Linjun is glowing—his smile wide, his posture loose, his voice pitched just above restraint. With Feng Liu gone, his promotion in 2017 is all but sealed. The political winds are at his back now—hot, fast, and mercilessly favorable.

  Yesterday, he toasted with colleagues and confidants. Today, he invites only me.

  I know why. He needs money.

  For a position like this, he must pass through the gauntlet: the Organization Department’s blessing, the MPS ministers’ nods, the quiet approvals from collaborative departments. Unlike the Red second generations, Linjun has no inherited network, no ancestral web of favors and protection. No Ruby Five counts him as their man. He must buy his way forward—accolade by accolade.

  That's the cruel irony of Red Party politics. They rail against corruption, yet every advancement demands money that can only come through corrupt means.

  The Ministry of Public Security wields enormous power. But it has little access to real wealth. It's less lucrative than even the Procuratorate or the courts. The closer you are to the jail cell in the legal chain, the easier the money flows. Prosecutors and judges sit in their offices while bribes walk in. Public Security officers must chase their prey, build their case, and only then can they extract.

  This is where I come in.

  People like Jianhua and Bao Fang calculate their returns before investing a dime. I don’t. Money is everywhere. True allies—people who stand on your side when it matters—are rare.

  Besides, it’s better to teach a man to fish than to hand him one.

  “Your timing is perfect,” I say, meeting his eyes. “This is the best moment to make money.”

  “How?” His eyes sharpen. He leans forward, hungry for every word.

  "The stock market will crash. An avalanche." I speak casually, as if commenting on the weather.

  “How deep?” His voice tightens.

  “If we’re lucky, the Shanghai Index stays above 3000.”

  He inhales, eyes darting—calculations spinning behind them. He trusts my judgement. He always has. But now he’s hunting angles. “You’re saying I should short the market?”

  I shake my head slowly. “You’re not seeing the big picture.”

  He chuckles, sheepish. “You know me. I execute. I don’t strategize. That’s why I follow you.”

  I smile—warm, patient, like an older sister indulging a younger brother.

  “Others can short the market. Not you.” I let the silence stretch, let the weight settle.

  “Why not?” His brow furrows, genuinely puzzled.

  “Because you need to stand on the high ground of principle.” I lean back. “Stock indexes are never purely determined by market. Not in the Republic. They’re political. A crash this big? There will be hell to pay. People will go to jail. Very rich people.”

  Understanding flickers across his face. His eyes light up—greed, ambition, calculation all blooming at once. Then his expression darkens. His brow knots deeper. “We can’t step on the Discipline Commission’s toes. And financial crimes aren’t my jurisdiction.”

  “What about endangering national security?” I say, voice soft, deliberate.

  At the 601 office, that's right up his alley.

  He blinks. “Can market manipulation be elevated to that?”

  "If others don't get it, I understand." I shake my head. "But you? It's exactly like the Hong Kong Bookstore case. Any action aimed at undermining Xi's leadership is endangering national security. And crashing the stock market? That clearly qualifies."

  His eyes flash. He’s hooked. “I need a legitimate tie-in.”

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  “It will come,” I say, calm and certain. “For now, get ahead of it. Lock onto targets. Gather evidence. Build your case. You don’t need me to teach you police work, do you?”

  He nods, his jaw set. "Sister, if this works out, I’ll never forget it. Whatever you need from me—you have it."

  I nod, acknowledging the promise. Then I lower my voice, my tone sharpening. "I've been navigating these waters for twenty-five years. I've never seen the struggle at the top become this fierce. If my instincts are right, the Hong Kong Bookstore case will be in the history books. And your name will be etched beside it."

  “You flatter me,” he says, but his face glows with satisfaction.

  “It’s not just how you handled the case,” I continue. “It’s what it represents—the beginning of a seismic shift in foreign policy. Hawks and doves are at war. And you just tipped the scales for the hawk. Hong Kong, Taiwan, the U.S.—the Republic’s stance will transform. Play it right, and this is your moment. Xi needs someone like you. Relentless. Effective.”

  His smile widens, but his eyes remain cold, calculating. He’s digesting every word, mapping his next moves.

  Then—right on cue—opportunity knocks.

  His phone rings.

  "It's Ruolin," he says, glancing at the screen.

  I nod, waiting in silence.

  He answers. Brief pleasantries. Then he listens. His eyes widen, admiration flooding his expression.

  He looks up at me. “Sister, you’re a prophet. Ruolin just took the King of IPO’s son into custody.”

  “There’s your chance,” I say, a faint smile curving my lips.

  He returns to the call, urgency sharpening his voice. “Come to Western Hills. Same compound. I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  He hangs up, already rising, already moving.

  … …

  When Ruolin’s team arrives, we’re already waiting. The moment her eyes find mine, her shoulders drop half an inch. Relief flickers across her face before she catches herself, before the mask slides back into place.

  She gestures to Haojin and Hanlin, sending them off to interrogate the suspects. The three of us retreat into Linjun's office. The door clicks shut.

  "Did the ministers tell you anything about my investigation?" Ruolin asks, her voice carefully neutral.

  She’s no longer under Linjun’s command. Technically, she shouldn’t be sharing anything. But if he already knows, she’s covered.

  Linjun leans back, fingers steepled, eyes sharp. “All I know is something big went down in the Summer Palace.”

  Ruolin nods once, sharp. "Tomorrow, I'm going in."

  They both turn to me. Waiting. Hungry for direction.

  I let the silence stretch, then fix my gaze on Linjun. “Whatever happened in the Summer Palace compromised national security. You need to tie it to the stock market crash.”

  Truth is never the most important thing in a case like this. It's the convenient excuse that tips the scales.

  "Ruolin is the door-knocker." I shift my gaze to her, then back to him. "You provide the meat."

  “How?” His jaw tightens, focus narrowing.

  "Start with tonight's recording. That gives you a foothold to dig deeper." I turn to Ruolin. "Release Yao's son. Don't spook them."I lean toward Linjun, dropping my voice. "I've compiled a dossier. It'll point you in the right direction. Use police resources—make it look like proper investigation." I pause, letting the weight settle. "Remember the abduction case? That's your entry point."

  “Excellent.” Linjun nods, eyes gleaming. Then his expression shifts—calculating. “What do you want out of this?”

  There has to be something in it for me. Otherwise, he'll suspect the gift is poisoned.

  “I need a leash on Jianhua,” I say, voice low. “The kind I can pull in any direction.”

  “Do you mind if he loses a few teeth?” Linjun asks, half-smiling. After all, Jianhua is one of the Republic’s richest men.

  “Squeeze him however you want.” I meet his eyes, steady. “Just leave him able to bite. The crash is scheduled for the 12th. You don’t have much time. Move now.”

  “Done.” Linjun rises, already dialing as he strides out.

  Ruolin’s gaze finds mine. I shake my head—barely a movement.

  There could be listening devices in Linjun's office. Discretion is survival. I'm certain Xiaohang Wang has eyes on Ruolin, tracking who she meets, who whispers in her ear.

  But here, in this compound, at this hour, we’re beyond his reach.

  “Let’s take a walk,” I say.

  Outside, the night air is crisp, the silence thick with withheld truths. I slip my arm around Ruolin’s shoulders. She leans into me, her head resting against my collarbone. Only with me does she allow this softness. Only with me does the armor crack.

  "There's a tunnel," she whispers, her voice barely audible. "Running from underground all the way into the Summer Palace. I've convinced them it was dug from the inside out."

  Smart girl. Brilliant, even.

  She doesn't ask directly, but I can feel her question in the tension of her body—she knows I'm connected to this somehow. She suspects I know far more about what's inside the Summer Palace than I should.

  I tighten my arm around her, protective. "The Summer Palace is fraught with danger," I murmur. "But with a map, you can navigate it." Slowly, clearly, I whisper the words into her ear—the traces I left for her to uncover, the keys I buried for her to find.

  She pulls back slightly, searching my face. Her eyes are dark, determined, but underneath—there's fear. Fear of what she'll find. Fear of what she already knows.

  I cup her cheek, thumb brushing her temple. Her skin is warm, her breath shallow.

  “Trust yourself,” I say, voice firm but tender. “You’ve already won this. You just don’t know it yet.”

  Her breath catches. Her lips part, but no words come. Then she nods, and I see it—the fire returning to her gaze, the spine straightening, the warrior reawakening.

  We stand there in the stillness, two women in the heart of power’s machinery, surrounded by shadows that listen and walls that remember.

  And for this moment—this fragile, electric moment—we are untouchable.

  She leans in, her forehead brushing mine. Not quite a kiss.

  But the promise is there.

  And it’s enough.