I hang up on the Chaoyang District Bureau Chief and return to the rhythm that governs my days: suppression, containment, silence. Reports on religious dissidents in Henan. Surveillance logs from Shenzhen. A fresh intelligence brief on Hong Kong. The machinery hums, predictable and precise. But today, something unsettles the gears.

  The folder before me is marked HK/INTEL/0525. Inside: a draft manuscript from a Hong Kong publisher—Women of Xi. The title alone is a provocation. I skim the summary again. It’s not idle gossip. It’s weaponized narrative—stylized, emotionally loaded, and laced with implications that could ripple far beyond the island. I know the publisher. Reckless. Naive. Still suckling the fantasy that “one country, two systems” means immunity.

  I lean back, fingers steepled, eyes tracing the sterile geometry of the ceiling. Calculating.

  The Liaison Office's "persuasion" proved worthless. The Hong Kong government's warnings fell on deaf ears. The Ministers now murmur about intimidation—a quiet visit to the distributor. Pathetic. They’re still playing chess while the board is already burning.

  They care about optics. I care about outcomes.

  I'll seize this opportunity wrapped in risk. The best opportunity to be noticed by Xi. Yes, there is potential fallout: international attention, outrage from civil organizations. But the stakes definitely warrant it—Xi himself would certainly agree.

  There are better ways. Less visible. More permanent.

  Hong Kong has no shortage of hands willing to do the unclean work. Triads. Contractors. Men who don’t ask why. The only variable is the Hong Kong police—keep them blind, keep them quiet. The rest is logistics.

  I tap the folder once, then close it. The decision is already made.

  Let the Ministers wring their hands. I’ll handle this my way.

  Two sharp knocks break the silence.

  “Director Sun,” my secretary calls, voice clipped and formal. “Superintendent Xu is here.”

  I slide the folder into the drawer, feeling its weight settle against the desk. Then I smooth my jacket and turn toward the door. Lyra has complete trust in her—Ruolin Xu. Homicide. Beijing-trained. I wonder what kind of woman walks into this room.

  “Send her in.”

  The door opens, and she strides in with a measured grace that immediately commands attention. Tall and slender, she moves with the confidence of someone who knows her worth in a room. Her dark hair is pulled back into a neat bun, accentuating high cheekbones and eyes that miss nothing—sharp, intelligent, with a hint of wariness that comes from years in homicide.

  “Director Sun,” she says, voice clear and modulated. Her Mandarin carries the clipped cadence of Beijing—refined, collected.

  I gesture to the chair across from me. She sits with the same composure she entered with. I study her. Beautiful, yes—but it's beauty incidental to her purpose, not cultivated for effect. A woman who wastes time on neither makeup nor words.

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  “You’re highly recommended,” I begin. “I hope you do well leading this task force.”

  “I’ll do my best. I won’t disappoint you, sir.”

  This case can be a career elevator for her. An assassination attempt inside the Ministry of Public Security compound—everyone’s watching.

  I slide the case files across the desk. “Take a look. Tell me what you think.”

  She reads in silence. Five minutes. Then she closes the file and rests it on her lap.

  “Thoughts?” I ask.

  "Request to speak freely."

  “Go ahead. Just you and me.”

  "The good news is the suspects are few and easily identifiable. The bad news is that they're virtually inaccessible for questioning."

  “Explain.”

  "The shooter was less than a hundred yards from the target—you, sir. Yet they used AMR-2. Military sniper rifles designed for upto twenty-seven hundred yards. Not out of necessity, but familiarity and availability. Which means they're trained. And they have access to highly restricted weaponry."

  I nod. Her logic is crisp. No wasted motion.

  “They’re special operations snipers. Not many near Beijing. Safest place for them isn’t a hideout—it’s their own barracks. I bet they’ve already returned to routine.”

  I nod again.

  "But special forces are classified. We're not supposed to know where they're stationed. We can't just walk in and interview soldiers."

  “So it’s a dead end?”

  She shakes her head. “Not yet. But there’s something odd, and oddities are the most telling.”

  "Go on." I lean forward, shifting to the edge of my seat.

  “How did two military-trained snipers miss their target from less than a hundred yards?” Her eyes flick to my bandaged arm.

  I hadn’t thought of that. But she’s right.

  “They planned this meticulously. Two shooters. One breaks the window. The other takes the shot. And yet—they missed.”

  “Unless something deflected the bullet,” I say. “Or someone blocked their sight.”

  Lyra. She was rising from the hot tub when the shots came. But I can't tell Ruolin that. Lyra was in the line of fire; if she was the target, she'd be dead. So the target must be me. A sudden chill runs down my spine, and a nameless fury rises within me.

  “There’s more,” Ruolin says. “The third and fourth shots. The report says one bullet flew into the bedroom. Missed the hot tub by two feet. Even I wouldn’t miss that badly.”

  I nod slowly. “It’s inconceivable.”

  “Everything has a reason. We find it strange only because we don’t yet know the real one.”

  “What do you think the real reason is?”

  “Either supernatural intervention,” she says, “or the shooters weren’t trying to kill you.”

  Supernatural intervention my ass. I torture believers for a living. If there is a God, He'll want me dead.

  The only explanation? Exactly what Lyra said. Not a physical assassination. A political one.

  “What do we do?” I suddenly find myself uncomfortably relying on her.

  She doesn’t hesitate. “Whoever controls the investigation controls the narrative.”

  She’s right. I moved quickly to set up this task force. Now I’m glad I did.

  “But we need progress. Fast. Or the opposition will challenge us.” She continues.

  “How?”

  “Formally request interviews with special forces.”

  “They’ll never agree.”

  “That’s the point. It’s a gesture. If we can’t go to them, we make them come to us.”

  I find myself nodding again.

  "You must have some idea who ordered this." Her gaze is steady, unflinching.

  Feng Liu. The name alone makes my jaw lock. Director of Political Security Protection. The 1st Bureau—the Republic's shadow hand. The very bureau responsible for securing government compounds. Including ours.

  He has powerful backing and is my rival for Vice Minister. This reeks of him. He sent that investigator—the one who treated my apartment like a crime scene.

  She leans forward slightly. "Then let's tighten the screws. Starting with the gate guards from that day."

  “You have my full support,” I say firmly. “And Office 601 has ways to pry open mouths.”

  She smiles, feminine yet sharp, blooming like an unfolded Swiss knife.

  She’s not here to impress. She’s here to win.

  And I’m glad she’s on my side. Because if she weren’t—I’d have to destroy her.