The precinct is a study in faded green paint and slow-turning ceiling fans that do little more than stir the thick air. It smells of stale sweat, cheap instant coffee, and the faint, metallic tang of fear. We are separated without ceremony. I’m led to a small, windowless room with a scarred metal table and two chairs. The fluorescent light hums a flat, monotonous note that drills into my skull.
The questioning is a dull, procedural blade. A young officer with tired eyes takes my statement. I feed him the story of a random, drunken vagrant, a mistaken identity, a demand for money, a brief, one-sided assault. I paint myself as the bewildered victim, the promising student caught in the wrong place at the wrong time. I emphasize my upcoming overseas departure, my scholarship, my ‘clean’ record—the pristine, public-facing narrative.
The officer listens, scribbling notes, his expression neutral. When he leaves the room, the silence stretches. I know the drill. This is the space where they investigate and cross reference your story from multiple facets. You might have heard of a story where you can bribe them, but it’s all a scam. The money means nothing to their career but a variable that will bite them later.
When the officer returns, our eyes meet. A flicker of understanding. The officer’s hand taps on the table twice before he speaks. “Try to stay out of trouble, young man.” His voice devoid of all previous bureaucratic stiffness. “The streets are unpredictable.”
“Am I free to go, officer?”
“Well, we need to finalize the record, and this is the night shift so…”
I inhale sharply and smile. “I’ll wait then.”
After half an hour of complete silence—the officer is playing some games on his phone though—they let me go. As I’m escorted out, Elise is also walking out from her room, an older female officer is with her. She has a stern, weathered face and her hair is pulled into a severe gray bun that falls into step beside them. She delivers the standard, robotic lecture about public disturbance and civic responsibility. But as we reach the heavy double doors leading to the parking lot, her hand comes to rest on my shoulder. The grip is firm, possessive.
She leans in, her voice dropping to a whisper that is for me alone. “You are about to go overseas,” she says.Her eyes stare straight at mine. “Don’t mess things up.”
I give her a reassuring nod. The night air of the parking lot feels like a physical release, but the freedom is an illusion. The moment the precinct doors swing shut behind us, I turn to Elise, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Did you see her?” I ask, my voice low and urgent. My eyes dart towards the female officer’s back.
“See who?”
“The female officer. The one who just gave us the ‘be good’ speech—” I let the implication hang for a beat “—is Aunty Three’s sister.”
Elise’s eyes widen. “What? But I thought—”
“That’s why going to the police is fucking useless,” I cut her off, the frustration in my voice real, even if its source is manufactured. “She’s not just some cop. She is the Dragon, or at least its longest, most poisonous tooth inside the machine. She’s the one who kept my juvenile record clean. She’s the one who made Brooke’s investigation go away. She’s everywhere.” I run a hand through my hair. “This whole thing… is a web. And we’re stuck in the middle of it.”
I start walking, forcing her to keep pace. These events have crashed over me in waves, and this isn’t over yet. “Think about it,”I say, my words coming in a rapid, low torrent. “It starts with the key, planted in my shop. Then you appear, with your thesis and your questions. Then Brooke’s father attacks me, and you’re there. We get blackmailed with a video of me cleaning up his attack. We find money in Brooke’s apartment—money that conveniently solves our blackmail problem. And now, my own father, a ghost I haven’t seen in years, is used as a pawn to deliver us right into the hands of a police force that Aunty Three’s sister owns.”
I stop, turning to face her under the sickly yellow glow of a streetlamp. “This isn’t a coincidence. This is a campaign. Someone is systematically dismantling my life, piece by piece. The Jade Dragon testing my loyalty, Brooke’s family seeking revenge, or…” I let my gaze hold hers, “…something else entirely. But the danger isn’t over. The blackmailer still has the footage. They didn’t want the money. They wanted me back.”
I hold her hands. “I’m scared, Elise. I don’t want to go back.”
“Then don’t,” she whispers. Then her hands hook below mine.
I welcome her embrace. “It’s not that easy. They always get what they want. What if they show the footage of you fighting uncle Tam next?”
“We are fucked, nonetheless,” she whispers. “Let’s see if they keep pushing us for money or not. Maybe you’re overthinking. Maybe they just want the money.”
I can feel she’s shaking in my arms. Grabbing her shoulder and looking straight into her eyes, I say, “I pull you into this. I need to prepare you for whatever to come.”
“What do you mean?”
“Tomorrow,” I say, my voice dropping to a quiet, determined finality. “Meet me here, eleven am.” I hand her a business card. “I’ll show you how to throw a punch, and when to flee.”
He named the web
only after he was already inside it.
That is always
how it works.
The campaign
reveals itself
at the moment
it no longer needs
to stay hidden.
— AËLA
I feel the clock ticking.....time is running short.