Mike stopped in the shadows of the back alley, his eyes locked onto the backyard of the old bookstore.
It was a dilapidated factory building that had been converted into a “warehouse.”
The factory’s exterior walls were mottled and peeling.
The only entrance was a heavy metal rolling shutter door, with a smaller side door next to it just wide enough for one person.
Just as the system had warned, surveillance cameras were installed on the corners of the walls and above the entrance, their lenses covering every possible angle of approach.
Mike couldn’t get too close.
In the thirty seconds he spent pretending to pass by, he could only take a few rough glances.
As he walked past, he saw two muscular men out of the corner of his eye.
They emerged from a small door on the side of the factory and leaned against the wall to smoke.
One of them scanned the street from time to time with a very alert gaze.
There was a bulge at his waist; he was likely armed.
The security was tight.
The risk of a forced entry was extremely high.
Mike didn’t stop walking.
After returning to his car, he calmly recalled the details, feeling that there were still a few corners of the buildings and the “warehouse” he hadn’t seen clearly.
During his lunch break on a workday, Mike and his partner Frank finished their pizza.
Claiming he wanted to look at the new phone models, Mike ran to a mall and bought a small digital camera with a night vision function.
That night, Mike drove to the park.
From a distance on either side of the alley, he recorded several videos of the factory perimeter, the camera positions, and the guards’ activity area.
He didn’t stay long; after gathering some basic visual data, he left immediately.
On the second workday, Mike participated in his first night shift patrol.
After it ended, he changed into civilian clothes and returned to the vicinity of the arts district.
This time, he didn’t try to approach the back alley.
Instead, he circled around to a five-story apartment building adjacent to the bookstore factory.
The building looked quite old, its fire escape rusted.
Avoiding any potential eyes, he nimbly climbed the fire escape until he reached a height roughly level with the factory roof.
This was a spot he had discovered after studying the previous day’s videos and map data—it was inconspicuous but offered an excellent vantage point, allowing him to see the warehouse entrance and most of the inner courtyard clearly.
Hiding in the shadows of the fire escape, he set up his small camera and started recording.
Then, he slipped back to his car and used binoculars to watch the apartment building from a position invisible to the warehouse.
Two hours later, his phone alarm went off.
Mike, who was already feeling drowsy, let out a yawn and checked the time.
He got out of the car, walked over, avoided the cameras, and retrieved the device.
Back at his apartment, Mike was exhausted.
He didn’t even bother checking the footage before collapsing onto his bed and falling fast asleep.
The next day, after finishing his patrol and returning home, Mike finally took out the camera and connected it to his long-unused second-hand laptop.
He watched the recording while he ate.
Most of the two-hour video was uneventful, showing only one guard shift change and two brief transactions with suspected “customers.” At around the one-hour and forty-minute mark, a black van drove into the back alley and stopped in front of the factory’s rolling shutter.
The shutter door slowly rose, the van entered the courtyard, and the door immediately lowered behind it.
Two guards and the driver, who had stepped out of the cab, worked together to unload several cardboard boxes from the van and quickly move them into the factory. Follow the newest chapters on g.com.
The entire process took less than five minutes.
The camera’s night vision recorded this as clearly as possible.
Although he couldn’t see the contents of the boxes or the faces of the individuals clearly, he was only scouting, not building a legal case.
This was enough.
After seeing the van, Mike lost all desire to sleep and repeatedly rewatched the recorded video.
There were at least four guards, split into two shifts.
The approximate timing of the shifts and the specific directions of the surveillance cameras were now fairly clear.
Finally, Mike focused his attention on that black van.
The following day shift was relatively quiet.
Until about three in the afternoon, the radio crackled with a call from dispatch: “7-Adam-5, 7-Adam-5, come in.”
Frank grabbed the radio.
“7-Adam-5, receiving.”
“7-Adam-5, Code 10-55, address is 12 Bayview Terrace.
I repeat, Code 10-55, 12 Bayview Terrace.
Caller reports a deceased resident.
Respond immediately to secure the scene.”
“…Deceased resident, secure the scene, copy that,” Frank repeated, his expression turning serious as he flipped on the siren.
“Looks like your orientation period is over, newbie.”
Mike shrugged.
Bayview Terrace was a row-house residential area for the middle class.
The streets were clean and quiet, lined with lush trees.
Number 12 was a well-maintained two-story house.
A patrol car had already arrived and was parked out front; an officer was already stringing up yellow tape at the door.
Mike and Frank parked their car, ducked under the tape, and were met by the first officer on the scene, a young Black officer named Davis.
“Frank, Mike,” Davis greeted them, lowering his voice.
“The person who reported it is the cleaning lady who comes regularly.
The deceased is the homeowner—male, lived alone.
He’s in the second-floor bedroom.
It looks…
pretty bad.”
They followed Davis into the house.
The interior was elegantly decorated, but the air was currently filled with a faint scent of blood.
When they were halfway up the stairs, they saw the master bedroom, and the sight made Mike’s pupils contract.
A middle-aged white male in a dressing gown lay on the carpet by the bed, resting in a large pool of dried, blackened blood.
There were multiple sharp-force wounds on his chest, and signs of struggle and dragging nearby.
The room showed signs of being tossed—drawers pulled open, items scattered—but it wasn’t extremely chaotic.
Frank scanned the room, his experienced eyes ensuring he didn’t touch anything.
He simply said to Mike, “Alright, newbie.
If you’ve seen enough, get out.
Our job is to hold the perimeter and make sure no one messes up the scene before the guys with the magnifying glasses get here.”
The two retreated outside and took over for Davis, standing guard to maintain order and log the arrival of subsequent support personnel.
Davis turned away the curious neighbors, but he couldn’t stop the residents from standing in their own doorways or yards to watch from afar, whispering among themselves.
Davis’s team bought Frank and Mike coffee before they left.
The guard duty was long and tedious.
Mike suddenly understood how those two guards at the “warehouse” felt when they came out for fresh air.
Frank leaned against the patrol car and lit a cigarette.
“How’s the search for your new place going?
This area is nice—way better than that doghouse you’re in now.”
Mike looked around at the quiet streets, the tidy houses, and the relatively safe community environment.
It was indeed worlds apart from his apartment that smelled of mold and noise.
A safer, more private residence would also benefit his nighttime activities.
The illicit funds from the previous system quest gave him the ability to improve his living conditions; he just had to be careful not to exceed his visible means too much.
Plus, the NYPD paid bi-weekly, so he’d have to wait a few days to spend the cash anyway.
After all, the “lively youths” of America rarely had a habit of saving money.
Mike nodded.
“I’m thinking about moving.
In a neighborhood like this…
you won’t have people leaking water into your ceiling or throwing raves upstairs.”
Frank blew out a puff of smoke and chuckled.
“For an ambitious young guy like you, living here actually makes sense.
At least you won’t get a noise complaint for hosting a small party.”
He paused, then asked, “Rent around here isn’t cheap.
You got some family money, kid?”
“Where would I get family money?
You know my situation.
I just feel like I need a change of environment, and I can find something affordable.” Mike didn’t answer directly, his gaze drifting back to the small house where the murder had occurred.
“But looking at this, even the best neighborhoods have their risks.”
Frank threw his cigarette butt on the ground and crushed it with his boot.
“Wherever there are people, there are risks.”
Mike was momentarily dazed, two phrases flashing through his mind:
Where there are people, there is a world of conflict.
And if you drift through that world, you’re bound to get cut.