The basement door sealed behind them with the finality of a coffin lid. The hiss of the pneumatic lock was followed by the unmistakable sound of water trickling—not from the walls, but from a grated drain in the centre of the floor, where a thin film of brackish liquid was already spreading outward like a dark stain. Lu Chengen counted the seconds. Three minutes, perhaps four, before the drain overflowed and the room began to fill.
The room was smaller than the substation's main hall—maybe ten metres square, with low ceilings and bare concrete walls. A single fluorescent tube flickered overhead, casting a sickly green pallor on the faces of the seven. In the centre stood a heavy oak table, scarred and stained, with seven chairs arranged around it. On the table lay a single item: a diver's helmet, old and tarnished, its faceplate cracked, its brass fittings green with corrosion.
Mrs. Cheng let out a sharp cry and stumbled backward. "That's his. That's Guanghua's training helmet. He kept it in our flat after he left the military. I threw it out when I divorced him. I threw it out—" Her voice broke.
"Someone retrieved it," Tan Weiming said, his tone clinical. "And placed it here. This is not a courtroom. This is a shrine."
Jiang Feng approached the table, his journalist's instinct overriding his fear. He touched the helmet gently. "There's a note inside." He pulled out a folded slip of paper and read aloud: "'Comrades, this helmet was worn by Cheng Guanghua during his final exercise in 1978. He survived a simulated underwater explosion because his comrades pulled him out. That is what comrades do. You were not his comrades. You were his executioners. You have one hour to decide who among you is most deserving of his fate.'"
The room erupted. Duan slammed his fist on the table, rattling the helmet. "One hour? He wants us to pick a sacrifice? That's barbaric."
"It's military logic," Tan Weiming said. "In a dire situation, a commander may order a soldier to stay behind to ensure the rest escape. It is not justice. It is survival."
Qiu Wei was hyperventilating, his glasses fogged. "I can't—I can't choose. I didn't even know him. I only processed paperwork."
"Paperwork that buried him," Sun Yi said, her voice cold. She had recovered some of her composure, though her wounded wrist was throbbing visibly. "You, me, all of us—we each had a hand. But the judge wants one name. One person to bear the full weight."
The water was now covering the floor grates, rising at a rate that Lu Chengen calculated as roughly one centimetre per minute. That gave them less than two hours before the room was half-submerged. He looked at the table, at the helmet, at the faces around him. Each face was a mask of fear, guilt, or calculation.
"We don't have to play his game," Lu Chengen said. "We can find a way out. The ceiling—there's a panel." He pointed to a rectangular seam in the concrete above, barely visible in the dim light. "That's an access hatch to the warehouse's ground floor. If we can reach it, we can break through."
Duan looked up. "It's three metres high. I can lift someone on my shoulders, but we need something to pry it open."
Jiang Feng produced a small crowbar from his bag—not as heavy as Sun Yi's, but serviceable. "I brought this for possible door-jams. It'll work."
Tan Weiming stepped forward. "I will lift Duan. He is the heaviest; he can force the hatch. The rest of you, stay alert. We don't know if the judge is watching from above."
They formed a human pyramid: Tan Weiming braced his back against the wall, Duan climbed onto his shoulders, and Jiang Feng handed up the crowbar. Duan wedged it into the seam and pried. The metal groaned, but the hatch did not budge. He tried again, harder, his face reddening with effort. A crack appeared—a sliver of grey light, barely visible.
Then the speaker crackled again, the same deep voice: "I would not do that if I were you. The hatch is wired to a spring-loaded bolt. If you force it open, the bolt will release a counterweight—namely, the steel beam that holds up the ceiling above. The entire room will collapse. You will be crushed before the water reaches your knees."
Duan froze. He looked down at Lu Chengen, his eyes wide with a mixture of rage and fear. "He's bluffing."
"Is he?" Tan Weiming said. "He has demonstrated military precision so far. I would not test him."
Duan climbed down, cursing under his breath. The group fell into a sullen silence, the water now lapping at their ankles. The fluorescent light flickered again, and for a moment, the room plunged into darkness before stabilising.
Jiang Feng sat down at the table, his notepad in hand. "We need to think. The judge—Major Zheng—wants us to choose. But maybe the choice is a test. Maybe the correct answer is to refuse to choose. To stand together."
"And drown together?" Qiu Wei asked, his voice trembling.
"Or to choose the right person," Sun Yi said, her eyes fixed on Tan Weiming. "The one who has been sabotaging us from the start. The one who has chalk in his bag, who was alone when the tally marks appeared, who knows military procedures better than any of us." She pointed a trembling finger at the inspector. "He is the judge's ally. Or the judge himself."
Tan Weiming did not flinch. "I have already explained the chalk. And I am too old to be a frogman. Major Zheng would be in his mid-fifties—fit, but not a bureaucrat like me. Look at my hands—soft, untrained. I could not have climbed to that warehouse roof in the storm. I could not have pushed Sun Yi without leaving a mark."
"He wears gloves," Mrs. Cheng said. "You all saw the leather gloves in his satchel. And he is not too old to—"
"Enough," Lu Chengen cut in. "We are wasting time. The water is rising. We need a plan that does not involve pointing fingers at each other."
He walked to the table and picked up the diver's helmet. It was heavier than he expected—the brass was thick, the internal padding still intact. He turned it over and found a small compartment in the neck ring, hidden by a flap of leather. Inside was a folded map—hand-drawn, on yellowed paper, showing the layout of the warehouse and the substation complex. There was a faint dotted line that led from the basement to an outflow pipe, marked "disused—one-way valve."
"There's a way out," he announced, spreading the map on the table. "This pipe runs to the harbour, but it has a one-way valve that prevents backflow. If we can reach it and open the valve, we can swim out to open water."
The group gathered around, studying the map. Duan traced the route with his finger. "It's narrow—maybe sixty centimetres diameter. We'd have to go one at a time, and the current would be strong. But it's better than drowning."
"How do we open the valve?" Qiu Wei asked.
Lu Chengen pointed to a notation on the map: "Manual release lever, located in the pump room adjacent to this basement. The pump room is through that door." He gestured to a rusted steel door in the far corner, half-hidden by old shelving.
Tan Weiming walked to the door and examined it. "It's locked, but the lock is old—a simple pin tumbler. I can pick it with my penknife." He produced a small blade and set to work, his movements practised and precise. Within two minutes, the lock clicked open.
The door swung inward, revealing a narrow chamber with a concrete floor and a large cast-iron pump at its centre. The pump was connected to a pipe that ran into the floor, presumably the outflow. Beside the pump was a wheel-shaped valve, rusted but intact.
Duan grabbed the wheel and heaved. It turned a quarter-circle before jamming. "It's stuck. Needs leverage."
Jiang Feng handed him the crowbar. Duan wedged it between the spokes and leaned his weight against it. The wheel groaned, then moved another half-turn. A gurgling sound came from the pipe, followed by a rush of water—not flooding, but flowing outwards, indicating the valve had opened.
"Done," Duan said, wiping his brow. "The pipe is open. But the current is strong—I can hear it. We'll need a rope to hold onto each other."
Sun Yi pulled the white nylon rope from her coverall—the same rope they had found in the substation pit. "I kept it. I thought it might be useful. It's six metres—long enough to tie everyone together."
They formed a chain: Duan first, as the strongest swimmer, then Qiu Wei, then Mrs. Cheng, then Jiang Feng, then Sun Yi, then Lu Chengen, with Tan Weiming last to ensure everyone got through. They tied the rope around their waists, leaving slack between each person.
Duan lowered himself into the pipe, which was knee-deep in rushing water. He braced himself against the walls and began to move forward. One by one, they followed, the cold water rising to their chests, the current tugging at their legs. The pipe was dark, slimy, and filled with the roar of water.
After what felt like an eternity, Lu Chengen saw a glimmer of grey light ahead—the outfall, opening onto the harbour. Duan had reached the end and was pulling himself out onto a concrete jetty. He turned and shouted back, "It's clear! Keep coming!"
One by one, they emerged, gasping and shivering, onto the jetty. The typhoon had passed; the rain had become a drizzle. The dawn was breaking over Haigang, painting the sky in shades of pale orange and bruised purple. They were free.
But as Lu Chengen helped Sun Yi onto the jetty, he noticed something odd. Tan Weiming was not behind him. The rope that had been tied to his waist was slack—and the end was cut, cleanly, with a sharp blade.
"Tan Weiming!" he shouted. "He's not here!"
They ran back to the pipe's opening and peered inside. The water was still rushing out, but there was no sign of the inspector. Then, floating near the edge, they saw his satchel—open, waterlogged, empty. And inside it, tucked into a side pocket, was a piece of white chalk.
Mrs. Cheng picked it up. "He was the judge. He stayed behind."
"No," Jiang Feng said, his voice hollow. "He was not the judge. He was the sacrifice. The judge—Major Zheng—cut the rope from the other end. He's still in the basement. He let Tan Weiming go to give us a false sense of safety."
Lu Chengen looked back at the warehouse, towering above them. In a high window, a silhouette stood—broad, motionless, watching them with the stillness of a predator that had already claimed its prey.
The silhouette raised its hand in another salute, then lowered it slowly. A moment later, a white piece of paper fluttered down from the window, caught by the wind, and landed at Lu Chengen's feet.
He unfolded it. In bold, military-printed characters, it read: "The inspector wrote his confession. He admitted to all seven faults. He chose to stay. But his confession was a lie—he was not the one who pushed Sun Yi. That person is still among you. And that person will not escape. See you at high tide, Comrade Lu."
The silhouette vanished. The wind picked up, carrying the paper out of Lu Chengen's hand and into the grey water.
He turned to the others—five survivors, plus one missing, one dead, and one ghost. The judge was still out there. And the rope that had bound them together was now a severed line, dangling in the dark, waiting to be retied—or to strangle.
The dawn was beautiful, but Lu Chengen could not feel its warmth. All he felt was the cold certainty that the trial was far from over, and that the next verdict would not be written on paper, but in water.
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