57: Chapter 57 Being a good person comes at a price.

Washington D.C., J. Edgar Hoover Building.

Jessica Vance slammed the printed PDF file onto the mahogany desk with such force that the coffee cup on the corner of the desk jumped.

The brown liquid splashed out, staining the document bearing the FBI emblem.

"Look at this." Jessica's finger pressed down on Senator Gore's transfer record on the first page.

"Thirty million dollars, plus the attached photos of the biological laboratory. This is treason, sir, this is absolutely treason."

Behind the desk, Assistant Director Rogers slowly took off his reading glasses. His cloudy eyes scanned Jessica's face before finally landing on the stack of papers.

He did not reach for them, but instead picked up a handkerchief and carefully wiped the coffee stains splashed on the desktop.

"Your source." Rogers' voice was flat, devoid of emotion.

"An anonymous email." Jessica took a deep breath, suppressing the fire in her chest.

"But I verified the metadata; it was sent from The Pentagon's internal network. I also had people check that so-called Warehouse No. 3 located by the Potomac River. Although we were blocked at the door, there is indeed abnormal power consumption and military-grade security there."

"In other words, the source of the evidence is illegal." Rogers threw the handkerchief into the trash can and put his glasses back on.

"And you also attempted to spy on a high-level Department of Defense contractor facility without a search warrant."

"Is that the point?" Jessica braced herself against the edge of the desk, leaning forward.

"The point is that our senator is using unidentified funds to sponsor this damn human experiment! The cages in those photos—there are people locked inside!"

"Jessica." Rogers interrupted her, his tone sharpening.

"The midterm elections are in five months. Senator Gore is the Vice Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee. Do you know what that means?"

Jessica was stunned for a moment, then sneered: "It means he can't be investigated?"

"It means that at this critical juncture, any accusation against him will be interpreted as political persecution."

Rogers opened a drawer and took out a suspension notice that had already been printed.

"And, given your recent mental state—especially your morbid obsession with that so-called Robert Chen, I think you need a rest."

He pushed the notice in front of Jessica.

"Hand over your service weapon and badge, Agent Vance. That is an order."

Jessica stared at the paper, as if ten thousand flies were buzzing in her ears.

She looked at Rogers' well-maintained face and suddenly felt that it was just a dead man's face wearing a mask.

This was not a courtroom, nor was it the Hall of Justice; it was just another marketplace for deals.

"Fine." Jessica nodded.

She drew her glock 19 from her waist, ejected the magazine, and slammed the gun and the golden badge heavily onto the table.

The sound of metal hitting wood echoed in the office.

"I quit." She turned and left, slamming the door behind her.

...

Brooklyn, safe house.

The curtains were drawn tightly, leaving only a small gap.

Chen Mo sat on the sofa, swirling a glass of ice water in his hand.

On the laptop screen in front of him, an audio waveform was jumping violently.

It was the sound transmitted in real-time from Jessica's phone microphone.

"I quit."

Hearing this, along with the sound of the door slamming, tinged with tears and anger, the muscles at the corners of Chen Mo's mouth relaxed, revealing a satisfied arc.

"She's a bit more fragile than I imagined." Old George sat to the side, using gun oil to maintain that M870.

"I thought she would pull her gun and blow that fat pig of a director away."

"That's movies, George. The reality is that good people in the system always die the fastest, or rot the fastest."

Chen Mo put down his cup and tapped a few times on the keyboard. "She feels aggrieved, angry, and betrayed by the whole world right now. This is good. Only by completely shattering the old Agent Vance can we piece together a new avenger."

"What are you going to do?" George asked. "That director will definitely suppress the evidence."

"He can't suppress it." Chen Mo pulled up a file from the system space.

It was a "redacted" version of the evidence, made even more sensational by Ava Rockefeller—not only did it include the senator's corruption, but it also specially added a few pieces of forged data involving child vaccine experiments (exaggerated based on real data).

"Ava gave me a few email addresses." Chen Mo said while operating.

"The Washington Post is too old-school; they will verify, they will follow procedures, it's too slow. We need the kind of media that would sell their own mother for traffic."

He moved the mouse to the email addresses of the editors-in-chief of the New York Star and the Truth Exposed website.

"This is Pulitzer Prize-level dirt, even if it is stained with blood." Chen Mo pressed the send key. "The heat is right, George. Pour some water into this pot of boiling oil."

...

8:00 PM that night.

Jessica sat in her 30-square-meter studio apartment, with several empty beer cans scattered at her feet.

The TV was on, playing the evening news.

She felt like a joke.

That mysterious Cleaner had handed the bullets to her, yet she hadn't even disengaged the safety before her gun was confiscated.

"Breaking news."

The TV screen suddenly cut away, the anchor's face pale and excited.

The screen background changed to a huge photo—it was the screenshot of Senator Gore's transfer record, accompanied by a blurry but nightmarish photo of a "biological experiment."

"Just moments ago, several media outlets simultaneously received an anonymous tip accusing Senator Patrick Gore, Vice Chairman of the Senate Armed Services Committee, of major corruption and crimes against humanity..."

Jessica sat up straight abruptly; the beer can in her hand was crushed, and beer spilled all over the floor.

Leaked?

The Cleaner did it?

Just then, heavy footsteps came from the corridor.

Not one person's, but a group's.

Followed by urgent knocking on the door.

"FBI! Open up! Agent Vance, we know you're inside!"

Jessica's heart contracted violently.

That Rogers.

He must think it was her retaliatory act of leaking to the media.

For the FBI, internal leaks are even more unforgivable than corruption.

If it were before, she would have opened the door, explained, and tried to prove her innocence.

But now, looking at Senator Gore's sanctimonious face on TV, and listening to the fierce pounding on the door by her former colleagues, something that had been supporting her snapped.

It was reverence for the rules.

"Fuck the rules." Jessica cursed.

She didn't go to open the door; instead, she rushed toward the fire escape window.

Just as her hand touched the window frame, her phone in her pocket vibrated.

It was a call from an unknown number.

At this moment when everyone was trying to catch her, this phone call seemed particularly jarring.

Jessica looked at the black screen and, as if possessed, pressed the answer button.

"How does it feel?"

The electronically processed voice, like a cold snake, slithered into her ear through the receiver.

It was filled with mockery, derision, and a chilling sense of control.

"It's you." Jessica gritted her teeth, pushed open the window, and cold wind poured in.

"You sent the information to the media? You turned me into a wanted criminal?"

"No, Agent Vance. It was your so-called system of justice that turned you into a wanted criminal."

Chen Mo's voice echoed in the receiver.

"I just wanted you to see clearly that in this rotten game, being a good person is exhausting."

"The price you need to pay is not just your future, but your life."

"Bang!"

The apartment door was smashed open by a battering ram. The SWAT team rushed in.

Jessica flipped out of the window and slid down the rusty fire escape.

Rainwater hit her face; she couldn't tell if it was rain or tears.

"What the hell do you want?" she yelled into the phone, her voice shattering in the wind and rain.

"I want to give you a chance."

The voice became low, filled with a demonic temptation.

"A chance to stop being prey and become a true hunter. Tonight at ten, at the lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, come alone."

The call ended.

Jessica stood in the water-logged alley, with the wailing of sirens overhead and Washington D.C. in the distance, already ignited by the scandal.

She gripped the phone until her knuckles turned white.

She had no choice.

There never was a choice.