The landlord, shuffling along in slippers behind him, cursed loudly: “What’s wrong with you people? Aren’t you ever done? You’ve been making noise out here nonstop since just now—do you know that’s disturbing the neighbors! If you keep this up, I’m going to file a comp—”

Before he could finish, he saw the young police officer climb onto his windowsill, nimbly bending his waist and moving to the outer edge of the glass window.

The faint sound of car horns drifted in on the wind, along with the slight creak of the window frame under the strain.

Most of the young man’s body was hanging in midair, with only one hand gripping the window frame tightly. Even so, he was still recklessly searching for a suitable spot to pull himself up.

“Ah—!” Seeing this acrobatic and dangerous move, the landlord cried out in horror, “Calm down! What are you trying to do! Get down right now!”

He didn’t dare reach out to touch him, only hopping anxiously in place.

The media waiting outside the door kept peering in, blocking the narrow threshold completely. Since they hadn’t received the owner’s permission, they didn’t dare enter, only quietly aiming their cameras in a certain direction. When they heard the landlord shouting, “Somebody help!” they couldn’t wait any longer and rushed in with their equipment.

The cameraman, carrying his gear, charged to the front lines. They hurried to the balcony, just in time to capture the young officer preparing to leap, dangerously vaulting a meter and a half through the air to land on another balcony.

The young player’s landing spot was far from ideal, as the balcony was sealed off by glass windows on all sides, leaving no safe place to stand. In the end, he landed on the iron rack outside the balcony meant for mounting the air conditioner.

A deafening crash startled everyone; the iron rack shook violently, even making the air conditioner’s external unit bounce.

Fortunately, the young man was agile, grabbing the window frame in time and steadying himself.

“Oh my god…” The landlord clutched his chest, nearly fainting from fright.

The camera focused on the officer, shaking nonstop, while the reporter breathlessly narrated the situation.

“We don’t know why a police officer is risking his life to forcibly break into N. Dawson’s home! Is it because he suspects N. Dawson’s mother is harboring a fugitive? As everyone just saw, it was truly dangerous! This action is extremely unreasonable…”

The player had already pushed open the window and quickly climbed inside. It wasn’t until he landed that the people across from him finally breathed a sigh of relief.

“Thank you, Trident!” The young player, moved, clenched his fist and gave a little pump. “I’m a hero now!”

Who wouldn’t want to experience the thrill of leaping across rooftops?

Julian Grant heard the commotion and asked, “What happened to you?”

“Nothing!” the player replied. “I promise I’ll finish the mission!”

He patted his backside and walked into the study, showing no awareness of how much he’d worried everyone.

The room was empty; even though he’d made such a racket just now, no one came out to check.

“Ms. Dawson, Ms. Dawson, are you here?”

The player strode from the study to the kitchen, but saw no sign of anyone. No matter how loudly he called, there was no response.

“No one?” The player began to sense something was wrong and hurried his pace to search the rooms.

When he reached the bathroom, red liquid was seeping out from under the door. The player froze, then kicked open the half-closed wooden door and saw a woman lying in a pool of blood.

“Ms. Dawson!” the player shouted hoarsely, dropping to his knees to pick her up.

The person in his arms felt weightless, so thin she was almost insubstantial. After losing so much blood, her face was deathly pale and terrifying. There were multiple deep cuts on her wrists, clearly made to ensure a quick death.

The rookie player, who had never witnessed a death scene before, lost all his previous composure and choked out, “What do I do? She slit her wrists!”

Even as he asked what to do, his hands moved quickly, grabbing a towel from the side and tightly binding Ms. Dawson’s wrists to stop the bleeding, then scooping her up and running for the door.

Wallace Franklin’s voice instantly sounded weary and dazed: “How could this happen…” They had tried so hard.

No, he hadn’t thought things through enough—he hadn’t considered Nancy Dawson’s family.

Julian Grant raised his fist and slammed it hard on the steering wheel, the car horn blaring shrilly.

Meanwhile, the player hurriedly unlocked and opened the door, trying to slip out sideways. The flashbulbs outside nearly blinded him, and he growled, “Get out of the way!”

Only then did everyone see the blood-soaked patient in his arms and quickly made way for him.

The once-smooth-talking reporters fell silent. The cameraman hesitated, unsure whether to follow, until someone covered the lens with a hand and whispered, “Stop filming.”

Seeing the emergency, bystanders quickly cleared a car and called for them to get in.

The player held Ms. Dawson tightly, feeling the warmth of her body. Suddenly, she moved slightly in his arms—a clear sign that nearly made him weep with joy.

“Nancy Dawson was wronged!” the player gripped her hand tightly and shouted, “He didn’t kill anyone, he’s a good brother! He went to save Tiffany Dawson! Everyone knows now, we found the evidence—the one at fault wasn’t him.”

The woman in his arms still didn’t open her eyes, but her fingers gripped his hand a little tighter, holding on and rekindling hope for life. Tears streamed down her face, just for these words of affirmation she had never heard before.

This meant so much to her. It was the obsession she’d held onto for over a decade, never daring to voice to anyone.

“Yes, he was wronged.” Seeing the effect, the player repeated to her, “You have to live—if you die, he’ll have no home left… We’ll bring him back, you can start over… It’ll be okay.”

·

The footage of Ms. Dawson’s suicide attempt, broadcast live, quickly caused a huge stir online.

Netizens, still reeling from the tragedy of Nancy Dawson and his sister, were devastated by this new blow.

“Leave her alone, she’s a victim’s family member too. Her daughter is dead, her son was falsely accused of killing her daughter. A bunch of media crowding her doorstep—what do you want from her? What do you expect her to do? She’s the one suffering the most!”

“Anyone who goes after her now is committing murder. Did she do anything wrong? If she really dies, will you say Nancy Dawson killed his own mother? No, it’s you.”

“These reporters who keep writing—why are you so convinced Nancy Dawson is the killer? Because you slandered him so much before that now you believe it yourselves? You just want evidence to prove your own guesses, to protect your authority? A reporter’s authority comes from risking their lives to seek the truth, not from bullying the weak!”

“Police risk their lives to save people, while disgraceful reporters stab them in the back—what an ironic contrast.”

·

Viewers in the livestream were also discussing the incident.

Reviewing the whole case forced them to confront their own mistakes. This reality was shaped by their participation, and the loss of innocent life was the loudest slap in the face, leaving them no room for denial.

“Did Harry Forrest’s mother die in real life?”

“She did. [web link] There was an official report, but not many people paid attention.”

“If I were Harry Forrest, I’d want revenge on society too!”

“So where is Harry Forrest now? There’s been no news at all. I’m just worried— is he still alive?”

“The media kept painting Harry Forrest as a vicious criminal, so I believed he killed five witnesses after getting out of prison. But now it seems the truth might be different, since all the evidence the media presented was circumstantial, and the authorities have clarified this many times.”

“What kind of tragedy is this? This is murder, plain and simple. A bloodless knife, a blade never unsheathed, but still deadly in one stroke.”

·

In an alley on the outskirts of the business district.

The Vault sat in the car, quietly watching the footage from the dashcam.

Because the police had set up checkpoints at every intersection, traffic on the outskirts was a bit congested. Some road conditions were updated in real time on navigation apps, but some weren’t.

The driver had originally come from the west side of the city, taking the XX mountain road. Hearing a congestion warning from the navigation, he turned and entered the business district from another direction, only to get stuck again. This made The Vault even more certain about the scope and location of the police deployment.

She turned off the video, leaned her head back on the seat, covered her eyes with both hands, and massaged her temples with her thumbs.

In her mind, she pulled up a map of the entire city and, based on the information she’d just found, marked key locations with red circles.

If viewers could see the image in her mind, they’d notice that the red circles she drew almost perfectly overlapped with the checkpoints set up by Wallace Franklin.

The allocation of resources in city planning follows certain patterns, especially in a metropolis like City A. Hospitals, schools, fire stations, roads—all are arranged with precise calculation and consideration. So when the police set up their defenses, they have to take traffic conditions into account.

Any problem with a pattern can be solved with an approximate answer.