It was like a basin of ink spilled on the ground, no one knew how long it had been “watching” her.

Quinn Barnes was sprawled on the floor, but the shadow was standing.

Are you upright? If you are, why would you fear your own shadow?

She seemed to hear a sharp, piercing laugh.

It was early morning, not yet five o’clock, and the phone on the nightstand was ringing like a soul-calling bell.

Logan Sullivan had worked overtime all night. After getting home, he didn’t even take off his clothes, just collapsed straight onto the bed. It felt like he had just lain down when he was called up again.

He opened his eyes expressionlessly, his heavy eyelids making his double eyelids especially pronounced. He glared at his own ceiling with a look that was almost hateful, stared for a few seconds, then sat up like a zombie, his mind a mess, and stretched out his arm to grab the phone on the nightstand.

Logan Sullivan’s room was memorably messy—if you called it a dog’s den, even a dog would protest.

Clothes were thrown all over the bed and floor; it was unclear whether they were meant to be worn or washed. The large double bed was piled high with all sorts of miscellaneous items, some beyond the imagination of ordinary people—a laptop wrapped in a single bedsheet sock was nothing, sunglasses and umbrellas were barely understandable, but a tall paper hat and a big jar of cinnabar were truly baffling. All these things were crammed together, leaving just enough space for one person to lie down, a spot he probably dug out himself before collapsing.

Logan Sullivan looked thoroughly disgruntled, as if he was about to start cursing at any moment. But when he answered the phone, aside from his voice being a bit hoarse, his tone was perfectly normal, clearly used to this sort of thing: “What’s happened now?”

Zach Warren’s voice came through the receiver, concise and to the point: “Someone’s dead.”

“When?”

“Either last night or early this morning—just now.”

“Where?”

“University Road.”

“Hmm…” Logan Sullivan rubbed his face with a grimace. “Let Old Chu go first.”

“Carter Shaw is on a business trip in Xiangxi.”

“What about Julian West?”

“Seconded to the Underworld.”

“Damn, then Holly Harlow… never mind, no need to mention Holly Harlow, it was a full moon last night, she took leave. Who else is around?”

“Me,” said Zach Warren, “but the sun’s about to come up, I’m about to get off shift. There’s also Darrin Grant and the new intern, Charles Gray…”

Logan Sullivan yawned and said weakly, “Have Darrin Grant go with the intern to take a look, give the kid a chance to get some experience.”

“The intern Charles Gray can’t go anywhere right now,” Zach Warren said flatly. “When he reported in last night, he fainted from fright. Maybe he just slept it off after fainting, but he still hasn’t woken up.”

“…” Logan Sullivan asked, “What scared him?”

“Me and Old Wu.” Zach Warren reported matter-of-factly, then added, “I told you before to get a professional funeral shop to make a body for Old Wu. Holly Harlow’s hands are even clumsier than her feet—her sewn sandbags leak stuffing, and the paper figure she made looks like anything but a person.”

Logan Sullivan sat blankly on the edge of the bed for a while, then finally sighed: “If I show up directly, it’s against procedure, might scare people… but there’s no other way. Fine, I’ll go take a look myself. Tell Darrin Grant to wait for me.”

He hung up, washed up in three minutes, and sped off to University Road.

As he slowed down at the intersection, a black shadow suddenly dropped from the sky. With a loud “thud,” a round, grenade-like animal landed on his car hood with a crash, almost denting it.

Logan Sullivan slammed on the brakes, stuck his head out the window, and complained, “This is a motor vehicle, a means of transportation, not a litter box! Can you take it easy?”

Sitting upright on the hood was a jet-black cat, with a barely-there neck supporting a fuzzy, persimmon-shaped face. Its round body made it look like Garfield’s African cousin at first glance.

The cat tucked its hind legs, sucked in its belly with effort, and finally managed to stretch its relatively short front legs to the ground, assuming a very dignified sitting posture for a cat.

The big, persimmon-faced cat looked around, saw no one nearby, twitched its whiskers, and slowly opened its mouth to speak in a deep male voice: “Cut the crap, get out of the car—can’t you smell that?”

There really was an indescribable stench in the air, rivaling chemical weapons. Logan Sullivan parked by the roadside, got out, and pinched his nose, frowning at the cat: “Is this stink your doing?”

The big black cat ignored him, leapt off the hood with thunderous authority, turned its fat butt toward him, and strutted off with a swaggering catwalk.

Several police cars were already parked across the street, and staff had set up a cordon at the entrance to a small alley.

Logan Sullivan fumbled for a while before fishing out a battered work ID. The young officer guarding the cordon looked a bit green, turned his back to the crime scene, took the ID, barely glanced at it, shoved it back into Logan Sullivan’s hands, and then couldn’t help but run off to the distance to throw up against a wall.

Logan Sullivan scratched his messy, spiky hair in surprise: “Is my ID photo really that nauseating?”

The black cat was already a few steps ahead. Seeing him dawdling and talking nonsense, it couldn’t help but turn back, fur bristling, and let out a long “meow.”

“Alright, alright, business—damn, this smell could kill at ten paces.” Logan Sullivan bent down and ducked under the cordon.

As soon as he appeared, someone inside came out to greet him, holding a tissue over their nose and asking in a muffled voice, “Are you from the Special Investigation Bureau?”

In the public security system, everyone knew there was a mysterious department called the “Special Investigation Bureau.”

Their rank was high, but no one knew exactly what they did or what their procedures were—any time someone from the Special Investigation Bureau showed up, orders came directly from above, and no one could object.

But if their people didn’t come, there was nowhere to request them.

They belonged to the public security system, but sometimes operated outside it. Their organization was tight, their case procedures completely opaque, and unless specially approved, the media usually couldn’t even catch a glimpse of anyone from the Special Investigation Bureau, let alone follow or interview them.

No one knew how their prosecution process worked. Once a case was handed over, it was like entering a black box; the only thing made public was a vague, foggy case report.

Sometimes, the staff of the Special Investigation Bureau were even more mysterious than the unsolved cases themselves.

Their case reports were detailed: cause, process, result, suspect’s identity, arrest situation, even the arrest process—all explained clearly, with rigorous logic and clear formatting, leaving no room for criticism.

The only suspicious thing was, by the time the case was closed, the criminal was always dead.

Granted, the cases they handled were always extremely serious, and the suspects probably deserved it, but… it was just a little too coincidental.

The person in charge of the investigation at the scene was an older detective named Yang. He shook hands warmly with Logan Sullivan, sizing him up curiously and politely asking, “How should I address you?”

“My surname is Zhao, Logan Sullivan. Just call me Xiao Zhao.”

Old Yang was startled—he hadn’t expected the visitor to be the current director of the Special Investigation Bureau. This Director Logan Sullivan was not yet thirty, a bit young for his rank, tall and slender, with a proper appearance—he looked like a model from a men’s fashion ad. But his shirt was wrinkled, two buttons undone, half tucked into his pants and half hanging out, and his hair was a mess like a bird’s nest, making him look rather unkempt.

But with his rank, even if he went out naked, people would still praise Director Logan Sullivan for leading the fashion trend.

Old Yang exclaimed, “Oh! So you’re Director Logan Sullivan! I… I must apologize, I didn’t expect our leader to be so young and promising…”

Logan Sullivan was clearly used to this, and casually joked along.

At that moment, someone—or something—grew impatient. With a “meow,” Old Yang looked down and saw a black shadow, moving as fast as lightning, scramble up Logan Sullivan’s pant leg and climb all the way up onto his shoulder.