Chapter 3 — Lottery Ticket On The Last Train

An did not inform the station chief about the drop of blood.

He knew if he did that, the page would disappear before the investigator arrived. An sent the photo to Hanh, a reporter who wrote about railway safety cuts. Hanh didn't ask why he trusted her; She just texted the address of a fish noodle shop and the time to meet.

“Hao Logistics doesn't just carry equipment,” Hanh said, pushing over a stack of old newspaper articles. "Twelve years ago, they bought the entire spare parts warehouse of the Northern line. Three months later, the Da Trang bridge's brakes failed. The report concluded that it was due to the mechanic's operating error."

An turns the last page. His father's name is circled in red.

“Who signed the report?”

"Deputy director at that time. Now he is the owner of Hao Minh electronic lottery company."

An recognized the logo on Quan's ticket purchase receipt. The winning ticket was issued from Hao Minh agent, less than a kilometer from the station.

Hanh advised him to give the ticket to the lawyer. An refused. “If it was evidence, others would make it their property.”

That afternoon, Ly called to say someone had come to the hospital to ask for her duty schedule. An told her to take a few days off, but Ly was angry: "Are you going to hide all your life for a piece of paper?"

Before An could answer, the apartment door was banged three times. He turned off the lights and pulled Ly to the back balcony. Below, a man in a railway jacket stood looking up. That person did not cover his face.

“Who is he?” Ly whispered.

An recognized the square watch on the other person's wrist. It was the type of watch my father had described in his notes: a technician had removed the black box before the accident.

The other person left, leaving an envelope under the door. Inside is a photo of An's father lying in a dented train car, with the words on the back: **He died because he believed the truth had a price.**

Hanh looked at the photo and said: "The ticket is not just a prize. It is a disguised confession."

An looked at the serial number. If Hao Minh used group lottery tickets to pay for spare parts, someone may have kept the evidence for twelve years.

That night, he put the ticket in a moisture-proof box, then wrote a message to the dead man's number: **I found file 17B. Whoever wants to get it, go to the station at midnight.**

Less than a minute later, the phone vibrated.

Reply message: **Don't come alone. The people at the station sold you.**

Hanh told An to change his phone, but he didn't want to give up Quan's phone. In the temporary memory, the technician found an audio clip that had not been deleted: the sound of train wheels vibrating on the tracks and Quan's voice counting each beat. On the seventeenth beat, there was the sound of metal scraping together, followed by a whisper: “Box number three.”

Box number three is located under the White Stone Bridge, where the passenger train no longer stops. An and Hanh arrived there late in the afternoon, bringing with them his father's old measuring equipment. The signal box is locked, but the ventilation slot has scratches. There is no hard drive inside; There is only a piece of fabric-covered copper wire and a piece of Hao Logistics brand.

Hanh asked why his father still recorded code 17B many years after the accident. An explained that his father once suspected that the derailment was caused by a changed gearbox, but he did not have enough evidence. Every month, he returns to the bridge, measures the vibration and records it in a book. On the day he died, he sent a package of documents to Quan.

“The army kept that package until now?” Hanh asked.

“Or someone wants me to think so.”

Just as they left the bridge, a truck drove slowly behind them. An realized that the logo had been painted over. Hanh pulled him onto the path, and the truck stopped in the grass. The driver didn't get out, just opened the window throw a box of paper.

Inside the box is An's father's helmet, with blue ink streaks on the inside. An touched the lining and saw a thin memory card sewn into the seam.

The memory card only contains a table of numbers. The first column is the ticket serial number, the last column is the device replacement time. Every line coincides with the date of a minor accident on the route.

Hanh looked at the board, her voice hoarse: "This is no longer a case. This is the system."

An closed the machine. A text message from an unknown number came again: **Box number three is the first station.**