50: Chapter 50 That figure looked familiar.

FBI New York Field Office, Intelligence Analysis Room.

The air conditioning was set to full blast; the only sound was the low-frequency hum from the server racks.

The cup of instant coffee in Jessica Vance's hand had long since gone cold, a brown film of oil forming on the surface, but she hadn't taken a single sip.

Her eyes were locked onto the three high-definition monitors in front of her.

The screen was looping the surveillance footage from last night's shooting at The Metropolitan Museum of Art.

It was footage that had been restored and noise-reduced by the technical department; the originally blurry pixels had been filled in by intelligent algorithms. Although still slightly distorted, it was clear enough to make out many details.

The footage froze.

A man in a bespoke suit was leaping into the air.

His right knee, like a heavy hammer, slammed fiercely into the face of the assassin disguised as a bodyguard.

Jessica had already watched this frame at least fifty times.

"Power, speed, explosive force."

Jessica tapped on the keyboard, zooming in on the footage. The cursor landed on the man's point of leverage—the exact moment his right foot pushed off the ground, a circle of fine cracks appeared on the base of the marble sculpture.

This was absolutely not standard Close Quarters Combat (CQC).

The stuff taught at the police academy was only good for subduing drunks or thieves. This kind of ruthless move, involving instantaneous bursts and one-hit kills at extremely close range, was more like that of a veteran who had crawled out of a pile of corpses, or... a professional assassin.

"Extract this figure and create a gait and skeletal model," Jessica ordered into the microphone.

A blue 3D human model appeared on the screen, rotating continuously.

The system began comparing it against the FBI's massive database.

The progress bar crawled upward slowly.

Jessica took a top-secret file out of the drawer.

The cover of the file bore the CIA watermark. The man in the photo was smiling with an innocent expression, even carrying a hint of worldliness and sleaze.

Robert Chen.

The CIA risk assessment report had a big "D+" written on it.

The comments were glaring: Greedy, shortsighted, opportunist, easily controlled.

"Would a greedy dirty cop risk his life to save a capitalist's daughter?"

Jessica sneered and slammed the file onto the table. "Those psychologists at the CIA are all idiots."

"Beep—"

The computer emitted a crisp alert sound; the comparison results were in.

Jessica snapped her head up.

On the left side of the screen was the "mysterious hero" from the surveillance footage; on the right was the surveillance record of Robert Chen on his daily patrol at the police station.

Match rate: 81.4%.

The remaining less than 20% difference was because the man in the surveillance footage had deliberately lowered his center of gravity after being injured, or perhaps it was a visual error caused by the suit's tailoring.

Jessica felt her scalp tingle.

If these two people were the same, it meant that the little cop who spent his days slacking off at the precinct, nodding and bowing to his superiors, and selling out leads for a few hundred bucks, was actually a wolf in sheep's clothing.

What was even scarier was that he was hiding his true capabilities.

Why would someone with such skills disguise himself as a loser? What was he plotting?

Jessica recalled the look in his eyes that day at the charity gala when he saw through her undercover identity in an instant.

There was no greed in that look, no fear, only a kind of condescending... playfulness.

Just like a cat watching a mouse.

"Robert Chen..." Jessica drew her glock from its holster, checked the magazine, and then sheathed it again. "Who exactly are you?"

She grabbed her car keys and strode out of the analysis room.

...

New York Police Department, 127th Precinct.

Although the old office building had been bombed into ruins, the operation of the precinct had not stopped.

The temporary office was set up in an abandoned office building two blocks away.

Chen Mo sat at a desk by the window, his left arm wrapped in thick bandages, with a spot of crimson blood seeping through.

He was clumsily typing on the keyboard with his right hand, filling out the action report for last night.

"Hey, Robert! The captain said that in light of your heroic performance last night, Internal Affairs has decided to drop the previous investigation into your misconduct!"

A fat officer walked by and slapped Chen Mo's uninjured right shoulder hard, nearly shaking the coffee out of his hand.

"That's good, that's good. It would be even better if there was a bonus."

Chen Mo winced and rubbed his shoulder, putting on the typical expression of a money-grubbing commoner. "A medal alone won't put food on the table."

"You kid, you saved the eldest daughter of the Rockefeller Family, and you're still worried about money?" The fat officer winked.

"I heard that young lady called the captain personally and praised you to the high heavens."

Chen Mo chuckled and didn't respond, lowering his head to continue struggling with that damned report.

Only he knew that this injured left hand wasn't as clumsy as it looked.

[Law of Silence] was quietly operating, controlling the muscle contractions around the wound to reduce bleeding while simultaneously blocking most of the pain.

He had offered himself up to take that shot last night.

In this city filled with surveillance, it was impossible to remain completely invisible.

Since he couldn't hide, he would just change his "skin."

A lousy cop who had decent skills but occasionally played the "hero" due to greed and impulsiveness was much more reassuring than a ghost that left no trace.

Especially for the FBI.

"It seems our hero detective is in a good mood."

A cold, clear female voice sounded above him.

Chen Mo's fingers paused on the keyboard for half a second, then he looked up with a surprised expression.

Jessica Vance was wearing a dark grey trench coat, hands in her pockets, standing in front of the desk.

Her eyes were like two scalpels, trying to dissect the mask on Chen Mo's face.

"Agent Vance?" Chen Mo tried to stand up, but pulled on his wound, letting out an exaggerated gasp.

"Hiss—sorry, the wound hurts a bit. Why are you here? If it's about the statement, I've already handed it to your people."

"I didn't come for the statement." Jessica pulled up a chair and sat directly across from Chen Mo, the distance between them less than half a meter.

She had a faint scent of tobacco on her, mixed with the smell of cheap coffee.

"I'm here to check on the wounded." Jessica's gaze fell on Chen Mo's left arm, which was wrapped in bandages.

"I heard you took out three professional assassins single-handedly last night? Good marksmanship."

"Luck, pure luck." Chen Mo waved his hand, speaking in a tone of lingering fear.

"My head just got hot and I rushed out. You know, that Ms. Ava... if she had died right next to me, I wouldn't have been able to make a living in this city for the rest of my life. That's a Rockefeller!"

"Was it to save someone, or for something else?" Jessica suddenly leaned forward, lowering her voice.

"I watched the surveillance footage. That knee strike you used to take out the first assassin was very standard. And that over-the-shoulder throw, textbook CQC."

Chen Mo froze for a moment, then gave a bitter smile: "Agent, I got an A in my combat class back at the police academy.

Although I've put on some weight since then, the foundation is still there. Besides, when a person's adrenaline is spiking in that kind of situation, what move can't they pull off?"

"Is that so?" Jessica stared into his eyes.

"But I checked your file. Your close-quarters combat grade in the police academy was indeed an A, but your instructor commented that your movements were stiff and lacked practical adaptability.

Yet the person in the surveillance footage last night moved like flowing water, just like a killing machine."

The air froze for a few seconds.

The noisy sounds of ringing phones and conversations around them seemed to vanish.

Chen Mo pushed up the gold-rimmed glasses on the bridge of his nose, the reflection on the lenses hiding the flash of coldness in his eyes.

This woman was even sharper than he had imagined.

"People change, Agent Vance."

Chen Mo sighed and fished a crushed pack of Marlboros out of his pocket, trying to pull one out, but maneuvering with one hand was a bit difficult.

"After spending so much time in places like the morgue and seeing so many corpses, you have to learn some survival skills.

You know, in a hellhole like the Red Hook District, you have to carry a gun just to go out and buy a pack of cigarettes at night."

He held the cigarette in his mouth but didn't light it, merely chewing on the filter.

"Besides, those three assassins had their attention on Ava at the time; I just launched a surprise attack.

If it had been a head-on confrontation, I should already be lying in George's freezer by now."

These words were reasonable, even carrying a hint of self-deprecation.

But Jessica didn't believe a word of it.

She reached out, her fingertips hovering lightly above Chen Mo's injured left arm; she didn't actually touch the bandages, but the sense of oppression was palpable.

"How deep is the wound?" she asked.

"Through-and-through wound, didn't hit the bone, eight stitches," Chen Mo answered fluently.

"The bullet entered from the left side," Jessica suddenly said, her speaking speed increasing.

"At that time, you were facing two assassins head-on. According to the positioning, if you were trying to cover Ava, you should have dodged to the right.

But the surveillance shows that you actively moved into it, and your body shifted five centimeters to the left."

Chen Mo's chewing of the filter stopped.

"Those five centimeters were just enough for the bullet to miss the brachial artery and the bone."

Jessica's eyes narrowed. "Officer Chen, is your luck... perhaps too good?"

"Or rather, is this not luck at all, but calculation?"

This was the real killer move.

She didn't just suspect his skills; she suspected that this whole "hero saving the beauty" was a carefully designed script.

Chen Mo looked at the aggressive female agent in front of him. Instead of feeling panicked, he felt a sense of pleasure at finding a worthy opponent.

Too smart.

Unfortunately, smart prey is often the first to fall into the trap.

"Calculation?" Chen Mo laughed out loud, laughing so hard that his wound twitched.

"Agent, you overestimate me. In that kind of situation, with bullets flying everywhere, who has the mind to calculate five centimeters? If I had that kind of ability, I would have gone to Wall Street to be an actuary long ago, instead of being a lousy cop here?"

He paused, put away his smile, and showed a perfectly measured look of exhaustion and a hint of indignation at being wronged.

"I just didn't want to die. Shifting left was because my gun was in my right hand; it was instinct.

If you insist on thinking I'm some super agent or hidden master, then I can only say you've watched too many Hollywood blockbusters."

Chen Mo used his right hand to pick up the lighter and, with a "click," lit the cigarette in his mouth.

Blue smoke rose between them, blurring his expression.

"Besides, if I were really the kind of person you think I am, I wouldn't be sitting here writing this damned report, worrying about a few hundred bucks in overtime pay."

Jessica was silent.

Logically, what Chen Mo said made sense.

The CIA file, his daily behavior at the police station, and that worldly, sleazy demeanor were all disconnected from the cold-blooded assassin image from last night.

Could it be that she was just overthinking it?

Was it really just an extraordinary performance brought on by an adrenaline rush?

Jessica withdrew her hand and leaned back in her chair, her tense shoulders relaxing slightly.

But the suspicion in her eyes did not completely dissipate.

"Maybe." Jessica said flatly.

"However, New York hasn't been peaceful lately. The shadow of Ouroboros is everywhere, and the police department isn't clean either.

A hero who suddenly pops up like you is very likely to become a target."

"Thanks for the reminder." Chen Mo exhaled a smoke ring. "That's why I plan to apply for a long vacation and go to Miami to soak up some sun; this hellhole is too cold."

Jessica stood up and adjusted the collar of her trench coat.

"Officer Chen, your wound... doesn't look like an accident." She suddenly threw out one last thorn, her tone calm, but her eyes sharp as a knife.

"At that angle, if it were an instinctive dodge, the wound should be jagged, but the edges of your wound are very neat."

Chen Mo's fingers holding the cigarette didn't tremble in the slightest.

He looked up, meeting Jessica's gaze, chuckled, and nonchalantly pulled the coat draped over his shoulders to cover his injured arm.

"Agent, in this city, there are too many accidents."

His voice was low, carrying a meaningful rasp.

"Sometimes, surviving itself is an accident, don't you think?"

Jessica gave him a long look, said nothing more, and turned to walk toward the door.

The sound of her high heels hitting the floor was crisp and rhythmic, each step seeming to tread on one's heartstrings.

Not until her back profile disappeared around the corner did the worldly, sleazy smile on Chen Mo's face slowly fade away.

He stubbed the half-smoked cigarette into the ashtray, using enough force to crush the filter to pieces.

"Too close."

Chen Mo muttered to himself.

Jessica Vance was even sharper than he had anticipated.

She had already touched the edge of the truth, missing only the final piece of the puzzle.

If she had just persisted a little longer a moment ago, or forcibly unwrapped his bandages to check the healing of the wound—with his current Lv3 constitution and the boost from [Law of Silence], the wound's healing speed was far beyond that of an ordinary person—then all his disguises would have collapsed in an instant.

But this was exactly what he wanted.

A perfect illusion always needs to leave a few flaws to make people believe it's real.

Let her suspect, let her investigate, let her focus all her energy on this persona of a "skilled but greedy and cowardly" dirty cop.

As long as she was still hung up on whether "Robert Chen was hiding his true capabilities," she would never associate him with the Master of the Legacy who sat behind the scenes pulling all the strings.

Chen Mo picked up the phone on the table with his uninjured right hand; the screen displayed an encrypted message he had just received.

The sender was Jack Martin.

The content was only a short line:

"The bait has been cast; the shark has smelled the blood."

A cold arc curled at the corner of Chen Mo's mouth.

Jessica was investigating him, and he was hunting the entire Wall Street.

"The game has only just begun, good girl."

He turned off the phone, picked up the half-written report again, and his face once again displayed that look of misery typical of a small-timer struggling for a living.

Outside the window, the night in New York was deep, and the neon lights reflected a blurry face on the glass.

Who is the hunter and who is the prey, it's too early to draw a conclusion now.