The First Lady is smiling, but I know the truth behind it. One misstep, one misplaced word, and I’ll be dismissed—left to the wolves.

  I steady myself. Lift my eyes. Keep my voice calm, unwavering.

  “Madam, I believe you already know who the culprit is. You’re just waiting for evidence.”

  Her smile tightens, the corners sharpening like glass. “Oh? Do you have evidence?”

  “Not yet. But I know where to look.”

  “Tell me. Now.”

  Shajun shifts beside me, visibly bewildered—like a soldier dropped into a chess match between two grandmasters.

  I inhale. “The General Secretary was poisoned. No injection mark. That leaves only one plausible method of entry.”

  “Vapor,” Liran says, the word escaping her lips before she can stop it.

  I nod, letting admiration color my tone. "The First Lady's discernment is remarkable. You're absolutely right—it's the only explanation that fits."

  Her expression softens—just a fraction. A flicker of satisfaction passes through her eyes, barely perceptible. But I see it. My flattery is working.

  I press on. “The toxin is undetectable through standard blood tests and non-targeted mass spectrometry. It metabolizes rapidly by human body. But when it’s not inhaled, it remains stable—otherwise, it couldn’t be stored or smuggled into the Summer Palace.”

  She leans forward slightly, gaze sharpening. The predator is now curious.

  “Administering a vaporized toxin is difficult. It requires time, proximity, and discretion. Only a handful of people could get close enough to the General Secretary at night without raising suspicion.” I pause. “Madam, you must know who that person is.”

  Her eyes narrow. A flicker of recognition. Then fury—cold and controlled—settles into her features.

  "Still," I continue, "the toxin had to be brought to her. Her range of movement is limited to this area."

  “Who brought it?” she demands, urgency slipping into her voice.

  "That's what I searched for in the surveillance footage. The person who delivered it knew the details of the surveillance infrastructure—he evaded every camera across Ocean Terrace. But once he returned to his own area, he let his guard down."

  “Each video alone is harmless,” I add. “But when you stitch them together, the pattern emerges.”

  “I see,” she murmurs. Her voice is quiet, but the gears are turning fast.

  I turn to Shajun. “May I have the map?”

  He produces it instantly—just as I instructed—and spreads it across the coffee table.

  “May I approach?”

  Liran nods, her gesture almost tender.

  I step forward, pointing to a sequence of locations. “The Prime Minister’s security chief walked from here, to here, then here, then here. If you watch closely, he’s rushing.”

  Her eyes gleam. Her fury intensifies. “He’s returning from Ocean Terrace.”

  “Exactly. To confuse investigators, the Prime Minister had to be attacked too—but only after the conspirators were certain the attack on the General Secretary had succeeded.”

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  When I casually mention the Prime Minister as a co-conspirator—as though it's an established fact, Shajun flinches. His jaw tightens. The air thickens.

  “They needed time for the toxin to settle in, passing the blood and brain barrier. So the security chief entered this building—his residence, correct?”

  I glance at Shajun. He nods, teeth clenched.

  “Forty-five minutes later, he emerged. He claimed the Prime Minister’s bedroom window was open, prompting him to check inside. But do you know when that window was opened?”

  I let the question hang for a beat.

  "Three minutes before he came out. As if the window is opened just to give him a reason to go in." I straighten, look at the First Lady. "You can piece together the rest."

  What amazes me is that Liran doesn't erupt. She sits perfectly still, her face a mask carved from marble. The silence stretches, taut as wire.

  Then she speaks.

  “If the toxin is so untraceable, why stage the assassination at all? Why not let us believe it was a stroke? Or other natural causes?”

  “They couldn’t be sure the best equipment of the nation wouldn’t detect it. The toxin is new. The administrator had no chance to practice. They needed cover.”

  “Why attack Qiuhan and Huoning?” Her voice sharpens. “Doesn’t that add risk?”

  “Perhaps they were targets from the beginning. Or perhaps it was misdirection—to deepen the confusion.” I shake my head. “Madam, that’s something I can’t know for certain.”

  She nods, accepting this. She knows I don’t understand the Ruby Five’s internal war. But I’ve given her enough.

  “A few surveillance clips won’t be conclusive,” she says, testing me.

  “With luck, the person who administered the vapor still carries traces of the toxin. She wasted a significant amount—that’s why the General Secretary survived.”

  Two heartbeats pass.

  Then she turns to Shajun, her voice dropping to an arctic chill. “Take Ruoyu into custody. Have the doctors test her for toxin residue.”

  Her words are ice. Her expression is stone. A chill runs down my spine. I suppress a shiver.

  Shajun leaves without a word.

  Now it’s just the two of us.

  She studies me, her smile still in place—but it’s no longer warmth. It’s calculation. I feel it in my bones: this woman could dismantle me with a whisper.

  “Madam,” I say carefully, “may I report another matter that may be related?”

  “Certainly.” Her approval is measured, but her interest is real.

  “Director Linjun asked me to investigate recent stock market fluctuations. Last night, I detained the FRC vice chairman’s son and Haitong Securities’ trading director for soliciting prostitution. The trading director confessed—they’re engineering a market crash. Coordinating leveraged short positions through foreign and private firms.”

  Her brows knit. Her silence is heavy.

  “Why do you think it’s connected?”

  “I’ve always viewed the stock market’s rise as a signature achievement of Secretary Xi. Undermining it isn’t just economic sabotage—it's an attack on the Secretary's personal reputation.”

  She nods slowly, absorbing.

  “Why were Linjun investigating this? That’s Second Bureau’s purview.”

  “He believes it threatens national security.”

  This time, her nod is decisive.

  “Your new assignment will be in the Second Bureau. Continue the investigation.” Her gaze sharpens. “We may not have proof of his attack on my husband. But politics isn’t a courtroom. We don’t need proof—we need credibility.”

  She looks at me like a blade she’s just honed—ready to wield.

  "Madam," I add, injecting urgency into my voice, "they intend to crash the market in two weeks."

  She rises in one fluid motion. Walks to the window, gazing out into the garden. The sunlight catches her profile—serene, composed, terrifying.

  “Since the founding of the Party, the struggle has never ceased.” Her voice is calm, almost meditative. But beneath it, steel. “Our motherland is strong. The world’s second-largest economy. The largest manufacturing power. Unparalleled resources. The most dedicated people. The East is rising. The West declines. This is a transformation unseen in a century.”

  She turns, her silhouette framed by light.

  “Outside of war, young people have never had a better chance to serve the nation. To rise three ranks in days—such chances are rare outside of battlefield commendations. You must seize this moment. Be loyal to the Party. Be loyal to the General Secretary.”

  I snap to attention. Salute sharply.

  “I am grateful for the Party’s trust. I will spare no effort—even at the cost of my life—to serve the motherland and the General Secretary.”

  She holds my gaze for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then she nods once—a gesture of dismissal and approval in equal measure.

  I turn to leave. But before I do, I catch her reflection in the window.

  She’s smiling again.

  But this time, it’s the smile of someone who’s just seen the battlefield—and knows exactly where to strike.

  I step into the corridor, and the door closes softly behind me.

  My hands are steady.

  But my heart is pounding.

  She bought my story. She'll dig up more evidence that corroborates it. But the story works not because of the evidence—it works because it confirms what she already suspects. What she already hates.

  The political landscape is shifting.

  And in that shift, I’ve become a weapon.

  She will use me.

  Without hesitation.