He knelt on the floor, pulled out the safe from under the bed, and tossed the paper bag full of money inside. There were already two or three identical paper bags stored in the safe. He took out the thin account book and carefully recorded each entry, then meticulously calculated the latest total. Sure enough, it matched exactly with the mental calculation he’d done on his way home—a rather satisfying number. Only then did he lock the safe, push it back under the bed, stand up, and, feeling a weight lifted, relaxed his shoulders and neck, letting out a long breath.

On the wall of the cramped bedroom hung a clock, its second hand making a faint ticking sound. It was half past midnight.

Logan Clark was drying his hair with a towel in one hand and slowly sipping a glass of ice water with the other, his gaze wandering over the books on the shelf by the bed: "Criminal Evidence," "Introduction to International Police Work," "Public Security Informatics," "Crime Scene Investigation"...

Row after row of familiar books made his mind wander for a moment, and he unconsciously thought of his current direct superior—the one rumored to have been parachuted in as the head of the criminal investigation team at a young age, surrounded by the aura of a prestigious family and elite education, and who always wore the expression of someone owed five million yuan—a total workaholic.

Logan Clark shook his head at himself in self-mockery.

—Someone like Ryan Foster, a young elite, could make small fry like him feel an aura of “don’t mess with me” from three blocks away.

Logan Clark picked out "Public Security Informatics" from the row of professional books, quickly flipped to the page he hadn’t finished last week, put on his glasses, and snapped on the bedside lamp.

A light night breeze brushed past the window frame, barely moving the sheer curtain.

Suddenly, Logan Clark seemed to sense something and looked up.

“……”

He stood up, moved to the side of the window near the wall, and used the end of a pen to gently lift the curtain, frowning as he looked outside.

Below the old apartment building, moths fluttered around the streetlamp, and the shadows of trees painted patches of ink in the darkness. In the bushes, a tiny spark flickered on and off—it was a cigarette tip.

Dylan Morris stood under the tree, his shadow stretched long by the streetlamp. He held a phone in one hand, typing something, and a cigarette in the other. Suddenly, as if sensing something, he paused and looked up.

But just before their eyes met, Logan Clark's finger moved slightly, and the curtain quietly closed.

The circle of light from the bedside lamp outlined his profile, each eyelash distinct, the smooth bridge of his nose tinged with a warm yellow glow, his neck gleaming with an ivory sheen that disappeared into the deep hollow of his collarbone. Yet from the corner of his eye to his cheek, he was completely swallowed by the midnight shadows, and the black-and-white depths of his eyes glimmered faintly, like shards of ice clinking in a glass.

“……” His lips moved, vaguely forming a two-word curse, but he didn’t say it aloud.

Logan Clark flopped onto the single bed with his book, too lazy to care about the people downstairs. In the shabby room, only the steady ticking of the second hand could be heard. After a while, he adjusted his glasses and gently turned a page densely covered with notes.

Chapter 4

Tianhai City Public Security Bureau, Nancheng Branch.

Morning.

The criminal investigation team, who had worked through the night, sat together in small groups, seizing this rare moment of rest to smoke, eat breakfast, and organize materials. The young guys discussed the blind dates they’d be meeting over the weekend, while the older ones complained to each other about unruly kids at home, angry wives, and ever-receding hairlines. The spacious office was filled with the familiar mixed aroma of Uni-President beef noodles and Master Kong pickled mustard noodles.

Bang! The office door was flung open, and Ryan Foster strode in.

“They’ve all confessed. The 3-2-9 home invasion robbery was done by these guys. Henry Carter, go to the prosecutor’s office and find your old classmate to fast-track the process. Split into two teams to take the suspects for on-site identification, and coordinate with Old Harris at the Liuhe Road police station. Where’s the deputy team leader?”

Ryan Foster pushed open the half-closed door of the deputy team leader’s office, glanced back at the group, his long, sword-like eyebrows raised, and a cold, star-like glint in his eyes.

Wherever he walked just now, a magical transformation seemed to occur: phones and newspapers were hurriedly stashed in drawers, the beef noodles and pickled mustard noodles vanished as if by magic, and all the unruly kids and angry wives in the hall disappeared like a storm had swept through. In just a few seconds, by the time he turned around, the only sounds in the office were the detectives standing up and the clacking of them organizing their “police eight essentials.” The 41-year-old team’s only female detective, Ms. Carter, was tucking handcuffs into her arms as she nervously replied:

“Deputy Hughes had an upset stomach all night…”

Before she could finish, Deputy Team Leader Brian Hughes of the Nancheng Branch came running out of the restroom, holding up his pants, snapping to attention as he fumbled with his belt, and said seriously, “Here! Here! Here! What are the orders?”

Everyone breathed a sigh of relief.

Ryan Foster was a terrifying perfectionist.

Whether it was an all-night stakeout, a cross-country pursuit, or a seventy-two-hour interrogation marathon, his hair was always perfectly in place, his shirt crisp and neat, his shoes gleaming and new, his mind sharp and his physical condition at its peak. At any moment, he could be pulled out to film a promotional video for the Tianhai City Public Security Bureau and have it broadcast directly on CCTV.