptop and opened a folder—the letters “MW-98” jumped out at me. Inside, two columns: Column A Xu Yanliang, Column B Liu Yu. From weight, blood type, to first vaccine—row after row, identical. At the end, four big characters: Donor-Recipient.

I pointed at the screen: “Where did this come from?”

“Municipal bureau intranet. Someone uploaded it at 3 AM, IP from the old Nanshan Hospital server.” Wu Shuang zoomed in on the last row. “Look at the timestamp—1998-07-14 23:47. Matches the system log Liang Zhao found.”

Liang Zhao squinted: “The uploader’s account?”

“MW-admin.” Wu Shuang shrugged. “Like you, can’t trace a real name.”

I dragged a chair over and sat, staring at those numbers, a stone in my stomach.

Wu Shuang opened another photo: a scan of a death certificate. The signature at the bottom was flamboyant—Xu Yanliang, handwriting slanted 15 degrees right, exactly like mine.

“Who approved this certificate?” I asked.

“Deputy station chief Jiang Ming—the man in the recording.” Wu Shuang printed the certificate and pushed it toward me. “I requested the original. Jiang Ming blocked it, reason: ’confidential foreign-related case.’”

I laughed coldly: “Foreign-related? She died in Thailand, the certificate was issued here?”

“Which is why I say it’s forged.” Wu Shuang pocketed her USB and looked up at me. “Give me the paper medical records you have. I’ll take them to the provincial forensics lab. Once we prove Lin Jianguo handled both A and B lines simultaneously, we can take down Jiang Ming—and your identity crisis resolves itself.”

Liang Zhao cut in: “What makes you think the provincial department doesn’t have bad apples?”

Wu Shuang was silent for two seconds, then pulled a plastic evidence bag from her backpack. Inside was a police badge number—X0472—snapped in half by force.

“This was my mentor’s. He was quietly investigating the MW designation. Got hit by a car on assignment. Someone mailed his broken badge to my dorm.” Her voice dropped. “I can’t guarantee the provincial department is clean. But I have people in the provincial tech lab. If the evidence is solid, we can lock it down.”

I stared at the broken badge. A fire ignited in my chest—someone had already died for this.

I took a deep breath, turned, opened the metal cabinet, took out the waterproof bag, and dumped Lin Jianguo’s shredded records, Old Yang’s photo, and the half birth certificate onto the table: “Everything’s here. Scan it and return it immediately.”

Wu Shuang nodded, pulled out a portable scanner, and started clicking.

Liang Zhao stood guard at the door. The mongrel outside suddenly barked furiously. He muttered: “Someone’s coming.”

The lights went out. The warehouse plunged into darkness. Only the scanner’s green light blinked on and off, like a countdown to death.

The green light beeped and went dark—scan complete. Wu Shuang stuffed the USB into my palm. I tossed the waterproof bag back into the metal cabinet and locked it.

Outside, the iron gate clanged. The dog was barking its lungs out. My uncle’s low voice: “Niu, don’t come out. Someone’s forcing their way in!”

Liang Zhao flipped the main breaker. The duty room went dark. We huddled behind the door. Footsteps crunched on gravel—at least three or four people.

Wu Shuang pulled her gun, clicked off the safety, and mouthed at me: “Back door.” I nodded and led the way deeper into the warehouse.

Couldn’t see in the dark. I found the small door by memory, pushed—it was locked. Liang Zhao pulled out a folding knife and pried the lock off in two strokes. The door creaked open a crack.

Moonlight spilled in, illuminating weeds outside. I’d just poked my head out when a flashlight beam swept across. I jerked back. Someone shouted: “They’re in there! Surround them!”

Wu Shuang handed me the gun: “Know how to use it?” I shook my head. She gritted her teeth, pressed herself against the doorframe, and fired once outside—“BANG!” Night birds scattered, flashlight beams wobbled.

“Go!” She kicked the door open. We ducked into the cornfield.

Behind us, chaotic footsteps, barking, shouting, iron bars banging on the warehouse door—all blended together.

I ran until I couldn’t breathe, corn leaves slashing my face. Liang Zhao dragged my arm, counting under his breath: “One, two—jump!” We cleared an irrigation ditch and landed in mud, shoes sinking halfway.

Suddenly sirens wailed in the distance—my uncle had hit the alarm. The intruders hesitated for a few seconds and started retreating.

We took the chance and climbed onto the rural road. Wu Shuang’s police radio lit up. She panted: “Tech lab colleagues are nearby, coming to pick us up.”

A civilian pickup truck with low beams came rushing over and screeched to a stop. A crew-cut guy leaned out the window and waved at Wu Shuang: “Get in!”

We jumped into the truck bed. It kicked up dust and drove off. I looked back—red lights flashing at the warehouse, my uncle standing in the doorway with hands on hips, the dog circling at his feet.

Wu Shuang wiped mud from her face, holstered her gun, and held out her hand to me: “Materials are safe. Cooperation is in effect.” I was too winded to speak, just high-fived her.

The pickup tore into the night. I kicked off my mud-caked shoes and cursed: I didn’t even get a clear look at their faces, and I was already on the run.

But it proved one thing—what we had, someone was afraid of.

Liang Zhao leaned against the truck bed and suddenly laughed: “Xu Yanliang, you’re now a bona fide target.”

I rolled my eyes but couldn’t help laughing too—being chased alive beats being a corpse any day.

The pickup bounced along the rural road for ten minutes, then turned into an abandoned brick factory. The crew-cut guy killed the engine, jumped out of the bed, and pulled open a rusty iron door. Emergency lights glowed inside.

“Safe house. Temporary use.” He nodded at me by way of greeting. Wu Shuang introduced: “Auxiliary officer from tech lab, A Jun.”

I nodded back and shook his hand. The brick factory was full of broken tiles. In the corner, a folding table with two laptops, screens flashing code.

A Jun handed me a towel: “Wipe your face first.”

I scrubbed at my face while Liang Zhao plugged in the USB and pulled up the scanned records. Wu Shuang set the broken badge on the table as a paperweight.

A Jun typed a few times and a new directory popped up: “Before Lin Jianguo immigrated, he bought an insurance policy with a credit card at the airport VIP lounge. Beneficiary—Jiang Ming.”

I frowned: “Jiang Ming? The deputy chief who suppressed my death certificate?”

“That’s right.” A Jun opened the policy scan. “Amount: one million. Signed July 15, 1998.”

Liang Zhao laughed coldly: “Buys insurance the day after surgery. That’s clean. Too clean.”

Wu Shuang printed the policy and pocketed it: “This is enough to apply for a summons.”

I looked down at my muddy feet and suddenly felt cold down my spine: “They used me as a donor back then, insured Liu Yu, then forged my death—one-stop shop?”

Nobody spoke. The screen glow lit our faces like masks.

A Jun broke the silence: “It gets weirder.” He switched to another window—immigration records. “Liu Yu departed for Thailand on July 16, 1998. Passport photo—93% similarity to you now.”

I stared at that black-and-white ID photo. The 15-degree-right-slanted signature, terrifyingly familiar.

The last shred of hope in me was snuffed out: someone had planned this from the start—let me live as a shadow, let her live under my name.

Wu Shuang closed her laptop, voice low but steady: “The evidence chain is solid. At dawn I’ll go back to the provincial department to file the case. You two lay low.”

I nodded, but I could hear my heart pounding like a drum.

Liang Zhao handed me a bottle of water. I tilted my head back and drank, my fingers shaking uncontrollably—not from fear, from rage.

I set the bottle down and asked A Jun: “Can you hack Jiang Ming’s accounts? I want to know where he is right now.”

A Jun raised an eyebrow, fingers flying. In under two minutes, a map location popped up: Hecheng District Police Dormitory.

I gritted my teeth: “Fine. Before the case is filed, I’ll go have a word with him first.”

Wu Shuang grabbed my shoulder: “Don’t be crazy!”

I shook her off, bare feet stepping on broken brick—didn’t care about the pain: “Relax. I won’t touch him. Just one question—am I really myself?”

Dawn was just breaking. I walked alone to the police dormitory entrance, didn’t let Wu Shuang and the others follow. My slippers were long gone; I wore a pair of cloth shoes A Jun gave me—two sizes too big, slapping as I walked.

The dormitory iron gate was open. I walked straight in. The courtyard was small, with a big maple tree. Under it, Jiang Ming in a tank top and shorts was hosing down his electric scooter.

He looked up, saw me, froze for two seconds, then his face darkened: “Xu Yanliang? How did you get in?”

I stood my ground and flung the printed policy onto his scooter seat: “The beneficiary on this policy is you. Explain.”

He glanced at it, then sneered: “You dare bring forged evidence? I can sue you for defamation.”

I pulled out my phone and played the recording—the line A Jun had clipped: “Xu Yanliang can’t live much longer.” At the sound, Jiang Ming’s hand jerked. The hose nozzle tilted, water splashing all over my leg.

He turned off the valve, looked left and right—no one else—and lowered his voice: “What do you want? Money?”

I shook my head. Only one question: “Who is my birth mother?”

He frowned like he’d heard a joke: “Isn’t Lin Chuntao your mom? The DNA test came out. Why ask?”

I stepped forward and stared him down: “Liu Yu’s death certificate—you signed it. The handwriting matches mine. Who gave you the sample?”

Jiang Ming was silent for a few seconds, then suddenly lunged for my phone.

I was ready. I stepped back and raised my right hand—the micro-camera, red light blinking, recording the whole time.

His face went instantly ashen. He reached to grab it. I turned and ran. Out the door, left turn—Liang Zhao’s SUV was already parked across the intersection, door open. I jumped in. He floored it, tire screech drowning out the shouting behind us.

In the rearview mirror, Jiang Ming chased two steps, stopped, and started making a call, face twisted.

I gasped for air and tossed the camera to Liang Zhao: “Video synced to the cloud. If he moves on me again, straight to the provincial department.”

Liang Zhao laughed as he turned the wheel: “Nice. Learned to fish.”

I leaned back in the seat, heart hammering, but I wasn’t scared at all—I’d finally thrown the words in his face.

Next, it was his turn to explain.

The car didn’t go back to the brick factory. Liang Zhao detoured to the Yuan River, said I should get some wind, not let the anger clog me up.

I got out and stood on the embankment. In the distance, cranes rumbled, demolishing the old dock.

My phone rang. Wu Shuang sent a voice message, excitement barely contained: “Provincial department approved the case. Jiang Ming’s been temporarily suspended. Your video was key evidence. Tech lab just confirmed—Lin Jianguo and Jiang Ming both left the country on the same day, July 14, 1998, flying to Bangkok.”

I listened. The stone in my chest didn’t lift—it got heavier. Liu Yu might still be alive, and I hadn’t even found a trace of her.

Liang Zhao handed me a cigarette. I lit it, took a deep drag, the wind scattering the smoke.

I pulled out that old train ticket, folded it, folded it again, until it was a hard lump, then tossed it. The paper ball fell into the river and was swept away instantly.

“Where to next?” Liang Zhao asked.

I wiped my face, voice dry from the wind: “Thailand. Alive or dead, I have to see her.”

He nodded: “Then I’ll book tickets. Leave for the airport tomorrow.”

My phone vibrated again—another unknown text, same number, same X-ending digits, only five characters:

“See you at the airport, Xu Yanliang.”

I stared at the screen. A cold chill rose from the soles of my feet: they were faster than me, like they’d already calculated my destination.

I stuffed the phone back in my pocket and turned toward the car, cursing: Fine. Let’s meet. Who’s afraid of who. This time, I’m bringing my real name, my real passport, and a belly full of truth.

The car door slammed shut. Behind me, the Yuan River kept flowing, like nothing had ever happened.

The 1 AM flight. The cabin was full of red-eye sleepers.

I couldn’t sleep. I turned the overhead light to full brightness and spread out the A4 paper Liang Zhao gave me—the copy of Liu Yu’s departure page.

In the photo, she had short hair and harder eyes than mine, like she’d always known her life was about to be stolen.

Liang Zhao sat in the next seat, hunched over his laptop patching code, occasionally glancing at me: “Going straight to Lin Jianguo after landing?”

“Yeah. Wu Shuang gave me the address—an old villa in Ratchada, Bangkok.” I paused, then added: “See Liu Yu first. Settle accounts later.”

As the plane descended, another text from that X-ending number arrived: “Baggage carousel. Blue suitcase. Take it.”

I frowned and showed it to Liang Zhao before shutting off my phone. He muttered: “So many games.”

At Suvarnabhumi, I deliberately dragged my feet, waiting until most of the luggage had gone around before walking to the carousel.

Sure enough, a blue suitcase sat there alone, no name tag.

I looked around—no one I knew. I picked it up, set it on the floor, and unzipped it. Inside was only a transparent document bag containing a yellowed medical record cover page: Patient Xu Yanliang, surgery date 1998-07-14, donor—Liu Yu.

Suddenly my fingers went stiff. The record was snatched away. A woman in a baseball cap stood at my side-rear, looked up—that face was identical to the short-haired photo on the copy, except there was a thin scar at the corner of her eye.

She tilted her chin at me, voice low and hoarse: “Don’t block the way. Let’s talk outside.”

I froze for two seconds before it hit me—Liu Yu, standing alive in front of me.

I dragged the blue suitcase and followed Liu Yu out of the arrivals hall. Night wind carried gasoline fumes, stinging my scalp.

She stopped under a lamppost, pulled out a lighter, and lit a thin cigarette. The flame caught the scar at her eye corner: “Ask what you want. Quick. I’ve got ten minutes.”

I opened my mouth, but nonsense came out first: “Whose body was in the suitcase?”

“A stand-in.” She blew smoke rings like she was discussing the weather. “The organization calls them ’Zero Molds.’ 87% genetic match to us, similar build, birthmark burned onto the left shoulder too. She wouldn’t obey, so she was disposed of—conveniently died in my place.”

A chill ran down my spine: “So the death certificate, the implant serial number—all hers?”

Liu Yu nodded: “They wanted to wipe the name ’Liu Yu’ off the face of the earth, so I could cleanly take over ’Xu Yanliang.’ Zero became me, I became you.”

I clenched my fists: “Did you agree?”

“I wanted to live.” She flicked ash, voice hoarse. “Refuse, and it’d be me at the bottom of the reservoir.”

I stared at the faint surgical scar below her collarbone: “Where’s Lin Jianguo?”

“Old villa, B2, cold storage.” She looked up, gaze like ice. “He’s got the last paper file. Take it, and you can prove you’re the real one.”

I gritted my teeth: “And you?”

“I owe Zero a life.” She turned, her back slender. “After this, we go our separate ways. Don’t ask who’s real anymore—the one who survives, that’s the real one.”

She walked quickly into the night, leaving the blue suitcase behind.

I unzipped it. Inside was only a cold-storage key and a sticky note: address + one line—“Burn the cold storage. Don’t look back.”

A white refrigerated truck was parked at the villa entrance, lights on, engine humming. I pressed against the wall and circled to the back door. The windows were boarded up, light seeping through cracks. I crouched and heard footsteps inside—more than one person.

I pulled out my phone, sent Liang Zhao my location with a line: [Guards present. Don’t force entry. Remote support.] He replied: [Copy. Hacking the cameras. Five-minute window.]

I waited about three minutes. The truck lights flashed twice and went out—darkness everywhere. Liang Zhao had succeeded. I crouched and slipped to the kitchen exterior, used the key to gently unlock the door. The smell of disinfectant drifted through the crack.

Inside was a downward staircase, stainless steel railing cold to the touch. I reached the bottom and, through the fire door, heard a man speaking:

“Old Lin, hurry up. Finish the leftover and go. Client arrives at eleven.”

I peered through the door crack. Two burly men in white coats guarded a mobile stretcher. The stretcher was covered with a white sheet, a woman’s ankle peeking out—pale skin. Lin Jianguo stood at a computer, stuffing a hard drive into a sealed bag.

I held my breath and extended my phone camera through the crack, streaming live. Liang Zhao replied: [Guards are armed. Don’t engage. Find a fire extinguisher.]

I scanned the area. Sure enough, a red fire extinguisher box in the ceiling corner. I quietly pulled open the door, slipped inside, hugged the shadows to the box, took out the extinguisher, and pulled the pin.

Lin Jianguo suddenly looked up at the dead monitor: “Why’s there no signal?”

While they were distracted, I charged with the extinguisher, aimed at the nearest guard, and squeezed the trigger—“PSSHT!” Dry powder instantly filled the corridor, white everywhere. I ducked and rushed, used the steel cylinder to bowl over the second guard, and went straight for Lin Jianguo.

He’d just pulled out a taser. I blocked it with one hand and smashed the extinguisher into his wrist with the other. The taser clattered to the floor.

I kicked it away, grabbed him by the collar, dragged him to the refrigeration unit, and bound his hands and feet with plastic zip ties—I’d bought a pack of ten at the hardware store beforehand, more than enough.

The powder slowly settled. The two guards coughed, bent over. I pointed the taser at them: “Don’t move. Move and I fire.” They raised their hands, not daring to come closer.

I looked down at Lin Jianguo, voice low: “Three questions. One wrong answer, and you go in there to keep Zero company.”

He nodded, gasping.

“Who funded the stand-in production?”

“Mingwei Company... the board of directors list is on the computer’s D drive, file called ’Directors.’”

“How do clients pay?”

“Offshore accounts, code name ’Mirror.’ Password is Jiang Ming’s birthday plus suffix 9478.”

“Why me?”

“You’re RH-negative, low genetic heterozygosity. Clients will pay top dollar for a same-type stand-in—minimal rejection...”

I listened, pulled the computer hard drive out, stuffed it in my pocket, then pointed my phone at his face to record: “Say it again. For the provincial department’s record.”

He was about to speak when a gunshot rang out upstairs—“BANG!”—a bullet tore through the ceiling, concrete shards flying. I looked up and saw a third guard with a submachine gun at the stairwell.

I immediately dragged Lin Jianguo in front of me as a shield, taser aimed at the guard: “Shoot again, and I’ll electrocute his heart first!”

The guard hesitated. Outside, sirens wailed—Liang Zhao’s backup had arrived. Red police lights reflected off the walls, strobing the room.

I dragged Lin Jianguo backward toward the refrigeration unit. The guard, seeing the situation was bad, turned and ran upstairs. I took the chance and shoved Lin Jianguo at Wu Shuang, who’d rushed in. She cuffed him with real handcuffs.

Outside the cold storage, fire trucks had arrived too, water hoses soaking the exterior walls. I watched the smoke billowing from the basement and finally knew—burning or not didn’t matter anymore. The hard drive, the confession, the directors list were all in my pocket. This “stand-in production line” was no longer a secret.

The firefighters put out the blaze. The basement was a wreck.

Wu Shuang stuffed Lin Jianguo into a police car and nodded at me: “Give me the hard drive for the tech lab first. Provincial department’s making a mirror image overnight.” I nodded and handed it over, my hands still shaking—half adrenaline, half fear.

Liang Zhao leaned against the refrigerated truck, face covered in ash: “Third guard got away. Jiang Ming definitely got the message.” He tossed me a bottle of water. “Next step?”

I chugged half the bottle, the gunpowder taste in my throat finally subsiding. “Back to China. Root out Jiang Ming.” I said it through gritted teeth.

Wu Shuang came over and handed me a temporary ID: “Provincial department special approval. You’re assisting the investigation as a victim. No need to surrender your passport.” She paused and lowered her voice: “Jiang Ming applied to leave the country last night. Border control stopped him. He’s hiding in the Hecheng dormitory now.”

I laughed coldly: “Perfect. Saves me a trip to Thailand to arrest someone.”

The police car left the scene. I sat by the window, eyes closed, but couldn’t sleep.

My mind kept replaying Lin Jianguo’s words—“the client list is on the D drive.” Directors, politicians, celebrities—blurred faces flashed before my eyes like skinless ghosts.

My phone vibrated. A location from Liu Yu: Hecheng Old Dock, 1 AM. With a line: “Jiang Ming’s trying to escape by water. Up to you whether you come.”

I looked out the window. Dawn was breaking, Bangkok’s morning mist like gray gauze. I replied with two words: “Wait for me.”

Next stop—home, to close the net.

On the flight back, I spread out my notebook. Liang Zhao had already made three copies of the “Directors” file from the hard drive. The screen glow lit my face, keeping me wide awake.

I. Supply Chain.

① Source: Poverty-stricken counties at the tri-border of western Hunan, eastern Guizhou, and northern Guangxi. Newborns with RH-negative blood and low genetic heterozygosity were privately registered. Village doctors, family-planning stations, school physicals—layer by layer, names were passed up. Two thousand yuan “information fee” per report.

② Selection: Every quarter, Mingwei Company went to the countryside for “free clinics,” drew two vials of blood, and ran matching back at the lab. Those with a match rate above 87% were marked as “Grade A Molds.” Parents received a one-time 50,000 yuan “nutrition subsidy” and signed a voluntary bone marrow donation consent form—in reality, a full-body usage buyout.

③ Transport: When the children reached 12–15, they were taken away during winter/summer breaks under the guise of “attending a provincial capital summer camp.” Buses, green trains, private vans—segmented transport, all records under fake names. Parents received “admission to Shenzhen elite school” notices, then silence.

II. Technology Chain.

① Bases: Old building of Nanshan Hospital, Ratchada villa in Bangkok, Laza development zone in northern Myanmar—three operating theaters. All equipment second-hand imports, anesthetics smuggled.

② Process: Cartilage harvesting for face reshaping, implant insertion, micro-expression training, vocal cord adjustment—two-year cycle. After completion, stand-in similarity to target exceeded 90%. Fingerprints covered with degradable bio-adhesive, naturally shedding within three months.

③ Records: All originals burned, only encrypted hard drives retained. Household registration manipulated by insiders at county-level household registration offices—direct replacement or parallel account opening. After client paid the balance, the “mold” was officially activated.

III. Sales Chain.

① Clients: Business owners fleeing debt, public officials facing anti-corruption investigations, wealthy wives fighting over inheritance—people who needed to “vanish” or “escape by golden cicada shell.”

② Pricing: Basic stand-in 8 million yuan—identity swap, death certificate, cremation. Premium version 20 million—overseas passport, background resume, lifetime maintenance. “Mirror-grade” ones like Liu Yu and me were limited edition, internal orders only.

③ After-sales: If a stand-in reneged, “scrapped” per contract. If a client got into trouble, the company immediately cut contact, all records attributed to the deceased “Zero”—dead men tell no tales.

IV. Money Laundering Chain.

① Shell: Mingwei Company wore a medical investment skin, with plastic surgery hospitals, bio-labs, and wellness resorts under its umbrella.

② Channel: Client funds → offshore accounts → cryptocurrency → NFT art → converted back to USD. Jiang Ming domestically provided “death certificates” and “household registration cancellation,” taking a 10% cut each time.

③ Ledger: The “Mirror” spreadsheet on the hard drive recorded 317 transactions from 1998 to present, total 4.2 billion USD. Lowest single transaction 3.8 million, highest 39 million—that column’s note read: Politician-Asia-Pacific.

V. Risk Chain.

① Stand-in rebellion: A stand-in waking up was the most troublesome after-sales issue. The company held a “True Identity Ceremony,” making the stand-in personally dispose of “Zero” and recording the footage—used as blackmail if they ever got out of line.

② Internal implosion: Insiders who wanted out were immediately handled by “car accident” or “drowning.” Yang Jianshen’s bus, Wu Shuang’s mentor’s broken badge—all warnings.

③ External investigation: Once police filed a case, the “Ash Protocol” activated—burn bases, wipe systems, let administrators “immigrate.” Lin Jianguo was the executor. Still got caught.

After reading the spreadsheet, I closed my laptop. My palms were sweaty.

This wasn’t simply “identity substitution.” It was an assembly line treating humans as commodities—birth, screening, modification, sale, disposal—one-stop service, profits in the tens of millions. And I was just their mispriced, unsold “sample.”

I turned to look out the window. Below the clouds, a sea of lights glowed. How many of those lit windows held real people, and how many held “molds”? Who could tell?

I pulled out the sticky note Liu Yu gave me and, under her “Burn the cold storage,” added a line: Next step—burn the whole chain.

The plane landed. I took a taxi straight to Hecheng Old Dock. 1 AM. The Yuan River lapped the shore, wind carrying diesel fumes. Liu Yu crouched by an abandoned crane, a cigarette between her fingers, the ember flickering.

“Jiang Ming’s at the downstream warehouse, boarding a boat at 3 AM.” She handed me a crumpled shipping manifest. “Destination: open-sea gambling ship. Identity swap.”

I pulled out my phone and hit record: “Tell me everything you know.”

She took a deep drag, voice low but steady:

“Mingwei’s last domestic line—’washing the living.’ Before a stand-in client flees, they die once first. Jiang Ming handles the death certificate, cancels the household registration, collects the body quota, then they transfer ships on the open sea and the real person resurrects. He takes 20% per person.”

“Where do the bodies come from?”

“Zero warehouse. Poor people who can’t afford stand-ins, or disobedient molds.” She paused, stubbed out the cigarette. “I almost became one of those bodies.”

I gripped the manifest: “How will you appear later?”

“I’m not going.” She stood and pulled her cap low. “I owe Zero a life. Gotta pay it tonight—I’m burning the warehouse. You make the arrest.”

With that, she walked against the wind into the darkness, her back thin as a knife. I didn’t call after her—I knew calling wouldn’t bring her back.

I looked down and sent Wu Shuang my location: [Downstream warehouse, 3 AM, close the net.]

She replied: “Already positioned. Don’t go in alone.”

I put my phone away and walked toward the warehouse. A beat-up pickup was parked by the road. The window rolled down. Liang Zhao nodded at me: “Get in. Gear’s here.”

I went around to the passenger side. Under the seat lay a stun baton, a pair of handcuffs, and a portable printer—we’d need to print a detention warrant on-site, in case Jiang Ming used “incomplete paperwork” as a shield.

I checked everything. Liang Zhao handed me a bottle of water, voice low: “Take him alive. Only then can the whole chain be cut.”

I grunted. My chest was drawn tight like a bow—at 3 AM, either he spilled the whole truth, or I personally threw him into the cold storage and let this industrial chain gasp its last.

2:40. The pickup stopped 200 meters from the warehouse. Moonlight was covered by clouds, only the red light on the crane blinking. I put on my earpiece. Wu Shuang’s voice came through: “Two teams in position. Patrol boat on the water. You lure him out.”

I carried the water bottle and split up with Liang Zhao, circling to the warehouse side door. A dim yellow bulb hung by the entrance. A refrigerated truck was backing toward the dock, rear doors wide open, white mist billowing out.

Jiang Ming stood by the truck, suit jacket over his arm, tablet in hand, checking the manifest with the driver. I took a deep breath, turned on my flashlight, and shone it directly in his face: “Station Chief Jiang. Paperwork in order?”

He raised a hand to block the light, recognized me, and his face instantly darkened: “What are you doing here?”

I stepped closer and showed him the printed detention warrant: “Approved by the provincial department. Assisting investigation into identity trafficking. Please come with us now.”

He sneered and gave the driver a look. The driver closed the rear doors, circled to the cab, and suddenly gunned the engine—the truck charged straight at me. I rolled sideways behind a cargo pile, my stun baton clattering to the ground.

Liang Zhao charged from the side, wrenched the driver’s door open, and pressed the stun baton to the man’s neck—crackle—the driver slumped in the seat. At the same time, Wu Shuang and her team burst through the door, guns aimed at Jiang Ming: “Don’t move!”

Jiang Ming raised his hands but suddenly bolted backward, jumping onto the dock pontoon. I chased after him. Through the earpiece, Wu Shuang shouted: “Water team, blockade!”

A speedboat was docked at the end of the pontoon, engine already running. Jiang Ming had just stepped onto the gunwale when I lunged, grabbed his collar, and dragged him back onto the bridge. He threw a back fist into my temple. My vision went black, but I held on, my other hand finding the handcuffs—“CLICK”—on his wrist.

He was still struggling. I drove my knee into his lower back, pinned him kneeling on the deck, and ground out: “Where’s the Zero warehouse?”

He gasped and laughed: “At sea. Can you reach it?”

I looked up at the distance. The river was pitch black, only scattered boat lights. Wu Shuang ran over, took the man, and pulled me up: “The speedboat’s ours. Water team’s located the upstream floating warehouse. Moving out now.”

I nodded, but saw flames suddenly rise on the opposite bank, lighting up half the sky—Liu Yu had made her move.

Jiang Ming looked back, his face finally changing. I leaned close to his ear, voice low and cold: “If this doesn’t burn it all, we’ll keep arresting until your whole chain is crushed to ash.”

The speedboat sliced through black water, charging toward the upstream floating warehouse. Engine noise mixed with fire alarm wails, the river like a torn-open wound. I leaned against the gunwale, wind carrying ash in my face, the opposite bank’s fire burning the sky dark red.

Wu Shuang had Jiang Ming pinned in the center of the deck, cuffed to a railing, gun pressed to his nape. She nodded at me: “Water team sent visuals. The floating warehouse is an iron-hulled ship, three kilometers ahead, called ’Mirror03.’”

I frowned: “Mirror series? It appeared in the hard drive. Number 03 is a mobile unit.”

Liang Zhao operated the tablet. A drone lifted off, infrared feed popping onto the screen: the hull was concave-shaped, the central cargo hold had abnormal temperature, a lifeboat on top, two small speedboats guarding. He zoomed the thermal imaging: “Over twenty heat sources in the cargo hold, arranged neatly—like they’re lying down.”

My chest tightened—the Zero warehouse, really out at sea.

The drone flew lower. Suddenly the image shook—“crack”—signal lost. Jammed.

Wu Shuang ordered over the radio: “Patrol boats split two ways, flank left and right. Hail first. If they don’t slow, board by force.”

I looked into the distance. Against the firelight, a gray iron-hulled ship slowly emerged, “MIRROR03” spray-painted in white on the side, the letters corroded by salt spray.

The speedboat closed to a hundred meters. The patrol boat’s loudspeaker blared: “Thai police joint operation. Stop vessel for inspection immediately!”

The iron ship ignored it. White mist suddenly sprayed from its stern—smoke screen deployed. At the same time, two escort speedboats shot out from the sides, engines roaring, trying to ram us.

I gripped the railing. Wu Shuang barked: “Port side ready, target the bridge!”

Liang Zhao handed me the taser: “After boarding, take the console first. Don’t let the self-destruct activate.”

I grunted, my heartbeat drowning out the engine.

The smoke screen exploded, the river instantly white. The escort boats charged like mad dogs, submachine guns mounted on their bows, muzzle flashes—“rat-tat-tat”—bullets hitting our bow railing, sparks flying.

I hugged the deck with the taser, ears full of metal clangs. Wu Shuang leaned sideways and fired twice. The driver of the leading escort boat took a bullet to the shoulder, the bow veered, and it skimmed past our side, slamming into the smoke with a “BOOM,” engine spinning free.

The other escort boat, seeing the situation, turned to flee but was intercepted sideways by a patrol boat. The loudspeaker roared: “Move again and we fire!” That boat cut its engine and surrendered, hands up.

The iron ship took the chance to accelerate, white wake curling from its stern, trying to bolt for international waters. Wu Shuang shouted into the radio: “Hard to port, bite them!”

Our speedboat listed sharply. I almost got thrown out, hand death-gripping the railing. Liang Zhao crouched by the console, fingers flying on the tablet: “Their console runs on old-frequency WiFi. Give me thirty seconds!”

I gritted my teeth. The smoke was clearing, the iron ship’s silhouette reappearing, less than fifty meters away. I looked up—figures moving on the stern deck, carrying oil drums, pouring into the sea.

I understood instantly—they were going to burn the ship to destroy evidence!

I shouted at Wu Shuang: “Oil! Don’t let them light it!”

Wu Shuang raised her gun and fired twice—“BANG BANG”—the oil drum was punctured, black oil spraying, the carrier screaming and falling. A spark flashed—“WHOOSH”—the stern erupted in flames, fire licking the mooring ropes, spreading fast.

Liang Zhao shouted: “Jamming successful! Rudder locked!” The iron ship suddenly lost power, listing like a dead fish in the water, waves rocking it side to side.

Wu Shuang stood and waved: “Board!”

The speedboat pulled alongside. I jumped first, slipped, almost fell into the fire—Liang Zhao caught me. We ran along the gunwale, firelight burning our faces.

The cabin door was locked. I smashed the lock with the gunstock and kicked it open—inside, thick smoke, rows of metal stretchers neatly arranged, each with a person under a silver thermal blanket, only the face exposed.

I rushed over and lifted the first blanket—a woman with short hair, birthmark on her left shoulder, but not me, not Liu Yu. A completely unfamiliar face.

I froze, cold in my chest—this place was full of “Zero” backups, identical “mes.”

Liang Zhao shouted: “Forget them! Find the console!”

I gritted my teeth and pushed deeper. Suddenly “CLICK” underfoot—I’d stepped on a movable iron plate. Looked down: red light blinking, countdown already started: 00:03:00.

Self-destruct activated. Three minutes to explosion.

I looked up. Fire had already burned into the cabin hatch, heat wave hitting my face, metal stretchers sizzling. I roared: “Everyone, evacuate!”

Wu Shuang shouted over the radio: “Abandon the cabin! Full retreat!”

I turned and took one last look at those lying people—they’d never wake up.

I burst out the cabin door and jumped into the speedboat. No sooner had we pulled away than “BOOM” behind us—a fireball shot into the sky. The iron ship was blown in two, wreckage sinking slowly into the riverbed with tongues of flame.

I lay on the gunwale, gasping, ears ringing, but my mind was unnervingly clear—that blast uprooted the “Mirror” series warehouse, but the real masterminds were still deeper.

I looked up. Firelight reflected on the river like a shattered mirror, showing countless “my” faces, but they could never be pieced back to the original.

The explosion’s echo rolled across the river for a long time before fading. Black smoke drifted like a dead dragon. I lay on the speedboat gunwale, throat full of diesel and burnt smell, ears ringing like someone hammering metal.

Wu Shuang spoke first, voice hoarse from smoke: “Ship’s gone. Evidence sunk too.”

I shook my head and pulled the hard drive from the waterproof bag—before we set out, I’d had the foresight to copy all the “Mirror03” console data, even photographed the countdown screen. Firelight danced behind me, the drive’s plastic shell hot to the touch, but intact.

“Evidence is still here.” I gasped and handed it to her. “The rest is up to your provincial department to carve up this cake.”

Wu Shuang nodded and turned to call rescue on the satellite phone. Liang Zhao sat next to me and handed over water. I tilted my head back and drank, half running down my neck, washing the black ash into streaks.

The water gradually calmed. Wreckage floated, occasionally a warped metal plate “clanked” and rolled over. I suddenly thought of those stretchers in the cabin, cold in my chest—if I hadn’t stepped on the self-destruct switch, would they have had to keep “sleeping”?

I looked at my own hands—the back was red from heat blisters, stinging, but it kept me clear-headed: burning one ship doesn’t mean burning the whole chain.

I spoke, voice unrecognizable: “Mingwei Company, the board of directors, the Mirror series... these words have to appear in the indictment. Can’t just sink a ship and call it done.”

Wu Shuang hung up the phone and nodded at me: “Relax. Case file number’s already issued. Provincial department designated cross-jurisdiction trial. Jiang Ming’s being transported at dawn. Get ready to testify.”

I nodded, then thought of someone: “Liu Yu? She’s still on the opposite bank.”

Wu Shuang pressed her lips: “Fire’s out over there. Patrol didn’t find her. Only found this.” She handed me a half-burned baseball cap, edges charred, the fabric still carrying a familiar smell—cheap tobacco mixed with bleach.

I clutched the cap, something hollow in my chest.

She’d saved me, used me, and now her fate was unknown—like this industrial chain: apparently sunk, but who knew how many hidden stakes lay beneath.

When the speedboat docked, dawn was breaking. The sky east of the Yuan River showed crab-shell blue.

I stepped onto the dock and looked back. A few black iron plates floated on the river, like torn mirrors, no longer reflecting a whole human face.

I took a deep breath, tucked the charred cap into my chest, and said to Wu Shuang: “Let’s go. Smash the rest of the mirrors, one by one.”

At dawn, I got into the provincial department’s van and headed straight for Hecheng Detention Center. Outside the window, the Yuan River was shrouded in morning mist, like nothing had happened.

In the detention center visiting room, Jiang Ming was cuffed to an iron chair, his hair gone mostly white overnight. I set the hard drive on the table. He looked up, the corner of his mouth twitching, said nothing.

I spoke first: “Mirror03 is sunk. All 317 transactions are in here. Your 10% cut—calculate it. How many sentences does that add up to?”

He lowered his head, voice hoarse: “I want to make a meritorious confession.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

He licked his lips: “Mingwei is just a shell. The real controlling shareholder is ’Huaishen Investment.’ The legal representative you know—Yang Jianshen.”

I froze. The bus driver? The old man who gave me the photo and took my fifty yuan?

Jiang Ming sneered: “He used to run transport, hauling ’molds’ for the company. Later bought in and laundered his shares, holds 15%. That 1998 ticket was his backup, specifically for blackmailing the organization.”

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. No wonder he knew so much. No wonder someone was following him.

I stood up, walked to the door, turned back, and asked: “Last question—Liu Yu, dead or alive?”

Jiang Ming looked up, eyes flickering: “Before the ship sank, she came to me asking for Zero’s real identity. I told her—Zero is your biological younger sister, identical twins. She heard that and left.”

My head buzzed like a hammer had struck it. Jiang Ming kept talking: “The company only wanted to keep one. Lin Jianguo got greedy and made two. Zero was scrapped, and you got swapped...”

I rushed out of the visiting room, leaned against the wall dry-heaving, but nothing came up. So those stretchers held not just strangers, but the other half of my blood.

Wu Shuang chased after me and handed me water. I waved it away, throat dry: “Find Yang Jianshen. Now.”

She nodded and turned to make calls. I leaned against the wall, pressed the charred cap to my face, smoke stinging my nose until tears ran.

Liu Yu knew the truth, which was why she chose to burn the warehouse and trigger the explosion—she wasn’t repaying Zero’s life. She was repaying my sister’s life.

I looked up at the ceiling, white and blinding, but it could no longer reflect a complete me. The mirror shattered, taking my bloodline and splitting it in two.

I took a deep breath, pocketed the cap, and said hoarsely to Wu Shuang: “Let’s go. Find Yang Jianshen—I want him to tell me himself who threw my sister into the reservoir.”

The provincial department’s police car took me to a logistics park on the southern outskirts of Huaihua. An iron sign read “Huaishen Express.”

Broad daylight, trucks coming and going, dust flying. Wu Shuang pointed to the innermost office: “Yang Jianshen’s in there. Positioned all around, plainclothes everywhere.”

I got out. My feet hit the ground and my chest felt like it had lead on it.

Liang Zhao followed behind, handed me water. I didn’t take it, walked straight in.

The office door was half-open. I pushed in. Yang Jianshen had his back to me, tossing documents from his desk into a brazier, the fire glowing red on the back of his neck.

Hearing me, he turned, saw it was me, froze for a second, tossed the last sheet into the fire, then clapped his hands: “Girl, you’re faster than I thought.”

I pulled out a chair and sat across from him, set the charred cap on the table: “Zero is my biological sister, identical twins. How much do you know?”

He sighed, pulled a pack of Baisha cigarettes from a drawer, lit one, and took a deep drag: “I know, but not everything. That day in ’98, I had a company job—transporting two newborns to Shenzhen. One was you, one was Zero. En route, the company called: only keep one, dispose of the other. I couldn’t bear it. Kept both. Gave you to Lin Chuntao, sent Zero into the organization.”

I clenched my fists: “And after?”

“Zero grew up defective. Birthmark too big, clients rejected her. She was designated scrap, became the ’Zero Mold.’ I wanted to save her but didn’t have the guts. Could only sneak her a train ticket, hoping she’d save herself someday.” He blew a smoke ring, voice low. “Never thought she’d actually use it—but she died in your place.”

My throat tightened: “You’re telling me this now, expecting me to forgive you?”

Yang Jianshen shook his head, stubbed out the cigarette, and picked up a half-burned A4 sheet from the brazier, pushing it toward me: “This is the company’s original shareholder list. I signed a transfer agreement—all my shares to you, plus all internal accounts. Take it, and you can uproot the whole chain.”

I looked down at the paper. The signature at the end was glaring red—he’d pressed his fingerprint and stamped the company seal.

I looked up at him: “Why give it to me?”

He smiled bitterly: “I owe your sister a life. And I owe you. Made enough money. Now I have to pay with my life.”

I folded the paper, stood up, walked to the door, turned back, and asked: “Did she have a name?”

Yang Jianshen was silent for a few seconds, then said softly: “Yes. On the birth certificate—Xu Yanzhen.”

My nose stung. I nodded, pushed the door, and went out.

The sunlight outside was harsh, but I felt cold—from today on, I’m no longer just “Xu Yanliang.” I’ll carry “Xu Yanzhen’s” share too, and live on for both of us.

Wu Shuang came over. I handed her the shareholder list: “Keep it safe. Next target isn’t an individual—it’s the whole ’Huaishen Investment.’”

I handed the shareholder list to Wu Shuang. She scanned it, brow twitching: “Behind Huaishen Investment is a subsidiary of the provincial state investment corporation. Moving on it needs sign-off from above.”

I nodded: “Then make them sign off.”

The provincial department held an emergency meeting overnight. I squatted in the hallway eating instant noodles, spicy enough to make me gasp.

Wu Shuang came out of the conference room hugging her laptop and tossed a document into my arms: “Approved. Cross-jurisdiction police deployment. Economic investigation, cybersecurity, criminal investigation—three-way joint operation, codename ’Mirror Shatter.’”

I wiped my mouth: “When do we move?”

“6 AM tomorrow. Simultaneous raid on Huaishen Investment, the old Nanshan Hospital building, and Mingwei’s offshore accounts.” She paused and lowered her voice: “But you have to do one thing first—become the new shareholder of Huaishen Investment.”

I froze: “What does that mean?”

“Yang Jianshen transferred his shares to you. Legally you already hold 15%. Economic investigation needs you on the books to audit accounts and freeze funds—otherwise it’s overstepping authority.” She paused. “Simply put, you sign your way into the wolf’s den and go undercover.”

I rolled my eyes: “I’d love nothing more.”

At 10 PM, I pressed my fingerprint onto the share transfer agreement, officially becoming the second-largest shareholder of “Huaishen Investment.” At the same time, economic investigation seized all company accounts, seals, and business registration keys—just waiting for dawn to close the net.

At 4 AM, I changed into a suit and heels, and stood with the economic investigation team below the company building. The glass doors were brightly lit inside, the night-shift accountant still working, keyboard clacking.

I took a deep breath, pushed the door open. The receptionist looked up: “Ms. Xu? A visit this late?”

I smiled: “New shareholder. Here to audit the accounts.”

While she was stunned, economic investigation flashed their badges: “Police. Nobody touch the computers.”

The lobby went instantly silent, only the printer creaking. I walked to the finance room, plugged the USB drive into the mainframe, and pulled up real-time transactions—4.2 billion USD was being transferred out in batches, target account: MIRROR-CAYMAN.

I hit pause, looked up at the accountant: “Tell your person in charge—the money can’t go out, and nobody’s running.”

The accountant went pale, hand shaking, coffee spilling all over the keyboard.

I straightened up and said quietly into my earpiece: “Accounts locked. Move in.”

Outside, sirens wailed, red and blue lights flashing through the glass walls, like nailing the final board onto this industrial chain. I looked down at my own shadow—finally not someone else’s stand-in, but “Xu Yanliang” with a shareholder certificate and a search warrant.

I added softly: “And Xu Yanzhen’s older sister.”

Sirens blared, police lights flashing nonstop. I stayed in the finance room, staring at the screen—the transfer orders were force-paused, 4.2 billion USD frozen mid-air, like a movie on pause.

The economic investigation lead, Old Zhou, walked in, slapped a freezing order on the table, and nodded at the accountant: “Hands on your head. Stand up.”

The two accountants obediently stood, coffee still dripping from the keyboard. I pulled out the USB drive and handed it to Old Zhou: “Transactions, receipts, director signatures—all in here. Enough to keep you writing reports until next year.”

He pocketed it and fist-bumped me: “Good work, Shareholder Xu.”

I waved him off and walked out of the lobby. Night wind hit my face, hot and sticky. Outside the glass doors, employees lined up, squatting with hands on heads, phones all in evidence boxes. I scanned—didn’t see the real big fish: the legal representative, Chairman Zhao Huaishen, reportedly abroad year-round.

Wu Shuang came over and pressed an A4 sheet into my hand: “Border control just relayed this. Zhao Huaishen tried to enter from Singapore last night, got stopped. He’s stuck in Changi Airport VIP lounge, waiting for China’s extradition papers.”

I looked up: “How long will extradition take?”

“Fastest seven days, longest six months.” She paused. “But a shareholder can remotely call an extraordinary general meeting, force an audit, and make it impossible for him to delay.”

I laughed coldly: “Then call the meeting.”

The next morning, as the second-largest shareholder, I sent an email to the board: extraordinary general meeting within 24 hours, agenda—company fund flows, Mirror project explanation, Zhao Huaishen’s personal liability. CC: provincial department, economic investigation, media.

Less than two hours after the email went out, Zhao Huaishen responded through his lawyer: agreed to attend by video, scheduled for 8 PM that night.

Before the meeting, I changed into a white shirt with sleeves rolled up, sat in the provincial department conference room, camera aimed at me. The screen lit up. Zhao Huaishen appeared—background was an airport VIP lounge, two bodyguards behind him.

He was in his early fifties, slicked-back hair, smiling affably: “Ms. Xu, first meeting. Congratulations on becoming a shareholder.”

I didn’t bother with pleasantries. I shared my screen directly and laid out the Mirror transactions, director signatures, and Zero warehouse photos one by one: “Explain. Where did the 4.2 billion USD go?”

His smile froze. After a few seconds of silence, he said: “I wasn’t aware of the project. It was all handled by subordinates.”

I laughed coldly: “Subordinates? Lin Jianguo and Jiang Ming both identified your signature authorization. Handwriting analysis 99% match. You still want to shift blame?”

He pressed his lips, glanced off-camera, and suddenly said: “Ms. Xu, I’ll make you a deal—you drop the pursuit, and I’ll let your sister Xu Yanzhen come back alive.”

My fingers froze. My heart rate spiked, but I forced myself to stay calm: “Prove she’s alive.”

He raised a hand. A bodyguard handed him a phone. The screen showed a dim room, camera aimed at a single bed—on it lay a short-haired woman, birthmark on her left shoulder clear, face pale and bloodless, connected to an IV pump.

My eyes burned instantly. But I heard Zhao Huaishen’s low laugh: “Stop, and she keeps living. Pursue, and the machine stops—she dies. Your choice.”

I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms. In the screen’s reflection, I saw my own twisted face.

I took a deep breath, looked up at the microphone, and said word by word:

“I want both—her life, and your conviction.”

With that, I raised my hand and slammed the laptop shut. The screen went instantly black.

The screen went black. The conference room was so quiet you could hear the AC vent. Wu Shuang rushed over, voice low: “Are you crazy? He’s got a hostage!”

The back of my hand was covered in nail marks, shaking with pain, but I forced myself to stay calm: “He’s bluffing. If he really had Xu Yanzhen alive, he’d have shipped her out already, not be stuck at an airport.”

Liang Zhao pushed the door open and handed me his tablet: “Just located the video IP—address is the Ratchada villa area in Bangkok, B2 cold storage. The same building we burned.”

My heart jolted—Zhao Huaishen was using the old address to bluff me, which meant Xu Yanzhen wasn’t in his hands at all, or had already been moved.

Old Zhou slammed the table: “Immediately request Interpol assistance. Search the villa ruins. Simultaneously freeze all of Zhao Huaishen’s overseas accounts. Force him to hand her over.”

I nodded, but my heart was hollow—we hadn’t found any living person in the ruins, only those metal stretchers. If Xu Yanzhen really existed, where would she be?

At 11 PM, the provincial department connected with Interpol. Bangkok replied: a hidden room was found under the ruins, iron door deformed, inside only a still-running IV pump and an empty bed with cut restraints.

Seeing the photo, my legs went weak—I almost sat on the floor. The IV pump screen showed patient ID: MW-98-Z.

I stared at those characters, bitter in my throat: Z stood for final version, meaning Zero—but it was also Xu Yanzhen’s code. The pump was still running, but the person was gone.

Wu Shuang held my shoulder, voice low but firm: “She’s alive. The pump has a temperature sensor. If skin contact is lost for five minutes it alarms. No alarm now—means she just left.”

I looked up at the screen’s top-right time—Beijing 23:17, Bangkok 22:17. The empty bed still had residual warmth.

Liang Zhao pulled up the drone’s last frame. Infrared caught the dock direction—a slender figure being escorted onto a speedboat by two men. The boat name was clear: MirrorEscape.

I took a deep breath, stuffed my shaking hands into my pockets, and felt the charred baseball cap. My thumb traced the burnt edge, and I said quietly:

“MirrorEscape. Then we chase to the end. Even to international waters, I’m bringing her back.”

Old Zhou made the call: “Provincial department contacts coast guard. Apply for cross-border pursuit immediately.”

I looked up at the night sky outside. Toward the Yuan River, a line of fish-belly white was breaking on the horizon. I had only one thought:

Xu Yanzhen, wait for me—this time, I’m not looking for myself. I’m looking for you.

At 2 AM, the coast guard patrol boat “Hailong” weighed anchor from Zhanjiang Port. I boarded with the team. Wu Shuang had arranged a temporary auxiliary duty certificate. Liang Zhao carried a satellite terminal for real-time comms. A speedboat was mounted on the deck davit—we planned to chase first, then board.

Before leaving port, Old Zhou pressed a satellite phone into my hand: “Stay in touch even in international waters. Request Thai navy assistance anytime.” I nodded, stuffed the phone into a waterproof bag, and hung it around my neck with the baseball cap—these two things, one represented evidence, one represented a person.

The night was black as ink. The bow light split the waves. On GPS, the “MirrorEscape” dot kept moving, speed 28 knots, heading southeast, straight for Malacca.

I leaned against the gunwale, wind like knives. Liang Zhao handed me an energy bar. I bit into it, tasted like wax. The screen showed the target was still 90 nautical miles away, expected to enter international waters before dawn—once across, Thai navy’s interception authority shrank.

At 3:40, the radio crackled with a Thai patrol vessel’s call: “Escaping vessel, stop for inspection!” No response. The target instead increased speed to 30 knots.

Wu Shuang frowned: “They’re going to force their way through.”

I looked up and saw the occasional navigation light in the distance, like will-o’-the-wisps. Mental calculation: another hour and we’d be in international waters. Had to close to within 20 nautical miles to use the speedboats for forced boarding.

I walked to the bridge and said to the captain: “Use the helicopter to pressure them to slow down first.”

The captain nodded. Minutes later, the deck helicopter lifted off, searchlight aimed directly at “MirrorEscape,” loudspeaker repeating warnings. The target finally slowed, its course starting to wobble.

I put on a helmet and went down to the water with the speedboat team. Engines roared, six speedboats like arrows released from the bow, charging through the swells. I half-crouched at the bow, seawater slapping my face, stinging, but it cleared my head—this time, not finding an identity, but rescuing a person.

At 500 meters, the target suddenly turned, several smoke grenades thrown from the stern, white fog instantly obscuring visibility.

Wu Shuang’s calm voice came through my earpiece: “Port side two boats flank, starboard prepare to board. Team A takes the bridge, Team B searches the cabins. Xu Yanliang, you’re with me to the medical bay.”

I answered “Copy,” cocked the taser, my heartbeat drowning out the engine.

In the second I charged into the smoke, only one image in my mind: MW-98-Z on the IV pump screen. I told myself—this time, I won’t let a number replace a name. I’m bringing Xu Yanzhen back, alive.

The smoke was full of diesel fumes. The speedboat “CLANG” slammed into the ship’s side. I grabbed the boarding ladder and scrambled up three steps at a time. The deck was slippery. My knee hit the ground. Wu Shuang pulled me up: “Medical bay below, starboard stairs!”

I nodded and followed her. The ship suddenly lurched—they’d increased power, trying to shake us off. I held the wall and charged down the stairs, kicking open the iron door to the corridor.

The medical bay door was shut, the porthole glowing with dim red emergency light. I smashed the lock with the gunstock. The door opened a crack, and “beep beep” alarm came from inside—the IV pump. I squeezed through sideways. The cabin was cramped. On the iron bed lay a person, short hair, birthmark on the left shoulder, face pale—but her eyes were open.

My throat tightened. I whispered: “Yanzhen?”

Her eyeballs moved. Voice hoarse, almost inaudible: “Go... bomb.”

Only then did I notice: her wrist IV line connected to the pump, and next to the pump was strapped a black box—countdown 00:02:30, red light flashing wildly.

Wu Shuang rushed in, scanned it once: “Timed liquid charge. Triggers when the ship slows.” She crouched, pulled out a knife, cut the IV line, and pushed me aside. “You carry her. I’ll disarm.”

I bent down and picked up Xu Yanzhen. She was frighteningly light. The moment the pump was disconnected, the box beeped faster, screen jumping to 00:01:50.

Wu Shuang’s fingers flew, cut the red and blue wires—the light still flashed. She cursed: “Dual circuit.” Looked up and shouted at me, “Take her and go! I’ll stay!”

I gritted my teeth, carried Yanzhen and bolted for the door. The stairs were narrow, her knee hit the wall, she groaned. I didn’t care about the pain, scrambled up to the deck three steps at a time.

Sea wind hit my face. I shouted: “Lifeboat!” Liang Zhao was at the bridge suppressing fire control. Hearing me, he threw a rope ladder. I put Yanzhen on my back, slid down the ladder, and jumped into the speedboat.

No sooner had I sat down than “BOOM” from the ship’s belly—a fireball burst through the medical bay hatch, black smoke and debris flying into the sky. My heart stopped. I yelled: “Wu Shuang!”

The radio static for a few seconds, then her hoarse voice: “Alive. Jumped overboard, port side.”

I turned the speedboat around to the port side. A figure floated in the water. I reached out and hauled her in. Her forehead was bleeding, but she grinned: “Wires cut, ship stopped, person rescued—mission complete.”

I looked back. Xu Yanzhen leaned against the boat’s side, eyelids half-open, breathing shallow. I pulled her into my arms and whispered: “Don’t be afraid. We’re going home.”

Behind us, “MirrorEscape” had lost power, drifting like a dead fish on the sea, fire from its stern licking the black night, finally swallowed bit by bit by the water.

I held my sister, clutching the seawater-soaked baseball cap, knuckles white—this time, what I brought back wasn’t another similar face, but a real name: Xu Yanzhen.

At 4 AM, crab-shell blue appeared on the sea. The patrol boat turned back. In the cabin, lights were harsh white, doctors surrounded Xu Yanzhen running checks. I watched through the window, chest still tight.

The doctor came out, took off his mask: “Dehydration plus blood loss. Needs rest. Her life is out of danger.” I exhaled long and hard, my legs giving out, sitting down on the deck.

Wu Shuang had three stitches in her forehead, bandaged, sat next to me, and handed me a bottle of hot water. I took it, hands still shaking. She said softly: “Evidence chain is complete. We can finally close the net.”

I nodded, wrung out the soaked baseball cap, and spread it on my knee. The burnt fabric inside showed stitching—a red-thread “Z,” now half charred, half blood-red.

Liang Zhao came over with his laptop. On screen was the Mirror main console’s final backup: director list, fund flows, client IDs—all in plaintext. He hit send, email CC’d to the provincial procuratorate, Interpol, and Thai customs.

“4.2 billion USD, freezing orders synchronized.” He looked up at me. “Zhao Huaishen’s been detained by Singapore police at Changi Airport. Extradition documents uploaded.”

I grunted and looked out the window. Day had fully broken, golden light dancing on the sea.

I walked to Xu Yanzhen’s bedside. She opened her eyes, gaze unfocused, but recognized me. Her lips moved.

I bent down, ear to her mouth. Her voice thin as wind: “Sis... am I free?”

I held her hand—palm full of calluses and wounds, but warm and real: “Free. From now on, live under your real name.”

Tears slid from the corner of her eye. I wiped them away, but my own wouldn’t stop.

The boat docked at Zhanjiang Port. Stretchers were carried down the gangway. Reporters with long lenses waited at the shore. I pulled the cap low over my face and followed the stretcher.

Flashlights popped. I heard someone shout: “Xu Yanliang, how is your sister?”

I stopped, turned back, and said to the cameras, word by word: “Her name is Xu Yanzhen. My sister, and also a victim in this case. That she’s alive is the best evidence.”

With that, I turned and escorted the stretcher into the ambulance.

Before the doors closed, I took one last look at the port sky—the sun had fully risen, shining toward the Yuan River, like giving all the nameless ones an answer.

I looked down and gently placed the charred baseball cap on Xu Yanzhen’s chest, whispering: “Home.”

The ambulance pulled into the provincial hospital. I followed the stretcher all the way to the ICU door. The doctor blocked me: “Family registers first. Patient needs a sterile environment.”

I gasped for air, pulled out my ID, and my hand shook so bad I dropped it. The nurse picked it up, glanced, then looked at me: “Xu Yanliang?”

“Yes.” My voice was hoarse, almost inaudible.

She registered quickly and put a wristband on me—red, marked “Family-1.” I looked down at that red band, like my identity had finally been acknowledged, and my eyes burned.

The ICU door closed. I slid down the wall and sat, head resting on my knees. At the end of the corridor, the TV was playing news: the Mirror industrial chain uprooted, 317 suspects arrested, 4.2 billion USD frozen. My photo flashed by—pixelated, but the subtitle read “key whistleblower Ms. Xu.”

I smiled bitterly. Key whistleblower. Had also been a lamb to the slaughter.

I don’t know how much time passed. A pair of shoe tips stopped in front of me. I looked up—Lin Chuntao. She wore a floral shirt, carrying a thermos. I froze: “What are you doing here?”

She handed me the thermos: “Made Zhijiang duck soup. For you to recover.”

I took it. It was heavy, still hot. She sat next to me and sighed: “I always knew you weren’t my biological daughter. But after raising you for over thirty years, real feelings grew. Your sister...” She pointed at the ICU. “If she wakes up, let her have some. Don’t hate me.”

I opened the thermos. The smell of duck soup hit my nose, but it couldn’t wash away the bitterness in my chest. I took a sip, burned my tongue, but couldn’t stop—this was the taste of warmth I’d found in the world.

After drinking, I wiped my mouth and handed it back: “When she wakes, we’ll drink together.”

Lin Chuntao nodded, eyes red. I leaned on her shoulder and noticed for the first time—her shoulder was thin, but warm.

The doctor pushed the door out: “Xu Yanzhen is awake. Wants to see family.”

I stood up, legs numb, stumbled twice. The doctor smiled: “Don’t rush. First thing she asked was—’Where’s my sister?’”

My nose stung. I pushed the door in. On the hospital bed, her face was pale, but she smiled at me, voice like paper rubbing: “Sis... duck soup... is there any left?”

I held her hand. The red wristband touched the IV line, like two lives finally intertwined. I said softly: “There is. All you can drink. We’ll go home and drink slowly.”

Outside the window, the sky had fully cleared. Sunlight fell on the red wristband, like gilding all the lost names with sunshine.

After the ICU observation period, Xu Yanzhen was moved to a regular ward.

The doctor said she’d been malnourished too long, needed to build up slowly. I brought soup every day with different recipes—Zhijiang duck, peanut pig trotter, tomato beef brisket, rotating.

She drank soup like a kitten, sip by sip, huffing from the heat, but never stopped.

Lin Chuntao came at six every morning to claim a seat, carrying freshly made soup, meeting me there.

We no longer mentioned “switched at birth” or “adopted.” We only talked about soup heat, how much salt—like a normal mother and daughters.

A week later, the provincial department notified us for final statements.

I pushed Yanzhen in a wheelchair to the economic investigation building. The hallway was full of case victims—men and women, faces unfamiliar, but the same look in their eyes: survivors. We were in room three. A staff member handed us a form: Victim Rights and Obligations Notice.

I bent down and asked Yanzhen: “Can you see clearly? Sign here.” She held the pen, hand still shaking, but wrote her name neatly—Xu Yanzhen. I stared at those three characters, eyes burning, and signed below: Xu Yanliang.

After the statements, Old Zhou came out and handed us two receipts: “Case has been transferred for prosecution. You have the right to file civil compensation.” I nodded, folded the receipt, and put it in her palm: “Keep it. Buy a new pot. Cook at home from now on.”

Walking out of the building, the sunlight was just right. I pushed the wheelchair, Lin Chuntao held an umbrella, the three of our shadows stretching long, like finally piecing together a complete family portrait.

At the street corner, someone was selling ice cream. Yanzhen looked back at me and whispered: “Sis, can I have some?” I smiled: “Yes. Of course.”

I bought three, one each. She licked hers, squinted and smiled, like finally tasting freedom.

I bit into my ice cream—sweet to the point of bitter, but I couldn’t bear to spit it out. Lin Chuntao suddenly said: “Let’s go home. The duck soup is still on the stove. Don’t let it burn.”

I nodded and pushed the wheelchair forward. Sunlight fell on the red wristband, already faded, but like the first lock on all our new lives.

On the way home, I heard Yanzhen humming softly—“Mulberry Tree and Lampstand,” off-key, but the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard.

The duck soup did burn.

Lin Chuntao turned off the stove while cursing herself for being an old fool. I laughed and scraped the pot with a spoon, the burnt aroma mixed with pepper, filling the kitchen. Xu Yanzhen sat on a small stool, bowl in hand waiting for the soup to cool, still humming that off-key “Mulberry Tree and Lampstand.”

I scraped off a piece of burnt skin and put it in her bowl: “Taste this. Better than the meat.”

She bit into it, squinted, and smiled: “Sis, even burnt is good.”

I stirred the soup and suddenly remembered when I was little, in the paper mill dormitory, my mom—no, Lin Chuntao—made Zhijiang duck for the first time, also burned it. I thought it was bitter and secretly dumped it in the trash. Now the same taste, and I couldn’t bear to throw it away.

Lin Chuntao wiped her hands with a rag and suddenly said: “The household registration thing—the police station notified. Go tomorrow to process it. Both of you transferred back under my name. Surname Xu, names unchanged.”

I froze for a second, then nodded: “Fine. From now on, relationship column says mother-daughter, sisters. No more ’non-relative.’”

She grunted, turned her back, shoulders trembling slightly. I pretended not to see and kept stirring the soup.

At night, Yanzhen and I squeezed into one bed. She was thin, didn’t take much space. Cicadas chirped outside the window. She suddenly said: “Sis, I want to learn to draw. Like you.”

I turned on my side: “Fine. Start with lines. I’ll buy you a sketchbook tomorrow.”

She was silent for a few seconds, voice light as a mosquito: “When I learn, I’ll draw you one. Not stairs—duck soup.”

I laughed out loud, but my nose stung. I reached over and ruffled her hair: “Sleep. Tomorrow we’ve got the police station to run.”

She grunted and snuggled into my arms like a cat finding a warm nest. I closed my eyes and heard my own heartbeat, thump thump, finally landing somewhere solid.

Starting tomorrow, we no longer use serial numbers, code names, or stand-ins. Only our real names.

The day I registered my household, the sun was brutal. The line at the police station entrance curled around three times. Liang Zhao came too, leaning against a tree, and handed me a bottle of ice water. I asked casually: “Why have you been pushing so hard? This has nothing to do with you.”

He smiled and, for the first time, talked about something personal.

“My sister.”

“Fifteen years ago, she disappeared. RH-negative blood, rare type. Police said she ran away from home. I didn’t believe it. Later, when I was doing algorithms at Nanshan Hospital, I accidentally found her facial features in the system, marked as ’Mold Grade A,’ file header MW.”

He tilted his head back to look at the sky, voice low.

“I investigated for three years, cornered Lin Jianguo, but couldn’t get solid evidence. Until you showed up—same name, same face, alive. I knew the chance had come.”

I froze. Water droplets from the bottle plopped on the ground. He shrugged, like talking about someone else: “The hard drives, IPs, transaction logs—I backed them all up. The provincial department promised me that after the case closes, they’ll open a file for my sister, even if all that’s left is a photo.”

After the registration was done, he accompanied me to pick up the new household register. Three pages—Lin Chuntao as head of household, Xu Yanliang and Xu Yanzhen listed together. He glanced at it and smiled: “Good. Everyone’s home.”

I said I’d treat him to dinner. He shook his head: “Got things to do.”

I thought he was staying up late coding again, didn’t think much of it.

Two months later, the provincial department released the “Mirror Case” closing bulletin. 318 suspects, 4.2 billion USD, 317 stand-ins—all listed. At the very bottom, a line of small print:

“Technical consultant Liang Zhao, injured in the line of duty during data forensics, has recovered. Refused commendation, applied for transfer.”

I stared at the screen, fingers frozen on the mouse.

Turned out, during that final system mirroring, aging wiring in the server room caught fire. He’d rushed in to grab the hard drive, second-degree burns on his arm, hospitalized for two weeks. The provincial department wanted to nominate him for a merit award. He refused, reason: “I’m just a brother, not a hero.”

I opened my email and found a timed attachment from him—a folder named: LiangXiao.

Inside was only one photo: a little girl standing in front of a wind-and-rain bridge, grinning ear to ear, a dimple on her left cheek, exactly like his.

I printed the photo and taped it dead-center on my studio wall, with the date beside it: 2025.09.11.

From now on, every painting I finish, I leave space for her—whether she’s called Liang Xiao, or serial number MW-98-B.

Later, Liang Zhao transferred to a small county in the southwest borderlands, kept coding, kept looking for his sister. Occasional Moments posts—mountain mist, code, and an empty folding chair.

I know he’s still on the road, like a lamp that refuses to go out, reminding me: don’t stop, keep living, keep remembering.

My surname is Xu, given name Yanliang, thirty-four years old, RH-negative, blood type O, a birthmark on my left shoulder shaped like a crumpled leaf someone casually tore off.

—These are data, labels, “features” that can be photocopied, transplanted, replicated. They’re like commodity barcodes, scanned into the system with a “beep” from a laser gun, and the system nods: exists.

But if the same day, same hospital, same genetic combination was replicated into two vials of blood, two patches of skin, two sets of vocal cords—which “beep” should the system answer to? In other words, which one is really “me”?

I. The Coordinates of Pain.

In the Bangkok cold storage, I seriously thought about this question for the first time.

Back then, liquid nitrogen mist hit my face like countless tiny teeth.

I hugged my knees and watched Zero being wheeled in, the metal door closing with a “CLICK,” like the world folding me in half.

In that moment, I clearly felt: pain. Not philosophical “pain of existence,” but specific, physical pain—skin being torn by cold. It was on my face, not anyone else’s. So I used this “coordinate” to locate myself—I am here, not her.

Later, Liu Yu told me pain can be trained: electric shocks, starvation, cold water can suppress the reaction to within 0.12 seconds.

I was depressed after hearing that. Turns out even pain can be faked.

But then I thought—even if reactions can be trained, the location of pain cannot be transplanted. My tongue has tasted scalding heat, my left knee has hit concrete, my fingertips have touched the sharpness of the Yuan River in winter.

These coordinates are like a private map only I can read. Others can copy the route, but they can’t copy the sweat stains and blood scabs “I” left along that path.

So I drew my first boundary: identity is not genes—it’s the pain points genes have walked through in time. Pain cannot be shared, so it becomes “my” most private watermark.

II. The Cracks of Memory.

But pain can also be forgotten.

After the cold storage incident, I for a time couldn’t remember how I’d crawled out of the basement—memory like a formatted hard drive, fragmented, glitchy, skipping frames. I panicked, thinking “I” had been cut and pasted by someone.

So I started “backing up”: two pages of diary every day, fountain pen, no encryption, deliberately ugly handwriting so the strokes carried that day’s palm sweat; one bare-faced photo every week, no filters, keeping dark circles and acne; one voice recording every month, reciting “Mulberry Tree and Lampstand,” off-key and unedited.

I stored these “fragments” in an iron box, labeled on the outside: Not evidence, just fragments.

I told myself: memory can lie. Fragments cannot.

Fragments are the debris “I” dropped in that moment—even I myself cannot reassemble them into a perfect lie. If one day the system tells me: you’re a stand-in.

I’ll dump the iron box on the floor, point at those crumpled photos, dried duck soup stains, off-key recordings and say: You can forge a memory, but you can’t forge a whole box of illogical fragments.

They have no narrative, but they carry the smell of time—something even I can’t lie to.

III. The Magic of Naming.

However many fragments there are, they need to be “named.” What humans fear most isn’t losing their body—it’s losing their name. A name is magic, a spell, the first step in turning a lump of flesh into a “person.”

At the police station, when I transferred my household registration back under Lin Chuntao’s name and wrote “Xu Yanzhen,” the doctor had just removed her IV needle. She was weak but insisted on writing the last stroke herself—the final horizontal of “Zhen”, she dragged it long and hard, like she wanted to slice through over a decade of blankness.

When she finished, she grinned at me, tears rolling down at the same time. In that moment I understood: naming isn’t a legal procedure—it’s the stitch that sews yourself back into the world.

Without that stitch, all fragments are just ruins. With it, fragments can form a mirror that reflects a human shape.

So I drew my second boundary: identity is not memory—it’s the moment memory is named. In that moment, you’re willing to admit these fragments are yours, and dare to shout their name to the world—“I am Xu Yanzhen”—and the magic takes effect.

IV. The Echo of the Other.

But magic needs the other. Without the other’s echo, naming is just talking to yourself.

At the ICU door, I first heard someone call me “sister.” The voice was light as a cat’s, but it carried irreplaceable directionality—it could only land in my ears, not in anyone else’s genome.

In that moment, I knew I was anchored: in this world, there is someone whose pain, whose memory, whose naming, all point to me.

Therefore, I must exist—otherwise her pointing would fall empty, and her world would miss a corner.

Later, Lin Chuntao handed me duck soup and said “don’t burn yourself”; Liang Zhao handed me the hard drive and said “don’t lose it”; Wu Shuang handed me the receipt and said “sign here”; Old Zhou handed me the closing bulletin and said “testify.” Each handoff was a confirmation: you exist, and you must exist—otherwise our actions lose meaning.

So I drew my third boundary: identity is not self-declaration—it’s the other’s willingness to put your name into their verbs. Existence is a byproduct of being needed by the other.

V. Light in the Cracks.

After drawing three boundaries, I still can’t give the ultimate answer to “who am I.” But I’m no longer panicked.

Because I’ve accepted a fact: identity is not a solid—it’s cracks. The self is not a mirror—it’s a jigsaw puzzle.

Embedded in the cracks is pain that cannot be replicated. On the back of the puzzle is a naming that cannot be forged. And at the edges of the puzzle, the other’s hands hold it, pressing piece by piece into the world’s bigger picture.

Even if the cracks remain, even if fragments can fall at any time, it doesn’t matter—light leaks through the cracks, illuminating the next piece that needs to be placed.

So when someone asks me again: “How do you know you’re you?” I’ll kick the question back:

“Have you ever felt pain? Have you ever named something? Have you ever been needed? If yes, then you are yourself. If no, then go find—find the pain, find the name, find the person willing to call out to you.”

VI. Epilogue: The Duck Soup Theorem.

Finally, let me return to that pot of burnt-bottom duck soup. It’s charred, bitter, contains carcinogens, yet it became the anchor of my entire philosophical system. Because it simultaneously satisfies three boundaries:

1. Pain—I’ve bitten my tongue on it;

2. Naming—Lin Chuntao calls it “Zhijiang duck”;

3. Other—Yanzhen says “burnt is still fragrant.”

Thus, I propose a crude but effective “Duck Soup Theorem”:

Identity = unshareable pain × moment of being named × echo of being needed by the other.

As long as all three factors exist simultaneously, you too can be certain: you are you, not a stand-in, not a mold, not a mirror that can be replicated in 0.12 seconds.

After writing this, I turned off the light. The studio fell back into darkness. I touched the birthmark on my left shoulder—it’s still there, like a read-only chip that will never be formatted. Then I called out:

“Yanzhen, duck soup’s ready. Come drink.”

From the next room came the slap of slippers. She answered: “Coming—”

In that second, I knew: I exist.

I. The Small Town’s “Free Clinic” Scam.

The day the Mirror Case closing bulletin went online, I was at the market buying ginger. My phone “dinged.” The tofu seller next to me also looked down at her phone and suddenly exclaimed: “Heavens! So that free physical exam two years ago was a scam!”

At her words, all the surrounding vendors gathered around. I leaned in to look. The bulletin stated: Mingwei Company, under the banner of “rural revitalization free clinics,” drew children’s blood in 32 counties across western Hunan, eastern Guizhou, and northern Guangxi. After matching, they were listed as “mold” reserves—the tofu seller’s nephew was on the list.

The crowd instantly erupted:

“No wonder they drew two vials of blood and gave 500 yuan nutrition fee!”

“My granddaughter came back saying the nurse praised her rare blood type!”

“God-damned, treating kids like livestock!”

Vegetable baskets were kicked over, tomatoes rolling across the ground like silent protest.

II. Empty Chairs at School.

The next day, I went to pick up Yanzhen from school. Several police cars were parked at the gate.

An emergency notice was posted on the school bulletin board: Parents, please take your children to the municipal People’s Hospital for blood verification to confirm whether they were drawn during the “free clinics.”

On the playground, over a dozen desks were empty. The homeroom teacher quietly told me: those children were taken by parents to other cities for retesting, some still hadn’t returned—afraid the “rare blood type” label was still in the system, having nightmares at night.

I passed a first-grade classroom and heard the teacher comforting students: “Don’t be scared. A little blood draw won’t turn you into an alien.” But a little girl asked back: “Teacher, will rare blood get you taken away?”

My steps faltered, heart aching—what Mingwei left behind wasn’t just data, but fear seeping into daily life.

III. The Factory’s Layoff Storm.

Mingwei’s subsidiary “Huaishen Investment” was liquidated, and its subsidiary Huaishen Express immediately ground to a halt.

I looked down at my left armpit—a pale scar, like something had been sliced open there. I touched it. No sensation, but my stomach started doing somersaults.

“Body sounds” I accompanied Yanzhen to a nearby bookstore. Passing the industrial park, I saw Yang Jianshen standing by the guardhouse, carrying a cheap nylon bag, hair completely white. He saw me, started to come over, then stopped, just nodded.

I didn’t go up to him. His 15% shares had become victim compensation. He was just an ordinary laid-off old man now. Mingwei had fallen, and he was just a gear thrown off the chain—only nobody gave him “nutrition fees” anymore.

IV. The Internet’s Carnival and Fracture.

Three days after the bulletin went live, the Weibo topic #MirrorStandIn hit number one. The comments were polarized:

On one side, anger:

“So ’golden cicada shell’ isn’t a movie—it’s real!”

“Why isn’t the client list public? Demand transparency!”

On the other side, panic:

“How do I know I’m my parents’ real child? I need a DNA test!”

“Can rare blood types not donate blood anymore? Afraid of being marked!”

Lines formed at blood testing centers, prices doubled, still impossible to get a slot. Someone livestreamed with a selfie stick: “Today I’m proving I’m not a mold!”

I scrolled the comments, a stone on my chest—the truth was uncovered, but fear was spreading, like the data in the bulletin, screenshotted, forwarded, amplified, finally becoming new labels.

V. Compensation and the Uncompensatable.

A month later, the provincial department launched the “Mirror Case Victim Registration Platform.”

I accompanied Yanzhen to register. A staff member handed her a form: Mental Damages Compensation Application. She held the pen and whispered: “How do I write the loss?”

I helped her write: thirty-four years without a name, thirty-four years living as a serial number, thirty-four years not knowing who she was.

The staff member was silent, stamped it.

The day the compensation arrived, Yanzhen pushed the bank card toward me: “Sis, you decide.” I took her to a bookstore, bought a whole row of painting textbooks, and booked a train ticket to Changsha—she wanted to study design, wanted to paint the real lives of ordinary people.

There was still a lot left on the card. We spent less than five percent. She said: “The rest—leave it for people who need to explain who they are.”

VI. Epilogue: The Inheritance of Fear.

Mingwei Company collapsed, stock price zeroed, factories sealed, executives lining up for court.

But the fear it left behind, like burned plastic, still emitting toxicity after cooling.

When small towns hold free physical exams again, villagers would rather walk far to the county hospital. When schools organize blood draws, parents collectively take leave. In rare blood type groups, people leave every day, afraid of “being marked.”

I passed the market and heard the tofu seller say to a customer: “Don’t go for cheap stuff from now on. Free things are the most expensive—they might cost your child’s life.”

Mingwei Company has fallen, but its shadow still sways in ordinary people’s daily lives, reminding us:

Identity is not a free gift pack—it’s a commodity that can be priced. And what we must do is tear off the price tags and bravely write our names back into our own hands.

（The End）