Chapter 33: Disappearance

In the library, Jiang Yuxin typed swiftly on her phone, her heels clicking rhythmically as she strode out without looking back.

“Jiang, wait! Where are you going?” Yin Qingle hurried after her, confusion in her voice.
“Shouldn’t we wait for Xiran and Chen?”

“To the suicide scene,” Jiang Yuxin replied, eyes fixed ahead.
“No time to wait. If the murderer’s still rational, they’ve already acted. I hope we’re not too late.”

Yin Qingle, puzzled but sensing the urgency, nodded.
“Um, Jiang, what did you see in the administrator’s memory?”

Jiang Yuxin didn’t answer directly.
She studied Yin Qingle’s wide, deer-like eyes, then asked an odd question.
“If you were to commit suicide, what place would you choose?”

Yin Qingle froze, mouth opening but no words coming out.

Jiang Yuxin didn’t wait for a reply.
She looked away, finished her message, and hit send:

[Li Wenbo. Check his recent borrowing and search records.]

—

In the basement corridor, Chen Dongyang and Yin Xiran exchanged solemn glances after reading the message.
The staff’s footsteps had faded, and their awkward closeness had passed.

A faint blush lingered on Yin Xiran’s face.
She pocketed her phone, eyes on the archive room’s locked door.
“Jiang’s found something. We need to hurry.”

With a soft click, she unlocked the door, and they slipped inside, closing it quietly.

The archive room was darker than the corridor, thick with the dry, choking smell of paper and dust.
Towering metal shelves loomed like silent giants, packed with brown archive bags, leaving little space.

A red surveillance light blinked in the corner like an unyielding eye.

“That…” Chen Dongyang pointed at the camera.

Yin Xiran glanced over, flicked her finger, and the camera smoothly turned to face an empty wall, as if nudged by an invisible hand.

“Done,” she said, satisfied.

They split up to search, but the archives were a chaotic mess—countless files, no clear organization.
Finding Li Wenbo’s records was like searching for a needle in a haystack.

“Maybe… there’s no paper trail,” Chen Dongyang said, frustrated.

Yin Xiran abandoned the files, her gaze landing on a dusty desk with an old computer.
The keyboard, less dusty, suggested frequent use.
“Time for modern methods,” she said.

She powered on the computer, its hum filling the room as a blue-grid interface loaded.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, code and command windows flashing rapidly.

“What are you doing?” Chen Dongyang asked, baffled by her speed.

“Trying our luck,” Yin Xiran replied, eyes locked on the screen.

Soon, she said, “Found it.”

Chen Dongyang leaned in.
The screen displayed the library’s internal database.
After entering “Li Wenbo,” search records appeared.

“Over the past month,” Yin Xiran said, pointing, “Li Wenbo repeatedly accessed Nanjiang City news archives from 2004 to 2009, especially…”
She tapped keywords: campus, missing, suicide.

Chen Dongyang’s heart skipped.
The clues were aligning.

“What was he investigating?” he asked.

“No idea,” Yin Xiran said, shaking her head.
She clicked for more details, but red 404-Record Not Found errors flashed.

“Records were manually deleted,” she said, face darkening.
“The murderer got here first.”

The trail went cold again.
The room fell silent, save for the computer’s hum.

Yin Xiran pondered next steps.
Chen Dongyang, not wanting to interrupt, scanned the room.

Then—drip.

A faint sound, like water hitting the floor, pierced the silence.
In the dry, stifling room, it was jarringly out of place.

“Did you hear that?” Yin Xiran stood, alert, eyes darting toward the sound’s source.

No response.

Her heart jolted.
She spun around.

Chen Dongyang, who’d been beside her moments ago, was gone.