Six months later. Pengcheng, October.

Su Ming moved into a new studio — sharing a loft with two other designers, rent split three ways at just over two thousand each. A bit pricier than before, but the sunlight was good. There was a big banyan tree outside the window. On clear days, the leaves' shadows danced across the desk, swaying gently with the wind, like someone moving a piece of cloth underwater.

The new studio was on the sixth floor. No elevator. Every time he climbed up, the wooden stairs creaked — he actually liked that sound. Solid. With every step, he knew he was going up. A secondhand bookstore occupied the ground floor. The owner kept an orange cat that was always sprawled by the doorway, soaking up the sun. Whenever Su Ming passed by, he'd crouch down and pet it a couple times. The cat would squint, ignore him, its tail tip twitching just barely to let him know it noticed.

Three desks filled the studio. Su Ming's faced the window — keyboard on his left, graphics tablet on his right. The keycaps were worn shiny — the space bar had a shallow dent where his thumb had pressed it over and over. Every time he revised a draft, his fingers unconsciously tapped the space bar. Not because he needed to. Just habit. The crisp clatter of keys echoed through the loft, mixing with bird calls from the banyan outside and the occasional rustle of pages turning from the bookstore below. He recorded a short video and sent it to the group chat. Zhou Yuan replied: "You should replace that space bar." Su Ming shot back: "No. That dent is my fingerprint."

These days, the clients didn't say "change dark blue to navy blue" anymore. They said things like "can you turn this concept into a logo?" He still had to revise, but at least it wasn't color values anymore. Su Ming figured that was good enough. He knew some things had changed — his Weibo follower count was much higher than before, and occasionally strangers would DM him calling him "Teacher Su." He wasn't used to that title. He still saw himself as the designer who stayed up late making revisions, just with a side gig now: helping people reclaim their names.

---

At three in the afternoon, Zhou Yuan messaged him: "New song's up."

Su Ming clicked the link. Zhou Yuan's new single was called "After Dawn" — lyrics and music both written by him. The artist credit read: Zhou Yuan.

Su Ming put on his headphones and listened through. The intro was piano, a simple three-chord loop, clean as a glass of water. Zhou Yuan's voice wasn't particularly special — a little rough, even — but by the time the chorus hit, that roughness had become something real. Not a technique. Not a production trick. It was the residue of someone who'd actually lived through those things. The chorus had a line — "After dawn, I carve my name into the wind. Not for anyone to remember. Just to tell myself — I'm still writing."

Su Ming paused when he heard it. Not because the melody was especially good. Because he knew what Zhou Yuan was thinking when he wrote those words. Where he was sitting. What the night looked like outside his window. How many drafts he'd deleted before keeping that one line. Creation worked that way — making something that sounded good wasn't hard. Making something that sounded true was. Back when he was revising drafts and the client said "the feeling's off," he never understood what that meant. Now he got it. Feeling off meant it was fake. Zhou Yuan's song wasn't fake.

He replied: "Sounds great." Zhou Yuan messaged again: "They credited me." Su Ming stared at those three words without responding. He set his phone down on the desk and went back to revising. The design draft on the screen was a brand poster. He'd already adjusted the color palette four times. The client still hadn't signed off. He wasn't in a hurry. Some things were worth waiting for. Some things were worth taking slow. He used to feel like there was never enough time. Now he knew — what's meant to come will come. Zhou Yuan waited two years to see his own name in the artist credit. Half a day waiting on a client's reply? That was nothing.

---

Eight in the evening. He shut down his computer and walked out of the studio.

It was drizzling outside. He didn't take an umbrella. The streetlights cast a dim yellow glow, turning the rain into glistening threads — like the sky was giving off light from below. The asphalt had darkened from the rain, springy underfoot, with a faint, fine sound between soles and wet ground. The air smelled of damp asphalt mixed with the sweet fragrance of roadside osmanthus trees soaked by rain — the distinct scent of Pengcheng autumn. Not cold enough to bite, not warm enough to stifle. Just right to make you feel like going for a walk. The camphor trees lining the street shivered as raindrops hit their leaves, producing a soft rustling, like applause from far away, or someone whispering secrets to you.

Not many people on the street. An occasional delivery rider sped past, splashing a small arc of water. By the entrance to a residential complex, an orange cat crouched under the wall, sheltering from the rain. It glanced at him, then went back to licking its paw. He crouched down to look at it and thought about the bookstore cat downstairs — maybe they were related. Or maybe all orange cats looked the same.

Halfway down the block, his phone buzzed — Auntie Shen calling.

"Little Su, your alliance is getting pretty big."

"It's alright. Just a group chat."

"Your father would be happy to see it."

Su Ming didn't answer. He kept walking under the streetlight, rain falling on his shoulders. The fabric of his shirt was slowly soaking through, cool against his skin.

Auntie Shen paused. "Little Su, there's something I want to tell you. What happened with your father back then — it might not be as simple as you think."

Su Ming stopped walking.

"What do you mean?"

"Your father wasn't just a Guardian of the Copyright Vault. He was also a Discoverer. The Global Copyright Repository wasn't built by one generation — every generation of Guardians added to it. Your father added some things he found before he passed."

"Found what?"

"A name. Someone who doesn't belong to this world — a creator. No one in his era remembered him, but his manuscripts pervade the entire cultural industry. Your father said — if you ever walk far enough, you'll come across the traces he left behind. He said he followed that trail for a long time, but never reached the end before he had to go."

Su Ming stood under the streetlight. The rain kept falling. He looked up at the sky — Pengcheng's night was stained a pale orange by the city lights, like a giant sheet of frosted glass. Rain streaked down from the darkness, turning bright under the glow of the lamps. He remembered a directory in the Copyright Vault that he'd never opened — filed under "Unclassified Archives," labeled with a strange handwritten folder number. He'd noticed it on the first day he inherited the Vault. At the time, the file names looked like they weren't Chinese or English — some kind of ancient encoding. He thought he'd misread it and never looked again.

Now he knew. It was an entrance.

"That name?"

Auntie Shen said a name.

Su Ming gripped his phone. Rainwater dripped from his fingers. He listened to the name — unfamiliar. But he had a strange feeling, like he'd seen it somewhere before. Not in real life. Not in the news. Somewhere in a corner he'd only glimpsed once.

"Auntie Shen — that name. I think I've seen it somewhere."

There was no answer on the other end. Only the static of the line, mixing with the sound of rain hitting the ground.

The streetlight turned the rain into silver-white threads. The droplets on his shoulders lit up one by one. Su Ming lifted his head and looked at the Pengcheng night sky through the curtain of rain. The world was vast, but the things he could find were more than he'd ever imagined. That directory had been there all along, waiting for the day his curiosity would be strong enough, his nerve big enough, to click it open.

He knew — he would find it. Tonight.

---

He put his phone back in his pocket and kept walking. The rain was light enough to wake you up. As he passed by his apartment complex, he glanced back at the road lit by streetlamps. Six months ago, walking down this same road, he'd felt like a nobody designer who wrote lyrics on the side. Back then, the streetlight was just as bright. The rain was just as heavy. But back then, he'd walked with his head down. Now he held it up.

He was still a designer. Still making revisions. Still hearing clients say "think it over."

But some things had changed.

He pushed open the unit door and stepped inside. The door clicked shut behind him. The rain kept falling, drumming on the awning above the entrance — a muffled sound, like drumbeats slowing to a stop. He stood at the bottom of the stairs, shook the water off his clothes, and started climbing.

The wooden step creaked under his foot, as if answering something for him.

---

His computer was still on in the studio upstairs. The screen had gone dark, but the tower light was still glowing. Tomorrow — what would he find in that "Unclassified Archives" directory? He didn't know. But he knew this — what his father had left him was more than just this Copyright Vault.

There was also a path.

He reached the second-floor landing. Through the stairwell window, he could see the streetlight still glowing outside. The rain was still falling. It would keep falling until this city woke up. He kept climbing. His footsteps echoed one by one in the silent stairwell.

The studio door was ajar. He pushed it open. The space bar on the keyboard caught the faint glow from the monitor — that plastic key with the dent he'd pressed into it. He walked over and sat down. Placed his palm on the keyboard. His finger tapped the space bar — lightly.

The screen lit up.

End of Chapter 8: Under the Streetlight (Final Chapter)