The Crime Leveling System

On the outskirts of Los Angeles, night fell like a damp blanket over the forest. The wind swept through the treetops, carrying with it the pungent scent of resin and the dampness of the earth. Occasionally, the wind rattled against the tin and glass of the cabin, producing faint clinks. Deep within the woods, a light shone from the cabin, its glow seeping through the cracks in the windows like restless threads and slicing the darkness into fragmented pieces. Waves of exaggerated laughter erupted from the cabin as if someone had deliberately amplified the joy for the world to hear. Someone slammed the table, others cheered, and excitement twisted into shrill shouts. But this laughter isn't pure; it carries the scent of alcohol, m*******a and money just snatched from someone else. “We're rich!” 'Hahaha, three million, eight hundred thousand! A full three million, eight hundred thousand bucks! Think of all the women we can sleep with!” The spread of dollar bills nearly obscures the wood grain; green paper is stacked into small mountains. Several black men crowded around the table, their fingers pinching burning m*******a joints and their eyes glowing like fire. They grabbed handfuls of cash and flung it wildly into the air. Then they pressed the bills that landed in their palms to their lips as if kissing something sacred. Smoke swirled under the light, mingling with sweat and cheap perfume, making it hard to breathe. Meanwhile, in the woods outside, Victor stood in the shadows, just seventy or eighty yards from the cabin. He didn't approach immediately, but lowered his head as if piecing together a shattered reality. First came the trees: thick trunks, damp moss and earth blanketed by fallen leaves. Only when he lifted his gaze did the cabin, the pickup truck, the oil drum and the revelry spilling out from within come into view. Everything fit the scene yet clashed violently with the life he’d known just seconds before. 'Where the hell am I?' he muttered hoarsely, his voice half-swallowed by the wind. An even more absurd thought popped into his head: 'Where's the big-titted foreign chick I paid a fortune for?' He almost laughed at his own words, but before the amusement could surface, a chill shot up his spine. He shivered instinctively as if some strange ritual had just ended and his body was reminding him directly of the pain, the cold, the dampness in his breath and the sticky mud beneath his shoes — all so real and undeniable. Victor closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, he no longer deceived himself. He knew what this feeling meant: Time travel. The word sounded as absurd as a story from a late-night radio show, yet here it was, happening to him. He raised his hands to his face and examined them closely by moonlight. The lines on his palms were fresh; his knuckles were free of old injuries; and his skin was devoid of the calluses and cuts forged by years of training and combat. Even worse, his body had changed too. Using a nearby tree as a reference point, he straightened his spine and felt a surge of strength fill his chest. His frame broadened, his shoulders thickened and his muscles tightened as if he were encased in a more formidable shell. His former sickly form seemed confined to a dark, distant dream. In his dreams, he was an orphan who was taken from an orphanage at the age of eight or nine and brought to a remote island overseas. There, he had no childhood, only rules, punishments and endless rounds of selection. His physique made him unsuited to close combat, but he had a precise aim and a sharp mind. He learned to survive among cannon fodder, to hide his emotions and to clean up every mission site until it looked untouched. 'Cleaner' — this unassuming title was his reason for staying alive in that place. Before his journey, he had just finished a job and, as usual, sought a woman to calm his frayed nerves. Money was exchanged, the door was shut and his trousers were halfway down when darkness engulfed him. When he opened his eyes again, he was greeted by forests, log cabins, laughter and unfamiliar air—the world had flung him from one cage into another. He should have felt relieved — at least he wouldn't have to risk his life for money like a rat in the sewers anymore. But that fleeting gratitude was quickly crushed by reality. He thought about the blonde girl, the money he'd already paid and the fact that he hadn't even had a chance to catch his breath. 'f*****g hell,' he muttered, as if telling a not-quite-funny joke. As he became calm again, Victor sensed another stream of memories churning deep within his mind — those belonging to the body's original owner. But these fragments flashed by like torn film reels, each frame blurring into the next. Unable to grasp their essence, he set the chaotic memories aside for now, letting his old professional instincts take control. He began to observe. This forest was remote. There were no fresh footprints on the ground, and the wind carried none of the city's petrol fumes. The cabin must be far from the highway — ideal for hiding and for delaying discovery until long after trouble had struck. Inside, at least six or seven people moved around, their laughter punctuated by the clink of metal and the rustle of banknotes. Two pick-up trucks sat outside with their doors wide open, seemingly undisturbed by the possibility of intruders. Half-height oil drums filled the truck beds and the tyres were still caked with fresh mud — proof that they had arrived recently. Combined with the boasts inside about a heist involving three million eight hundred thousand, the answer was obvious: this was a g**g of robbers hiding out here to lie low after pulling off a heist. The question was, who was he? He recalled waking up in this body while relieving himself in the woods. This detail sparked an ominous suspicion: the original owner was probably an accomplice who had temporarily left the cabin, only for him to be handed the body. His fingers darted to his waist and brushed against cold metal: an M1911 pistol with a fully loaded magazine. Another full spare magazine lay in his pocket. “f**k!” Victor's temper flared instantly. 'I was a cleaner in my last life, and now I'm a robber in this one? Am I doomed to live by the sword forever?” " After swearing, Victor reluctantly rummaged further in his left pocket. His fingertips brushed against the stiff edge of leather. He pulled it out and found an ID card bearing the Los Angeles Police Department insignia on its cover. He froze. He flipped open the badge. The photo and name were clear: 'Los Angeles Police Department, Narcotics and Organized Crime Division, Detective.' “Victor.” He murmured his own name, as if confirming some absurd coincidence. The man in the photo had black hair and blue eyes. His facial features were sharp and angular, giving him the cold, Roman statue-like severity of a criminal. He reached up, plucked a strand of hair from his head and twisted it between his fingers — black. He exhaled slowly; the unease in his chest was slightly subdued — at least he wasn't a robber. He was a detective. Then this scene had another explanation: the original owner had tracked this group here but, at the critical moment, left due to a sudden urge to urinate, giving fate a chance to intervene. Inside, the room erupted into louder clamour as the g**g fantasised about how they would spend the money once things had died down: cars, parties, women... like flipping through random menus. Victor listened intently, the grooves of the g*n handle itching under his fingers. Three million, eight hundred thousand dollars. This sum clanged in his mind like a coin — a sum he might never have saved through hundreds of missions in his past life. Being a detective could sustain him, but to live with dignity, free from others' whims and to hold his own fate in his hands, that would require money. He stared at the cabin window as a voice whispered inside him: 'Solving cases and climbing the ranks is slow — as slow as waiting for someone who'll never show up on time. But ripping off other criminals is fast — as fast as pulling the trigger.' Once that thought took root, it refused to leave, crawling around in his mind like ants, gnawing away at his reason bit by bit. Victor raised his g*n with the ease of breathing. He c****d the pistol, swapped in a spare magazine and confirmed that the firepower was at its maximum before creeping along the wall towards the window. Inside the cabin were seven men, all black. Six of them were huddled around a table; one was clutching cash in one hand and pinching m*******a in the other, grinning like lottery winners. The seventh man was exceptionally massive, with muscles like molten iron poured into moulds. He had his feet planted on wooden pegs and was exhaling smoke slowly from a cigar clamped between his fingers. His expression radiated habitual dominance. The moment Victor saw him, a thought flashed through his mind: Marcus, the small-time g**g leader. This sense of familiarity — 'I know you' — didn't come from his past life, but from the memories of this body's original owner. It was more like the reaction of a detective who remembers targets, suspects' faces and the names of street g**g leaders. Even more baffling was how cocky these robbers were — they didn't even keep their guns close. Long and short firearms had been casually tossed behind chairs like discarded tools. Not a single lookout had been posted at the door. Victor sighed inwardly. This wasn't defence; it was an invitation. He quickly mapped out angles and lines of fire in his mind after opening the door, memorising each person's position. Suppressing his breathing to a whisper, he moved towards the entrance. The next second, he lifted his foot. The wooden door kicked open and slammed against the wall with a dull thud. Everyone inside turned almost simultaneously, their laughter abruptly halting. They saw Victor. Some froze, some frowned and some couldn't hide the smile still playing on their lips. Marcus lifted his chin, a speck of cigar ash falling from it. His tone dripped with impatience. 'Victor, what the hell—' Gunshots cut him off. The first shot sent the nearest man reeling and the cash scattered from his grasp. The second shot made another man reach for the g*n behind his chair; his fingers went limp the moment they touched the stock. The third shot, the fourth shot... Victor's arm was as steady as a steel cable; the muzzle barely shifted. Each c***k of the g*n was met by another body hitting the floor. Inside, some screamed in agony, some tried to run for the side door and others froze to the spot. But they weren't facing a partner blinded by greed — they were facing a man for whom pulling the trigger was routine. Victor fired seven shots in succession, his movements fluid and seamless. His gaze was as cold as the night outside and required no emotional fuel. The last man was struck in the chest. The room fell silent, only the soft patter of falling bills and the gurgling sound of blood surging out could be heard. Marcus received special attention: two bullets to the chest. Yet his body didn't collapse immediately, and this resilience now felt like t*****e. He fell to the floor, gasping like a leaking machine, his eyes fixed on Victor. At close range, the .45 calibre bullets were brutal. Flesh was chiselled open and blood soaked through clothing instantly. Hot air and the stench of blood assaulted the senses. The cabin, which had moments ago felt like a party venue, had now transformed into a stifling slaughterhouse. The cloying sweetness of m*******a mingled with the acrid stench of gunpowder, layered over the nauseating tang of blood. Marcus struggled to raise his hand, his fingers trembling as if grasping for something. In the end, however, they only pointed at Victor. Blood gushed from his mouth and his voice was hoarse and barely audible. Victor stepped closer, whistling softly to himself as if finding his rhythm. He reloaded the magazine, crouched down and brought his gaze level with Marcus's. 'Never seen a cop double-crossing his own kind?' His tone was light, almost conversational. 'Why the wide-eyed look?' Marcus coughed violently, his body shaking as blood-tinged foam spilled from the corners of his mouth. He managed to force out a profanity-laced sentence in English, as if expelling his last breath. “Fuck... I sent you to infiltrate the detective bureau... You bastard! You actually had the nerve to double-cross me!” Victor's expression went blank for a moment. It wasn't guilt, but pure surprise. He looked as if he had just received a long-overdue notification — the kind that could be deadly. 'f**k,' he muttered, his teeth clenched. 'I've been double-crossing people, and you're telling me now that I was the one planted as an undercover agent in the detective bureau?' His mind churned like a blender, memories jumbled — the original host's past, Marcus's leverage, the police department's hidden connections — all scattered fragments yet to fuse. Logically, he should interrogate, extract information and calculate the risks, but reality struck faster. Everyone who knew the truth lay in this room, most likely core members of Marcus's team. Now that they were all dead, the so-called leverage was just a mouth that could talk — and that mouth was right in front of him, still bleeding. Victor looked at Marcus, his eyes devoid of emotion. 'Your luck is terrible. My memories didn't get to turn you in before you walked right into my hands.' He raised the g*n without hesitation. A shot rang out, followed by a brief silence; the room fell completely still. Victor stood up and massaged his temples. The lingering dizziness from the fusion still pounded in his head, but he forced himself to ignore it. Once he began the clean-up, his movements would have to be clean and decisive. Otherwise, trouble would seep through the cracks. He fished a cigarette from his pocket, lit it and took a drag. It was only when the smoke filled his lungs that he felt truly alive. Then he grabbed the prepared backpack nearby and began stuffing wads of cash inside. The bills felt dry and coarse, like stacks of thin stones. Most were twenty-dollar bills, with a few hundred-dollar notes mixed in. Fifty-dollar and five-dollar bills were almost non-existent. Stacked together, over a hundred thousand bills no longer felt like wealth, but like a burden. The weight of over three million dollars approached two hundred pounds. Victor packed two large backpacks in succession, the straps digging into his flesh and making his eye twitch slightly, but he didn't complain. Complaining was for the weak. Next came clean-up, the task he knew best from his past life. First, he polished the g*n until it gleamed, wiping away any possible traces. Then he placed it in the hand of one of the dead men, staging it to look like a shootout. Next, he searched every pocket for IDs, communication devices or anything else that could link him to the scene. Upon finding such items, he smashed them, screens cracking and plastic casings shattering into white fragments. He piled the debris together in a heap of useless trash. Outside, oil drums glinted coldly in the moonlight. He walked to the pickup's bed, dragged out a two-foot-tall drum and unscrewed the cap. The acrid fumes of gasoline stung his eyes. He splashed the fuel across the floor and along the baseboards, letting it seep into the grain of the wood, as if sealing the house's fate to burn. He stood in the doorway and glanced back. The money on the table had gone, leaving only scattered edges of bills and b****y footprints on the floor. The light made the corpses look like carelessly discarded props. Victor flicked his cigarette butt into the gasoline. The flames first licked at the floor, then surged upwards like a beast suddenly awakened, crashing over him like a wave of heat. The log cabin's beams began to crackle and creak. The firelight illuminated the forest as brightly as day, only to plunge everything back into darkness the next second. As the clearing around the cabin made a wildfire unlikely, he watched the fire's path to confirm it posed no threat, before turning away. He pulled out his driving licence and stared at the address printed on it. The string of words felt like a thin thread pulling him away from this unfamiliar world. He tossed both backpacks into the pickup truck, started the engine and let the headlights pierce the darkness of the forest, illuminating the narrow dirt road ahead. The engine's roar echoed briefly through the night before being swallowed by the distant chirping of insects and the whisper of the wind. He pressed the accelerator and the truck rolled out along the forest path. In the rear-view mirror, the fire in the cabin grew brighter, like an open eye watching him leave. Victor didn't look back. He just gripped the steering wheel, a barely audible chuckle rising in his throat. 'Undercover?' he murmured to himself, his voice laced with icy detachment. “Fine. I'll go undercover.” The vehicle continued onward, vanishing into the night on the outskirts of Los Angeles.