[June 13.]

Jiang Zhilin stared at the date on the mission board.

The operation had finally entered its countdown.

The informant’s intelligence had been delivered more than a month ago.
From the moment he read it, he knew—
this day would come sooner or later.

4:30 a.m.
The sky was just beginning to pale.

The latest coordinates had been cross-checked again and again.
Deployment was already complete.
Each unit lay in wait, concealed and ready, awaiting a single command.

Inside the surveillance vehicle, Jiang Zhilin sat before the monitors, headset on, eyes fixed on the image of an abandoned warehouse—
a site long since fitted with hidden micro-cameras.

This kind of operation was nothing new to him:
infiltration, breach, termination.

But this time, it was different.

A low, urgent voice came through the earpiece—

“Target approaching. All units stand by. Execute immediately upon confirmation.”

The target appeared on-screen—
on time, precise, without deviation.

It was him.

Jiang Zhilin clenched his fist, about to issue the command.

He opened his mouth—
but before a single word could leave him, an unexpected figure stepped into the frame.

The person stood beside the target, composed, their manner familiar, their tone calm.

That face—
so familiar it almost forced a name from his lips.

What the hell…?

The sound caught in his throat.
He didn’t get the chance to call it out.

“Shit—look at the left corner!”

The technician barked the warning, voice low and sharp, as a flicker of movement flashed across the lower-left of the screen.

Fingers flew over the controls, switching angles in an instant.

The camera zoomed in.

A man drenched in blood was dragged into view, barely able to move.

…It was one of theirs.
One of the officers they had sent in undercover.

Communications cut, infiltration staggered in phases—
he should have withdrawn long ago.
So why was he still inside the warehouse?

The feed kept rolling.

“Hmm?”

“…What we caught wasn’t just a dog—
it was one sent in.”

“Oh?”

The target let out a cold laugh.

“That cop from last time—you were pretty merciful with him.”

“Straight through the chest, and he still lived—
tough bastard.”

“Is that so? Then what about this time?”

“By the book.”

The moment the words fell, he calmly drew a butterfly knife from behind his back and walked toward the man on the ground.

The hand rose.

The blade traced along the man’s waist first, slicing open a line of red—
then, without pause, the knife reversed upward and plunged cleanly into his chest.

The body collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut,
hitting the floor and lying completely still.

Jiang Zhilin’s breath caught—
sharp and sudden.

His mind detonated, unable to tell whether it was shock
or a conclusion his subconscious had already reached.

The movement was too familiar—
familiar enough to send a chill straight down his spine.

This wasn’t ordinary brutality.
It was execution—clean, efficient.
Angle. Speed.
Almost identical.

The scar flared with pain,
as if it had a will of its own—
protesting. …

He closed his eyes.
A familiar, dull pain surged up, pressing so hard it nearly stole his breath.

…Why did it have to be you?

“Captain… it’s time to settle this.”

The colleague beside him clenched a fist, voice shaking.

They had seen it too—
the man on the ground was someone none of them could mistake.

Jiang Zhilin snapped back to the present and keyed his headset.

“Target confirmed. All units, stand by—operation is a go.”

“This time, don’t let a single one of them escape.”

The next second, officers hidden throughout the area emerged one by one.

Explosions and gunfire erupted almost simultaneously,
and the battlefield tore open in an instant—

Inside the warehouse, bursts of fire crossed in sharp succession.

Jiang Zhilin moved through the smoke, gun raised, and shoved open the half-closed metal door.

Someone stood inside, back turned to him.

The figure turned slowly.

No surprise.
No emotion.

As if he’d merely run into an irrelevant passerby.

“You’re early.”

Jiang Zhilin’s pupils constricted. The muzzle lifted higher, tension spiking at his temples.

“…You?”

“What—don’t recognize me?”

A faint smile curved his lips.

The tone was light, casual—
like commenting on the weather.

“You killed one of ours.”

“You sent him in too late.
He died before we could get anything out of him.”

He glanced down at the body by his feet,
as if inspecting a defective product.

“Besides, that kind of stock doesn’t hold up under questioning.
Next time, pick someone with a stronger spine.”

Jiang Zhilin almost lunged forward.

“He was our undercover.”

“Undercover?”
A faint scoff.
“The kind that slips in with a fake ID?
We’ve got plenty like that in the organization.”

His breathing came fast, his voice pressed low and trembling.

“You did it, didn’t you.”
“…That knife—was yours.”

Shen Yanxing lowered his gaze,
his fingers tapping once against the side of his pants.

No denial.
No explanation.

“What—want to settle accounts now?”

The tone was flat,
like asking whether an old bill was finally due.

Jiang Zhilin felt as if he’d been struck hard across the face,
the red in his eyes deepening by another shade.

“Why…”

“Because you should die.”

He said it calmly.

“Too naïve. Too trusting. People like you don’t live long.”

“When did you become like this…”

His teeth clenched, his voice so hoarse it was nearly inaudible.

Shen Yanxing’s lips curved slightly; his gaze didn’t waver.

“From the day you thought I would believe you.”

He stepped closer, one pace at a time.

“You said you’d protect me.”

“You said you’d help me get out.”

“And then?”
“Used me as an informant. As a stepping stone.
And now you want to send me to hell with your own hands?”

Jiang Zhilin’s expression changed instantly.

“You’re talking nonsense…”

“Am I?”

He stopped, his tone lazy.

“Or did you really think those nights meant something?”

“It was nothing more than killing time when the job got boring.”
“You took them far too seriously, Captain Jiang.”

He smiled, as if it were a play beneath notice.

What, you’re going to act now?

A manic edge surged into Jiang Zhilin’s eyes,
the gun trembling ever so slightly in his grip.

“Say it—whose side are you on?”

Shen Yanxing didn’t answer.

He only slowly slid his left hand inside his coat.

Jiang Zhilin’s gaze snapped there instinctively—

the place where a gun was usually hidden.

The air froze.

Five steps apart.

“Don’t you fucking move—!”

Jiang Zhilin growled, his voice already raw,
knuckles white, finger tight on the trigger.

Shen Yanxing didn’t stop.

As if he hadn’t heard—or simply had no intention of stopping—
his fingers continued to probe inside his coat.

As though in the next second,
he might pull out something lethal.

Jiang Zhilin clenched his teeth.
His heart slammed violently against his ribs—
a familiar premonition, one he had seen far too many times.

That was the motion a killer made
just before pulling the trigger.

He couldn’t gamble.

He couldn’t gamble again.

Bang—!

He fired first.

The bullet struck squarely in the chest.

Shen Yanxing froze—
staggering back two steps before crashing into the wall.

A glance dropped to the bloom of blood spreading across his chest.
No words. No retaliation.

His hand remained inside his coat.
Nothing drawn.

Slowly, his head lifted.

That gaze fixed on Jiang Zhilin.

And then—
he fell.

The echo of the gunshot tore through the air.

One corner of the warehouse fell into a brief, stunned silence.

Jiang Zhilin stood where he was,
his finger still locked on the trigger,
as if he’d forgotten how to let go.

The man lay slumped against the wall,
blood seeping slowly out, spreading across the floor.

Static crackled from the radio—

“Captain Jiang? Do you copy?”
“East side is clear. Moving toward your position.”

No response—only breathing remained.
Heavy. Broken.
Like lungs pressed beneath water.

The gunfire at the perimeter gradually faded,
the battlefield cooling from chaos,
settling back into a grim, deliberate quiet.

Rapid footsteps closed in.
The metal door was shoved open, and one of the officers charged into the room first.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold, he froze—
eyes sweeping over the pool of blood on the floor and the body.

“…Who is this?”
“And why does he have our false insignia on his clothes?”

He stepped closer.
When he caught sight of the blood-smeared face, his brow knitted tight.

“…No—this isn’t right. He’s not the enemy.
That gear—it’s what we prepped for an undercover op—”

“…He’s not the enemy.”

Jiang Zhilin forced the words out.
The tone was controlled, almost textbook calm,
yet beneath it ran a tremor he couldn’t quite suppress.

“Medical team, move in.
We’ve got two wounded here—one of them…”
“…should be one of ours.”

The medical unit, already standing by on the perimeter, moved in immediately upon the call.

Someone rose to their feet, lifting their gaze toward the second figure by the far wall.

That person lay sprawled on the ground, utterly still, blood staining the floor beneath him.

“Hey… that one over there—enemy, or…?”

A medic jogged over, dropped into a crouch to check, then suddenly spoke up—

“He’s still breathing! Heartbeat’s weak, but present!

A nearby officer muttered under his breath,
“Didn’t Captain Jiang shoot him? …How the hell is he still alive?”

Jiang Zhilin didn’t move.

It was like his signal had been cut—
only the gun remained raised, still aimed at the man who had already fallen.

Someone stepped forward and clapped a hand on his shoulder.
He jolted back to himself.

“Captain Jiang, we’ve got this. He’s still breathing—”

He was pulled a step back, his eyes still fixed on the blood blooming across that man’s chest.

He murmured,

“Get him to emergency… now.”

Shen Yanxing was carefully lifted onto a stretcher by several team members.

The moment the oxygen mask was pressed into place,
his eyelids fluttered faintly—
but did not open again.

Jiang Zhilin stepped closer.

He crouched down, picked up the trench coat lying beside him,
and slid a hand inside.

No cold metal.
No weapon.

Just emptiness.

He froze, fingertips suspended there,
before slowly pulling his hand back.

Unwilling to believe it, he checked again—
along the waist, the back, inside the boots on him.

—Nothing.

A hollow opened in his chest.
The scene before him rewound frame by frame—

That motion during the standoff.
Shen Yanxing’s hand slipping into his coat.

He thought he was reaching for a gun.

That was why he fired.

But there was no gun.
None at all.

His eyes locked onto the coat,
as if memory might offer something—anything—
to contradict the truth he didn’t dare face.

There was nothing.

Only a single thought,
hooked deep in his mind like iron,
slowly sinking in—

He did it on purpose.

Jiang Zhilin stood outside the warehouse,
the trench coat still clenched in his hand, its front soaked with a wide smear of blood that hadn’t yet dried.

The air was heavy with dampness, carrying a sharp, unpleasant tang of rust.

He stood there, unmoving,
as if the world had been reduced to a single person.

The team lifted Shen Yanxing onto the stretcher.
Medics hurried alongside, confirming vital signs before immediately intubating, fitting an oxygen mask, and pushing him toward the ambulance.

“Heartbeat’s weak, blood pressure dropping—one gunshot to the chest…”

One of the medics rattled off details at speed,
but not a single word reached Jiang Zhilin.

He took two steps forward—
wanting to get closer,
then hesitating, unsure whether he had the right to.

His view was suddenly blocked.

“Captain Jiang, we still need to secure the scene. Go regroup—we’re short on hands here.”

He didn’t answer.
His gaze drifted back to the pale face on the stretcher.

A flash of reflected light flickered across the ambulance window.
In the glass, he caught his own reflection—

So unfamiliar,
it was as if he were nothing more than a bystander.

“…Captain Jiang?”

A voice called again, softer this time.
Only then did he nod and step back.

Ambulance doors shut with a sharp click.

An engine roared to life.
Lights stretched long, dragging a blurred white line across cracked ground in the abandoned industrial district.

The vehicle turned the corner—
then disappeared.

He didn’t move.

Not until someone approached and pressed a stack of preliminary reports into his hands.

His name was printed at the top.
Below it, a line read: “Operation Lead: Jiang Zhilin.”

He glanced down at the pages.

Then flipped to the mission summary—already marked:
“Mission successful. All organizational sites neutralized.”

He spoke at last, his voice rough and hoarse.

“Don’t write that yet. There’s still one…”
“…in critical care.”

After that, he said nothing more.

Turning away, he walked into the crowd.

The trench coat was still clenched in his hand,
blood tacky against his palm.

No one noticed—

he was walking slower than anyone else.