Logan Clark staggered two steps before steadying himself, nearly crashing into the wall, and was immediately grabbed by the front of his shirt by Ryan Foster: “Did you think I was joking the day you arrived, when I said that criminal investigation fieldwork isn’t a stepping stone for just anyone to pad their resume?”

Ryan Foster’s face, seen up close, radiated a cold and intense pressure, and his grip was no joke either. The collar of Logan Clark’s old T-shirt was wrenched so tight he couldn’t get a word out.

“Showing up to work right on the dot every day, leaving early, never working overtime, clocking in and out on cases—does the squad pay field agents such a high salary just so you can take it easy? Let me tell you, Logan Clark, as long as you’re in Jin Hai City, I don’t care how strong your connections are, it won’t work with me. If you need to get lost, you’ll get lost all the same. Do you understand?!”

Logan Clark coughed a few times, one hand weakly resting on Ryan Foster’s arm, trying to show submission: “Captain, calm down…”

Ryan Foster, still furious, didn’t even think before slamming him hard against the pantry wall, roaring, “Do you understand?!”

“…!!”

His injured back from last night slammed into the wall with tremendous force. Logan Clark felt his mind go blank. He didn’t know if it was a few seconds or several minutes before the dull, excruciating pain finally hammered through his chest, surging up his spine and exploding in his skull.

He didn’t even realize he was collapsing forward; it was only thanks to Ryan Foster’s arm supporting him that he didn’t drop to his knees. After a while, he vaguely heard someone at his ear: “…Logan Clark…Logan Clark? What’s wrong with you? Say something!…”

Ryan Foster was almost panicking. His first reaction was that this guy must be faking it, but then he realized that wasn’t the case—otherwise, with looks and acting skills like that, he wouldn’t need to be in the police force; he could go straight to showbiz and probably win an award.

Was he really that fragile? Could this kid have some old illness and joined the force just to get free treatment?

“Hey, are you okay?” Ryan Foster held Logan Clark’s upper body with one arm, patted his face but got no response, then forcefully tilted his chin up, only to see that half of his face had turned pale with a bluish tinge. Cold sweat soaked his hair and ears, and his trembling lips couldn’t form words. Ryan Foster’s heart sank—this was bad. He immediately turned and shouted at the tightly closed door, “Hey! Someone! Quick!”

—Silence outside the door.

Everyone knew Ryan Foster was in a towering rage, and the whole squad was hiding in the big office at the other end of the corridor.

Ryan Foster cursed silently, worried that Logan Clark’s lower ribs might really be broken. He didn’t dare let him lean back against the wall, so he just supported his upper body from the front, lifted up his nearly threadbare, loose white T-shirt, and took a look—instantly sucking in a sharp breath—

Logan Clark had a narrow frame and thin shoulders and back, but his body was whipcord lean and taut. From the middle of his back to the end of his ribs, a patch two palms wide was completely bruised, with dark blood pooling under the skin—shocking to behold.

And looking further up, from the back of his neck to his right shoulder blade, there was something that should never appear on a public servant, especially a detective: a tattoo.

Neck raised to the sky, wings spread in flight—it was a pale ink-colored bird.

The police system’s physical exams were notoriously strict; even scars left from laser tattoo removal weren’t allowed. How had he managed to get such a large tattoo so brazenly?

Ryan Foster’s gaze lingered on the tattooed bird for half a second—the bird’s unusual posture in flight suddenly stirred a strange feeling inside him.

Just then, Logan Clark finally managed to catch his breath through the pain, gritted his teeth, pressed against the wall, broke free from Ryan Foster’s arm, and grabbed him by the collar!

Logan Clark was usually the type to keep his head down and work, seemingly without a temper, but at this moment, his lashes, soaked with cold sweat, looked especially dark, and his bloodshot, icy gaze was fixed on Ryan Foster’s face. Some explosive emotion finally broke free, shattering the cage of suppressed endurance:

“Did you really think I’d give a damn about a bookish leader like you—”

The pantry door burst open.

“Ryan Foster, I’ve been looking for you all night… What the hell are you two doing?!”

Both of them turned their heads at the same time, coming face to face with the stunned Director Patrick Evans.

The room fell silent, then—

“Sorry, Captain Foster.” Logan Clark instantly switched back to his usual reserved and obedient self, bowing his head to admit fault: “I shouldn’t have left early. I won’t do it again.”

Ryan Foster: “………………”

In the cramped space, the two of them stood with messy hair and disheveled clothes, bodies pressed tightly together against the wall. Logan Clark’s old T-shirt, the kind you couldn’t even sell for two bucks at a street stall, was pulled up, exposing a sliver of pale, narrow waist disappearing into deep blue police trousers; Ryan Foster’s shirt was neatly tucked into his belt, but there was a conspicuous wet patch at his crotch. With decades of detective experience, Director Evans instantly noticed the white ring at the edge of the stain—clear evidence of indecency.

Director Evans’s raised finger trembled as he finally managed to squeeze out a sentence:

“You two, separate right now!”

Ryan Foster: “………………”

A vein throbbed at Ryan Foster’s temple as he stepped back half a pace.