Monday mornings at the Chaoyang District Police Bureau are usually numb with routine—fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the stale scent of instant coffee, officers drifting through their motions like clockwork. But today, the air feels different. Thicker. Charged.
A sense of foreboding grips me the moment I step through the glass doors.
It wasn’t like this on Saturday, when I brought Shishi in to have her testimony properly recorded. The requirement is clear: two officers present, full audio, and her signature on every page of the transcript.
I called Hanlin. I owed him a drink—one favor, no need to involve a second person. He was quick to remind me afterward, eager to cash in. I couldn’t. I stayed with Shishi all weekend, watching her slowly return to herself.
I promised Hanlin I’d make it up to him today. After work.
But I may have to break that promise again. Something is shifting. And I think it's coming for me.
The front desk officer doesn’t nod like he usually does. He’s rigid, eyes flicking past me like I’m radioactive.
Upstairs, the hallway is unnaturally quiet. No banter. No keyboard clicks. Just a low, humming silence. I pass the operations room and freeze.
The bulletin board is bare.
All the photos—community events, commendations, group shots—gone. Wiped clean.
In their place: nothing. No memo. No explanation. Just a blank wall where memory used to live.
I keep walking, but the tension clings to me like static. Officers huddle in corners, whispering. A few glance my way, then look down. I catch fragments—“late last night,” “no warning,” “sudden promotion.”
Then she appears.
A young policewoman I’ve never seen before, walking straight toward me with purpose.
“Superintendent Xu?” she says, voice crisp. “Chief Liu would like to see you.”
Chief Liu?
My pulse stutters. Chief Chen was supposed to retire in a year. This was his final post. Why the sudden change?
Yuan Ma.
This is his move. His counterattack.
I square my shoulders, bracing myself. Whatever this is—it’s already begun.
… …
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
The chief’s office hasn’t changed—same leather chairs, same stale air, same view of the courtyard. Only the nameplate on the door is different. The policewoman stops outside, knocks once, then calls through the crack.
“Chief Liu, Superintendent Xu is here.”
“Come in,” a deep voice replies—measured, resonant, the kind that expects obedience.
She pushes the door open just wide enough for one person, then turns to me, her expression unreadable, and gestures me in. Then she closes the door behind me.
Chief Liu sits behind the desk like he’s been there forever. Mid-fifties, hair freshly dyed black, uniform crisp. Silver Star. Three bars. He hasn't earned the Supervisor rank yet. His eyes are cold—calculating, not angry. The kind of man who doesn’t need to raise his voice to make you feel the threat.
“Ruolin, right?” he says.
“Yes, sir.” I salute, steady.
He doesn’t offer a seat. Just slides a piece of paper across the desk.
“Leadership has given us new priorities. I need to reassign a few people from your team. Take a look.”
I step forward and take the paper. Three names. All key personnel. Haojin included—the third class superintendent who handled Snow’s interrogation. This isn’t a reshuffle. It’s a surgical strike.
“Any questions?” he asks.
“No, sir.”
He opens a drawer and pulls out five case files, placing them in front of me like a dealer laying down cards.
“I reviewed some of your closed cases. These need to be reopened.”
I glance at the files. All politically radioactive. Suspects tied to ministry-level officials—sons, nephews, protégés. Cases we buried because digging deeper meant self-immolation.
"Report progress to me every week," he instructs, voice firm.
“Yes, sir.”
“But I’m not unreasonable,” he says, voice oily. “You can pass these along to Feng Xie’s team.” Another paper. Three cases. The first: Dapeng Liu’s murder.
“Understood,” I say, taking the sheet.
He leans forward, eyes narrowing with satisfaction.
“Am I being clear?”
“Crystal.”
Then his tone shifts. He tilts his head, voice low and venomous.
"I hear you slept your way to Head of Homicide. Don't try that with me."
His words are meant to humiliate, but his eyes betray him—lecherous, hungry. I hold his gaze, unflinching.
Then the phone rings.
He snatches the receiver. “I told you to block all calls.”
It's the voice of that policewoman from earlier. I can't quite make out her exact words, but Chief Liu's face twitches. Confusion. Then unease.
“Put him through.”
The line clicks. His posture changes instantly—shoulders straight, voice syrupy.
“Director Sun… Of course… Yes, I know her. In fact, she’s in my office right now.”
He glances at me, suddenly unsure. “I’ll put you on speaker.”
He presses the button, and the room fills with a voice—gentle, composed, unmistakably powerful.
“Ruolin, is it?”
“Yes, sir,” I reply, my voice steady.
“I’ve heard excellent things about you. The Ministry is creating a special task force. I want you to lead it.”
I turn to Chief Liu. He nods quickly, eyes wide.
“Yes, sir. I’ll do everything I can to honor the trust placed in me.”
“You may bring a few people you trust. If you encounter any difficulties, raise them after you arrive. Report in this afternoon. The sooner, the better.”
“Yes, sir.”
The line goes dead.
The silence that follows is suffocating.
Chief Liu stares at me, stunned. Then, like a switch flipped, his face softens into a smile—too wide, too fast.
“Ruolin, this is wonderful news. I’m truly happy for you. A great opportunity.”
“I’ll make the most of it, sir.”
“No need to call me ‘sir’ so formally. I think very highly of you. What do you need?”
“Director Sun said I can bring people I trust.”
“Of course. Who do you have in mind?”
I slide the paper he gave me earlier back across the desk.
“Everyone on this list,” I say, smiling.
He hesitates. Then nods.
“Done.”
I turn to leave. The door feels lighter now.
And behind me, Chief Liu sits in silence—no longer the man in control.
