2 a.m. The revolving doors of the Shengjing Hotel groaned in the downpour. Security officer Lao Li's hand, gripping his walkie-talkie, was slick with sweat. On the screen, an anonymous post flickered: "1808. The Ghost collects debts. Wang Jianming dies tonight." It was paired with a photo from a decade-old newspaper: the missing person case.
"Brother Li, the 1808 key card won't work. The door's locked from the inside!" The intern's voice cracked, knuckles white as he rapped on the heavy oak. "Wang's got a flight in the morning. This can't be real, can it?"
Lao Li was about to call maintenance when a heavy thud echoed from inside. As he dialed 911, he caught a flash in the corridor's infrared camera: a white shadow darting past 1808. The shape—exactly like the "Ghost" described in the old case files.
By the time the city police's black sedan skidded to a stop in the rain, the downpour had lessened. Zhou Zhen burst through the lobby, water streaming from his coat, and spotted Qin Jiu crouched outside the crime scene tape. "What are you doing here?"
"Just came from The Judge's informant. Took a detour." Qin Jiu's eyes swept the 1808 sign, fingers brushing a cold metal object in his pocket. "What's inside?"
"Lockdown. Wang Jianming's dead. Stabbed in the chest with an antique dagger." Zhou Zhen's dropped. "And the wax seal on the body? It's The Judge's mark—just like you said."