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At 3:17 AM, Du Siling was startled awake by her vibrating phone. An encrypted message appeared on the screen: "Warehouse No. 4, West Wharf Area, now. —K"
K was Han Beimo's code name in Du Siling's phone. Du Siling rolled out of bed, dressed herself within two minutes, and checked her weapons. A 919 pistol was tucked into her waistband, and a ceramic knife was hidden in her boot—this knife could pass through a metal detector; it was her lifesaver as an undercover agent.
The cold autumn wind stung his face like a knife. Du Siling mounted the motorcycle he had prepared beforehand and sped along the coastal highway. The faint sound of sirens drifted from the direction of the pier, and red and blue police lights flashed in the distance.
Warehouse No. 4 was hidden deep within a maze of containers. Just as Du Siling stopped the car, two dark figures emerged from the shadows.
"Search them," one of them whispered.
Du Siling obediently raised his hands. The other person skillfully searched his entire body, taking the pistol and cell phone, but overlooking the knife in his boot.
The warehouse was dimly lit. Han Beimo leaned against an old wooden table, with Zhao Kunyang standing beside him—the gang's second-in-command, a lean man in his early forties with a scar on his left eye. Du Siling had seen his file: a former special forces soldier, a long-time retainer of the Han family, ruthless and vicious.
"You're two minutes late," Zhao Kunyang sneered.
Du Siling did not offer any explanation. He noticed three people tied up in the corner of the warehouse, their faces covered in blood, one of whom was already unconscious.
"Do you know them?" Han Beimo asked. He wasn't wearing his usual suit tonight, but rather a black tactical uniform, which made him look even more dangerous.
Du Siling shook her head.
"Old Cat's men from the South District." Han Beimo kicked the metal box beside his feet. "They robbed us of a shipment last night." He opened the box; inside were more than a dozen packets of white powder. "Three packets are missing."
Zhao Kunyang suddenly drew his gun and fired a shot into the knee of one of the prisoners. The gunshot was deafening in the confined space, and the man screamed as he fell to the ground.
"Tell me! Where is the goods?" Zhao Kunyang roared.
Du Siling gritted his teeth. His police academy training made him instinctively want to stop this vigilante justice, but his undercover identity forced him to stand still, expressionless.
"Enough." Han Beimo raised his hand to stop him. "Du Fei, you handle this."
Du Siling's heart raced. This was a test, a naked, bloody test. He walked towards the prisoner, knelt down, and met the gaze of the trembling man.
"You have a choice," Du Siling said in a low voice, "say it now, or beg to tell me in ten minutes." He deliberately let the other person see the hilt of the knife in his boot. "My specialty is to inflict a fate worse than death, without leaving any external wounds."
The captive's pupils contracted sharply: "In...in Old Cat's Lover's beauty salon, in the third row of lockers in the changing room..."
Han Beimo chuckled lightly, "Efficient." He turned to Zhao Kunyang, "Brother Kun, take some men to retrieve it. Du Fei stays behind."
Zhao Kunyang's face was grim, but he dared not disobey. After he left with his men, only Han Beimo, Du Siling, and the few barely alive prisoners remained in the warehouse.
"Do you know why I chose you?" Han Beimo lit a cigarette.
Du Siling shook her head.
"Zhao Kunyang has been with me for ten years, but he's increasingly fond of making decisions for me," Han Beimo exhaled a smoke ring. "I don't need a second boss."
The sound of police sirens came again in the distance, this time closer. Han Beimo stubbed out his cigarette: "Clean it up."
Du Siling understood the meaning of those three words. He watched Han Beimo walk towards the door, his heart aching as if being torn apart. The duty of a police officer is to protect life, even the life of a criminal.
"Mr. Han," Du Siling suddenly spoke, "there are police cars nearby."
Han Beimo turned around, his amber eyes almost transparent in the dim light: "So?"
"The gunshots will attract them," Du Siling said, pointing to the fire axe in the corner. "Give me five minutes."
Han Beimo raised an eyebrow and gestured for him to proceed.
Du Siling picked up the axe and walked towards the prisoners. The youngest boy—no more than twenty years old—was so frightened that he wet his pants and wept silently.
Du Siling raised the axe, then—slammed it down hard on the wooden crate beside him. The deafening sound drowned out his hushed voice: "The police will be here in thirty seconds. Keep screaming if you want to live."
The three prisoners immediately understood and let out pig-like screams. Du Siling continued smashing the box while simultaneously striking the metal wall with the handle of his axe, creating the illusion of torture.
The sirens turned this way as expected. Han Beimo frowned: "Enough, let's go."
They left through the back door of the warehouse, climbed over the wall, and got into a waiting car. As the car drove away from the dock, Du Siling saw three police cars surrounding the warehouse.
"A smart move," Han Beimo commented, his tone enigmatic.
The following afternoon, Du Siling was summoned to the headquarters conference room. As soon as he entered, Zhao Kunyang pressed a gun against his temple.
"Military combat skills, professional interrogation techniques, and accurate prediction of police operation times." Zhao Kunyang gritted his teeth, "Which cop the hell sent you?"
Han Beimo and five core members sat in the conference room. All eyes were fixed on Du Siling.
Du Siling's heart pounded, but he remained outwardly calm: "I served in the 82nd Airborne Division for four years, and was deployed to Afghanistan twice." This was a background story he had prepared beforehand. "As for police operations? There are patrols in that area of the docks every Wednesday from three to four in the morning; any thug knows that."
"Bullshit!" Zhao Kunyang jabbed the gun barrel forcefully. "I checked, the 82nd Division doesn't exist at all—"
"Brother Kun," Han Beimo interrupted softly, "put the gun down."
Zhao Kunyang reluctantly took a step back. Han Beimo walked up to Du Siling, so close he could smell the faint scent of shaving lotion on the other man.
"Why did you leave the army?" Han Beimo asked.
"PTSD diagnosis." Du Siling looked him straight in the eye. "During a mission... I had to shoot a child. The army psychologist believes I'm no longer fit for service."
This is a story adapted by Du Siling from a real case. A police psychological instructor once said that the most perfect lie contains genuine emotion.
Han Beimo narrowed his eyes slightly, seemingly assessing the veracity of the answer. The entire conference room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
"Come to my place at eight o'clock tonight," Han Beimo finally said, then turned to the others, "Meeting adjourned."
When Du Siling walked out of the headquarters building, his back was soaked with sweat. He was certain that Han Beimo didn't completely believe his story, but for some reason, he gave him some breathing room.
At 7:50 p.m., Du Siling stood in front of Han Beimo's private apartment. This was the most upscale residential building in the North District, a top-floor duplex with such tight security that not even a fly could get in.
Han Beimo opened the door himself. He was wearing pajamas, his hair slightly damp, as if he had just taken a shower. The apartment was surprisingly minimalist, with a black, white, and gray color scheme. The only bright spot was a pot of blooming azaleas in the corner of the living room.
"What would you like to drink?" Han Beimo asked, as if the confrontation during the day had never happened.
"casual."
Han Beimo poured two glasses of whiskey and added ice. They drank in silence, watching the city's dazzling night view through the window.
"What's Afghanistan like?" Han Beimo suddenly asked.
Du Siling was glad she had done her research: "Dry, dusty. The starry sky is beautiful at night, but it's hot enough to fry an egg during the day."
"What does it feel like to kill someone?"
This question pierced him like a knife. Du Siling put down his wine glass: "The first time is the worst. You'll remember that face, remember his last expression. After that... you become numb."
Han Beimo stared at the amber liquid in his glass: "My father taught me my first lesson: violence isn't a choice, it's instinct. It's either kill or be killed."
"He doesn't sound like a good father."
"He's a scumbag." Han Beimo was surprisingly candid. "An alcoholic, a drug addict, he beat my mother so badly she had to be hospitalized three times." He pointed to his left rib. "I've broken four ribs here, when I was twelve, because he thought I looked at him disrespectfully."
Du Siling hadn't expected to hear such a confession. He didn't know how to respond, so he could only continue drinking.
Han Beimo seemed drunk, his eyes becoming unfocused: "Do you know what's most ridiculous? I hate violence, yet I live off violence." He pointed with a bitter smile to the abstract painting hanging on the living room wall, "Behind that is a safe, containing seven guns and two knives. I keep a loaded pistol under my pillow every night."
Du Siling suddenly realized that Han Beimo might never have said these words to anyone. He should record this information, but he felt a strange sense of guilt for betraying him.
"Why are you telling me all this?" Du Siling asked.
Han Beimo looked up at him, his eyes hazy with a hint of clarity amidst the drunkenness: "Because you have honest eyes." He reached out and touched Du Siling's cheek, his fingertips icy cold. "I haven't seen eyes like these in a long time."
The touch made Du Siling's heart skip a beat. He should use this opportunity to extract more information, but professional ethics and a budding emotion were locked in a fierce struggle.
Han Beimo suddenly stood up and staggered towards the bedroom: "It's too late, you sleep in the guest room."
Du Siling lay on the unfamiliar bed, staring at the ceiling. Han Beimo's drunken confession shattered the demonic image in the police files. He began to doubt whether he truly understood the whole truth behind this mission.
Outside the window, a waning moon disappeared behind the clouds. Du Siling recalled what his master had told him when he was a child: "The world isn't black and white; the job of a policeman is to draw a line in the gray areas."
Now, he can't even see where that line is anymore.
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