The back of my head felt like it had been hit with a hammer. When I touched a layer of thick gauze, I felt distressed. Time traveled to the security department of the Hongxing Steel Rolling Mill in 1962, and lived in the middle courtyard of No. 95 Nanluogu Lane, next to the messy Jia family. A mechanical voice exploded in my mind: [Daily intelligence system activated] [Yi Zhonghai had a private meeting with his best friend in Xisi Hutong at 3pm today] [Acupuncture notes hidden in a celadon vase at a second-hand stall in the vegetable market] [High-quality jade embedded in the rubble in the southwest corner of Courtyard No. 12 In Dongzhimen]. I sat up leaning on the edge of the bed. The light from the window was leaking in from the old-fashioned wooden lattice, making the door crack on the ground long and thin. I swallowed. Who should start the calculation of this account? I must put it in order.
