The b-coated man, Dr. Zhao Haibo, cleared his throat. “I’m a doctor. You can tell by my scrubs.” He adjusted his soiled jacket.“My patient had an intraventricur tumor. Rapidly growing, causing hydrocephalus. We were performing a frontal lobe surgical approach—high-risk, but she wanted to live for her son.”His voice remained steady. “Earthquake struck mid-operation. I’d just opened her skull, preparing to incise the dura mater. Without sterile conditions, she’d die. I tried to repce the bone fp, but the tremors… we had to abort. A cart hit my leg. Ceiling colpsed. Unconsciousness.”The room fell silent. His medical jargon felt authentic—but who could tell?“Dr. Zhao, where are you from?” The burly man, Li Shangwu, pressed.“I needn’t answer.” Zhao’s voice sharpened.Li’s eyes narrowed. “You withhold details. Suspicious.”“Suspicion is your problem,” Zhao retorted. “I follow the rules. No lies.”Li’s patience frayed. “Out of nine, only one liar. Cooperate, or you’ll look guilty.”Zhao smirked. “Then answer me: Who are you?”Li hesitated. “I’m Li Shangwu, a homicide detective.”The room shifted. A detective?“Ah.” Zhao’s tone softened. “My apologies. I’m from Jiangsu.”The tattooed man, Qiao Jiajing, snorted. “Careful, doc. Now’s not storytelling time. Anyone can lie outside the rules.”