110: Chapter 110 The Weight of the Police Badge

The hospital corridor lights were ghastly pale, and the air was filled with a mixture of peracetic acid and the scent of stale flowers.

The small television at the nurse's station had its volume turned up high, the news anchor's excited voice drilling into the ears like an electric drill.

"... This is a historic victory for the NYPD! On New Year's Eve in Times Square, the heroic SWAT team successfully thwarted a terrorist plot targeting civilians.

The Mayor has stated that we will defend the freedom of this city at all costs..."

Chen Mo stood at the entrance of the hospital room, clutching a can of iced coffee he had just bought from the vending machine.

Condensation from the can slid between his fingers and dripped onto the floor.

He glanced at the television screen, which was showing the Siberian Wolf being loaded into a body bag—naturally, it was edited; no one would see the precise bullet hole in the Russian's forehead. The official report was "killed while resisting arrest."

This was the world of adults; as long as the result was good, the process could be painted over at will.

He reached out and pushed open the door.

The single patient room was quiet, with only the monotonous "beep—beep—" sound from the cardiac monitor.

Sergeant Miller lay on the bed like a ragdoll that had been taken apart and haphazardly put back together.

His left leg was suspended in mid-air, and his face was wrapped in gauze, revealing only a swollen right eye and that signature bulbous nose.

His left hand, with its severed finger, was wrapped up like a white boxing glove, looking rather comical.

"Are you here to see if I'm dead yet?" Miller's voice was hoarse, as if his throat were stuffed with sand.

Chen Mo walked over, pulled out a chair, and sat down, placing the can of iced coffee on the bedside table, next to a bouquet of cheap carnations from an unknown sender.

"The doctor says you're tough as nails. You've got another twenty years in you, enough to go and plague the Social Security office for your pension."

Chen Mo fished something out of his pocket and gently placed it on the table, emitting a crisp metallic clatter. "Also, someone asked me to return this to you."

It was Miller's badge.

The bloodstains had been wiped clean, but deep scratches remained on the metal surface—marks left by pliers.

That night in the bunker, this badge had been tossed onto the ground like trash by that Russian bastard.

Miller struggled to turn his head, staring at the badge for a long time.

"What about that Russian?"

"Dead," Chen Mo said nonchalantly. "Died in Times Square. By now, he's probably already been autopsied at the morgue. The official story is that he tried to detonate a dirty bomb and was killed on the spot."

Miller's one good eye moved, staring at Chen Mo's face.

The look was complex, as if he were examining a strange monster.

He certainly knew what the so-called "official story" was all about.

That Russian was a mad dog, carrying dozens of fully armed mercenaries. Even before SWAT could react, this kid had cleaned them all up by himself.

"What did you do before, Robert?" Miller suddenly asked. "Don't give me any of that 'top graduate of the police academy' nonsense. That place couldn't teach someone like you to be such a... butcher."

"I'm a Corpse Collector, sir." Chen Mo leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. "It's just that sometimes, some corpses are still breathing, so I give them a hand."

Miller fell silent.

He wanted to laugh, but three of his ribs were broken, and any slight movement caused piercing pain.

He was an old-school cop, a believer in procedural justice and the sanctity of the law.

But the events of the past few days were like a heavy hammer, smashing his meager faith to pieces.

The law couldn't control the Siberian Wolf; a judge's gavel couldn't shatter a canister filled with nerve gas.

Only a villain worse than the villains, a madman crazier than the madmen, could extinguish the fire in this rotting city.

Miller stared at the ceiling. "Did you hand over the evidence regarding the Gambino Family and that dirty money?"

"I handed over a portion," Chen Mo said frankly. "Enough to send those scapegoats to prison, and enough to give the Mayor some extra talking points for his re-election campaign next year. As for the rest..."

Chen Mo didn't continue, just smiled.

The rest was now part of the "Legacy."

Miller closed his eyes, his chest heaving a few times.

"This world is sick, Robert." The old cop's voice sounded exhausted.

"I used to think police were the medicine; as long as you took the medicine on time, the illness would get better. But these past few days, I've realized that for some rotten flesh, medicine is useless."

He opened his eyes and looked at Chen Mo; the confrontation and vigilance that had always been in his gaze were gone, replaced by a nearly desperate compromise.

"You have to use a scalpel, even if that blade is covered in shit and blood."

Miller reached out with his good right hand, fished a document from under his pillow, and laboriously handed it to Chen Mo.

"What is this?" Chen Mo took it.

"My retirement application, and a letter of recommendation." Miller coughed twice, a sickly flush rising on his face.

"The doctor says my old bones can't take any more abuse. If I go home to tend flowers and walk the dog, I might live a few more years.

The Anti-Gang Unit is a mess right now. The bureaucrats up top only want achievements, and the kids down below just want to save their own skins."

Chen Mo opened the file.

The recommendation letter was signed with Miller's name, the handwriting crooked, but after the "Acting Team Leader" column, the name was written with great force.

"You are a wolf, Robert." Miller stared at him.

"When a wolf gets into a flock of sheep, it either eats them all or helps the shepherd kill the other wolves. I don't care what you're up to in private, and I don't care who you're laundering money for.

As long as you can still clean up scum like the Siberian Wolf, as long as you can make the streets of Brooklyn even just a little bit cleaner than before..."

Miller paused, as if he had exhausted all his strength.

"... this position is yours."

Chen Mo looked at the thin piece of paper in his hand.

This wasn't just a promotion order; it was the key to law enforcement authority in all of Brooklyn.

With this, plus the underworld controlled by Richie, he would be the day and the night of this place.

"You will regret this, Miller." Chen Mo closed the file. "I might turn your Anti-Gang Unit into something else."

"That's your business now." Miller waved his hand and turned his head to the side. "Get out of here, I need to sleep. Also, take that coffee with you; the nurse won't let me drink that stuff."

Chen Mo stood up and placed the badge back by Miller's side.

"Rest well, sir."

He picked up the file and turned to walk out of the room.

The moment the door closed, he heard a long sigh from inside, as if all the resentment of a lifetime had been exhaled.

The corridor remained noisy.

Chen Mo rolled up the recommendation letter and tucked it into his pocket.

He touched his chest, where the USB drive he had taken from the Siberian Wolf was kept—regarding Lone Star Energy, regarding Texas, regarding that even greater conspiracy.

Brooklyn was just the beginning.