My foster father thrashed wildly on the ground, pinned by Zhou Yan, muttering incoherently: "I didn't start the fire… they forced me… I don't want to die… I don't want to go to jail…"
His words were a jumble, no useful clues to be found. I found a rope and, with Zhou Yan's help, tied him to a chair, then sprayed a sedative spice powder over him. He grew calm slowly, his eyes empty, a hollow shell of a man.
Next, we gathered the evidence. I took charge of the olfactory proof—all the test papers, all the samples, all the scent traces, sorted into bags, labeled clearly, not a single detail missed.
Zhou Yan was to produce the fire evidence and the powerful men's crimes he had hidden—but he refused. He'd concealed a portion of it, demanding I cover up his disposal of the corpse in exchange for his cooperation.
I slammed the evidence of his hallucinogen case and the special trash down in front of him. "If you don't hand it over, you'll live with guilt forever. You'll always be a fugitive, a murderer. Only exposing evil completely is redemption."
Zhou Yan stared at the evidence, silent for a long time. Finally, he turned and dragged a box out from under the bed—inside were all the proofs of the fire: a list of the powerful culprits, testimonies, photos, documents.
I packed all the evidence into a sealed box and locked it tight—no loss, no contamination, no tampering possible.
I thought everything was secure, that the truth would soon see the light of day. I was wrong. Human greed is far more terrifying than any devil.