The case had finally come to an end. Back at the forensic center, Su Wanqing's office lights remained dim and quiet. The screen still displayed the psychological assessment report of Lin Xu. Her fingers hovered over the keywords—loneliness, trauma, rage—for a long time, until a knock on the door broke the silence.
"Forensic Doctor Su, we've got a new situation."
It was a technician from the cyber investigation unit, face grim as he handed over a tablet. "Late last night, an anonymous livestream went online, announcing a countdown—72 hours to a live murder."
Su Wanqing frowned and swiped the screen open. The footage showed a vacant room with a surgical table at the center, red banners draped around it: Please look forward to a righteous livestream.
"This isn't a prank," the technician said in a low voice. "The account is called 'Judicator α.' Within just two hours of going live, it attracted tens of thousands of viewers. The comments went viral, and people are even placing bets on the victim's identity."
At that moment, a wave of unspeakable nausea rose in Su Wanqing's gut—not from the gore, but from the crowd's numbness toward death.
She enlarged the image, examining the background in detail. On the left side of the frame was a mottled wall with a chipped, blue-green corner, like peeling paint caused by chemical bubbling. She furrowed her brow, then pulled out an old case file from the cabinet—a photo from a chemical plant fire she had once investigated.
"See the paint residue and this wall corner?" she pointed to the screen. "That's polyvinyl chloride coating—used for corrosion protection in solvent-heavy environments. In the past, only chemical storage tanks had this material."
"You're saying the livestream is happening… in an abandoned chemical plant?" the technician's eyes lit up.
Su Wanqing nodded. "To pinpoint which one, you'll need to trace the livestream signal and match it on site."
The municipal bureau immediately launched a case. The Major Crimes Unit and Cyber Unit began joint operations.
Three hours later, the tech team tracked the signal source—Mingcheng Chemical Plant, in the western outskirts. The plant had shut down five years ago after an explosion and was now infamous for ghost stories, often visited by livestreamers seeking thrills.
Lu Chenzhou led a team to the scene. Wild grass had overtaken the area, no surveillance cameras were around, and the gates had been pried open—signs of recent activity were evident.
Inside Workshop No. 6, they found a room identical to the livestream setup. Red banners still hung on the walls, and a small streaming device was still running on the floor. The corner was cluttered with junk, old TVs, scattered papers, and empty medicine packets.
"The suspect might still be nearby!" Lu Chenzhou ordered the site locked down.
Su Wanqing knelt to examine the papers. On the back of a water bill, she found a debt notice—a payment demand from the city's First Children's Hospital, addressed to a Lin Yuzhe, for 230,000 yuan, patient: Lin Xinyue, age five, diagnosed with acute lymphoblastic leukemia, pending surgery.
"We've found him," Su Wanqing said softly.
In an instant, she pieced together a profile: a middle-aged man, former programmer, skilled in tech, who had lost someone or was caring for a critically ill relative. Crushed by financial burden and online harassment, he spiraled into social vengeance.
The police quickly found Lin Yuzhe's file via hospital and social security systems. He had been a lead developer at a software firm but was fired four years ago after exposing exploitative algorithms. He then cared for his sick daughter while surviving on gig work. Six months ago, a viral false post accused him of "faking a sick daughter for donations." His accounts were banned, connections severed, and his world collapsed.
"The most terrifying thing isn't a murderer's knife," Su Wanqing murmured at the word justice on the wall, "but society's silence."
That night, the police located Lin Yuzhe hiding in the plant's electrical maintenance shed. The small room had no power or water. He sat at an old computer, wearing headphones, tweaking the setup for his next stream.
"So you've come," he said calmly, making no move to resist as he looked at Lu Chenzhou. "I was going to wait two more days. I wanted to write each rumor-monger's name on a knife… and take my time."
"You know this is a crime," Lu Chenzhou said quietly.
"They killed my daughter," Lin Yuzhe turned his head slowly. "I just wanted them to understand what retribution means."
"Your daughter's not dead. There's still hope," Su Wanqing said suddenly.
Lin Yuzhe froze, staring at her.
"I checked. Her surgery request is still valid. If the payment is made, she can start chemo tomorrow." Su Wanqing placed a hospital-certified rush order in front of him. "You haven't hit a dead end. You've just stopped believing."
In that moment, the fury on Lin Yuzhe's face softened into shock. His eyes welled with tears. His lips trembled, but he said nothing. Slowly, he lowered his head.
The case was officially solved. The city police released a statement, urging the public to speak rationally and safeguard data privacy. Yet online, the noise continued—debates, indifference, forgetfulness—rising and falling like waves.
Back in her office, Su Wanqing returned to her desk and found a folded note placed atop her keyboard.
"When the world is at its darkest, we can only choose to stand where the light still shines. — L.C.Z"
She stared at the initials for a long time, then smiled faintly.
Meanwhile, on the rooftop of an abandoned building on the other side of the city, a drone slowly took flight. Through its lens, a shadowy figure in sunglasses chuckled softly and murmured:
"Judicator α? Interesting. The real game… starts now."