"Thank you, thank you, thank you, officer! May good people have a safe life, a safe life! If it weren't for you, my son would really be done for. Officer, what's your name, what's your badge number? I'll write a letter of commendation to your police department, I want to send a banner..."

Ryan Foster's handsome face showed not a trace of emotion as he pressed gauze to the wound on his arm. Ms. Carter hurried over to support the incoherent woman and, with a few words, coaxed her away.

"Boss, Mr. Scott and the others have arrived at the procuratorate, shall we go?" Matthew Reed poked his head out of the car: "Want me to give you a ride?"

Ryan Foster nodded silently, gave a few more instructions to his subordinates, and only then, pressing the blood-stained medical gauze, got into the car. The black Jeep Wrangler with police lights drove out of the residential complex, turned at the gate, and merged onto a street where the evening rush hour had not yet fully subsided.

"Boss, let me tell you something, today Logan Clark took the fall for those interns." Matthew Reed said cautiously as he drove, sneaking glances at Ryan Foster's expression: "Logan Clark seems all right to me, a bit quiet but pretty honest, didn't use his background to cause trouble. Is he going to stay on our team?"

"No."

"Huh?"

"Criminal investigation fieldwork isn't a place for anyone to pad their resume or use as a springboard," Ryan Foster said coldly. "Those who got in through connections never last more than half a year. Might as well leave early and be done with it."

Matthew Reed wanted to say a few more words, but suddenly Ryan Foster caught something out of the corner of his eye and jerked his head to look out the window—

By the roadside outside the complex, a bus was slowly pulling into the stop, and a familiar profile was swept up in the crowd boarding the bus.

It was Logan Clark.

Matthew Reed: "..."

The air suddenly froze completely. The words from ten minutes ago—"Whoever leaves doesn't need to come in tomorrow!"—still echoed in his ears. Matthew Reed didn't even dare look at his boss's face.

Ryan Foster's face was as calm as still water, betraying no emotion. He pulled out his phone, quickly dialed a number, and soon Henry Carter's voice came through, the background filled with the noisy chaos at the complex entrance: "Hello? Foster's Team?"

"Tell Director Evans," Ryan Foster's voice was clear and cold as ice shards, "that Logan Clark doesn't need to come to work tomorrow."

"Wait, Foster's Team!..."

A chill shot up Matthew Reed's spine as he watched Ryan Foster end the call and lightly toss the phone back into his pocket.

Chapter 3

9 p.m.

Logan Clark walked out of the subway station, wearing a black baseball cap that revealed only his straight nose and pale jawline. With both hands in his pockets, he was swept along by the surging crowd heading toward the neon-lit nightlife of the city center, arriving at Yongli Avenue, lined with nightclubs and KTVs. He then ducked, as if by habit, into the back door of a bar.

Ding—

The bell rang on the ring, and applause, cheers, and whistles erupted, nearly blowing the roof off. The referee and emcee strode forward, grabbed the winner's hand, and raised it high, his excited voice booming through the venue: "—'Red Cyclone' wins again! That's seven wins in a row, seven in a row! Tonight's challenger still couldn't make a name for himself on this stage—!"

The Vietnamese boxer in a crimson robe looked down coldly at the crowd, while the loser could only clutch his bleeding ear, stagger to his feet, curse, and crawl out of the ring, quickly disappearing behind the jubilant audience.

"Congratulations to those who bet on 'Red Cyclone'! Let's see what the odds are for his next match—1:3! Next round, Red Cyclone's odds are 1:3!! Blue corner odds 1:3.8!!"

Such a small difference in odds sent the crowd's excitement soaring. Lights flashed wildly, cheers erupted, and countless people waved cash, scrambling to throw it into the red money box.

"Can 'Red Cyclone' keep his undefeated legend alive? Has his conqueror even been born yet?!" The emcee shouted hoarsely into the microphone: "Don't go anywhere! We'll be back in half an hour!!"

The boiling noise filtered through the half-drawn curtain to the backstage, making one's eardrums buzz. Logan Clark took off his short jacket and hung it on the rack, the movement revealing the lean, sharp lines of his shoulders and back under a fitted black T-shirt.

"Fifty thousand, same rules, two up front, three after." The bar owner slapped two stacks of cash in front of him, his fingers so fat that the flesh bulged around his gold ring. "The house takes ten percent, the tip takes half. If you want to join in as a live bookie, that's fine too. Hey, I'm telling you, this is special treatment! Don't say I don't look out for you!"

Logan Clark bent down to take off his shoes, unmoved: "I'm not being the bookie."

"Come on—you're killing me!" The fat boss put on a look of good intentions wasted, forcibly pulling him closer by the shoulder and confiding, "Let me be straight with you. That Vietnamese guy has fought seven matches, every one bloody or with broken bones. That Guangdong boxing champ from last week is still in the ICU today, and just the medical bills cost me this much... Is it easy for me? You think it's easy for me to set the odds?! Look, tonight it's all on you, I won't say more. I'll give you an extra ten percent of the bets, and tonight I'll treat you to a big drink, get you a couple of girls!..."

Logan Clark moved his hand off his shoulder, patted the fat white hand:

"No need, just cash."

The fat boss nearly choked on his own saliva, watching helplessly as he turned and walked toward the locker room door.