The Crime Leveling System

The Girl Who Knows Too Much

Victor gripped the steering wheel, his knuckles pressed against the leather and feeling a faint chill. Although his breathing was steady, he knew he was merely pushing the chaos deeper down.

He began piecing together the newly stitched fragments of memory in his mind. They weren't organised like a file, but more like a storage room that had been turned upside down: boxes scattered, labels torn off, and many items that required touching to identify. The first sensation to surface was a familiar yet alien sense of reality. This world resembled his past life: the smell of the streets, the noise of traffic and the presence of guns all felt familiar, yet certain details stubbornly diverged, like two parallel lines that occasionally brushed close but never truly overlapped.

In his memory, there was a father: a Los Angeles detective who was half Chinese and half Irish. He was stern, but not cold. Eight years ago, his father died in the line of duty while investigating a d**g case. Victor was thirteen that year. The house felt as if its power had been cut off abruptly—all sound ceased. Family ties on his father's side slowly frayed over time, severing silently as if everyone instinctively avoided the painful memory. After that, Victor began to suspect that his father's death might not have been merely bad luck. He kept his doubts buried deep inside all the way through college, until he decided to confront the truth using the most foolish yet dangerous method.

The foolish deeds of his past now felt like a thorn lodged in Victor's throat. In order to gain easier access to Mexican d**g traffickers, he deliberately sought out Marcus's crew during his studies and revealed his background: he was the son of a former detective from a respectable family and was destined for the detective academy. To the cartel, this information was like an invitation stamped 'Opportunity'. Marcus took the bait, seeing Victor as a seed to plant within the system. Victor finished his coursework early, applied for the LAPD and completed six months of training. However, his performance was lacklustre. He didn't get a position in the Robbery-Homicide Division, but was instead assigned to the Narcotics and Organised Crime Division. Ironically, he encountered a superior like Evelyn who, with just a few words, pushed him back into the criminal underworld and turned him into an undercover agent — a so-called 'export-to-import' operative.

Victor thought of this, tugging at his lips but unable to smile. He wasn't good at getting angry with fate's tricks because anger was useless — only survival mattered. Still, he couldn't help muttering a curse under his breath, as if to steel his nerves: 'The original owner of this body was truly stupid — and stupid in the most creative ways.'

Memories of his family also surfaced, like a list of names he had to memorise: his mother Luna, who was of Italian descent and the youngest daughter of a farmer. Through her grandfather Arthur's connections, she worked as a crop broker on farms around Los Angeles. She was hardworking, sharp-tongued and soft-hearted. His brother Caleb, aged 25, had brown hair and blue eyes and looked more like an Irishman. He worked in a treasure-hunting warehouse business with his second uncle, Harrison, and travelled frequently across the US, rarely returning home. Fifteen-year-old Walter, who was in Year 10, excelled academically to a fault and had the most pronounced Chinese features of the four children. He was quiet and bookish. Eleven-year-old Julia had her mother's brown hair and was mischievous and rebellious, constantly turning the house upside down. Their maternal grandfather Arthur and two uncles lived above them: the eldest uncle, Dominic, managed the farm, and the second uncle, Harrison, navigated the warehouse circuit with his brother. The relationships weren't complicated, but they were enough to drive someone socially inept to the brink.

Victor mentally reviewed these names, feeling his scalp tighten. He was grateful that his predecessor had moved out early; otherwise, hiding over three million dollars while navigating daily family life would probably have killed him from the endless small talk and concern alone. The thought made him lick his dry lips; his stomach clenched in response. The memory fusion and prolonged sleep had drained his body. Now he was parched and famished, his mind foggy as if stuffed with wet cotton. Yet the task ahead demanded energy and clarity of mind.

The car continued towards the city centre. Traffic thickened and roadside signs for petrol stations, motels and chain restaurants appeared, like markers of civilisation drawing nearer. Victor pulled into a rest area and bought food that he could eat immediately: water, hot coffee, and greasy burgers and chips. He ate quickly in the car, not in an ugly wolfing-down manner, but purposefully, as if refuelling a machine. He didn't like lingering in places like this. The rest area was too crowded; there were too many eyes. Any unnecessary eye contact could bring trouble prematurely.

Evelyn's threats over the phone held no sway over him. Marcus's crew were dead and the cabin had burned down. His earlier foolishness in getting involved with the mob had left no direct witnesses, at least on the surface. Yet, as Victor delved deeper into his memories, he realised that the real danger lay not in that cabin but in a woman:

Isabella. She was a Latin stripper with a fiery figure and an open personality, as well as a murky relationship with Marcus. She had also had several ambiguous encounters with his former self. Even worse, she was the source of the information about the armoured car heist. She'd overheard a tip from a bar patron and casually passed it on to Marcus, who seized it as if it were manna from heaven. This led to the robbery, disappearances, bodies and fire.

Victor drove, imagining how the woman would react to the armoured truck being robbed and Marcus and his crew vanishing without a trace. If Isabella wasn't stupid, she'd connect the dots. She might not immediately uncover the truth, but suspicion would take root. She would probe, ask questions and scrape away at the surface until the truth came to light. Politicians' money was always hot. The name Edmund Hawthorne itself was like a barbed net: touch it and you bled. If Victor wanted to walk away with over three million dollars and a clean conscience, he couldn't give anyone a chance to pull that thread.

Alternatively, he could throw the money back into the fire, become an undercover rookie cop, solve cases, earn his stripes, keep his detective badge and continue playing the role of a model Los Angeles citizen. Safe and respectable. But he'd had enough of the nomadic existence of his past life, always on the verge of being silenced. He refused to put his life in the hands of any organisation or superior again. He wanted to make his own decisions. The problem was that freedom was never as simple as it sounded. Sometimes it demanded money, sometimes blood, and sometimes both.

Traffic thickened into a crawl. Los Angeles' evening rush hour resembled a slow moving giant snake, engulfing every vehicle.

Victor had to ease off the gas and crawl along with the line of cars. The sun had set, its final rays slanting through the gaps in the buildings and illuminating every speck of dust on the windscreen. To one side of the motorway, the Pacific Ocean shimmered beneath the golden light, while steep mountains and cliffs rose like a wall on the other side, blocking the city's ambitions. Palm trees swayed in the breeze and the laughter of children drifted from the beach, echoing in the distance as if from another world.

Victor rested his elbows on the windowsill and felt the sea breeze carrying the scent of salt into the car. Though he had initially been irritated by the traffic jam, gazing at the ocean and listening to the commotion outside gradually calmed him. Strangely, despite having just carried out a m******e and hidden enough cash in the back seat to land someone in prison, the city still breathed at its own pace. The sunset was still beautiful, children were still laughing, and the world seemed indifferent to who he was. This indifference, paradoxically, gave him a sense of grounding.

As night fell, Victor finally entered the city centre. He had found temporary accommodation in an old apartment building in the southern district, over thirty years old. The stairwell perpetually reeked of dampness and cooking fumes. Peeling paint covered the walls and the mailboxes were plastered with advertisements in every language imaginable. Most of the residents were first-generation immigrants and undocumented workers people who didn't ask each other about their pasts and didn't want to be asked about theirs. While the environment wasn't exactly pleasant, it had two redeeming features: it was cheap and you could leave at any time with your deposit refunded. For Victor, the ability to vanish at a moment's notice was the most valuable feature of all.

He parked the car and slowly and deliberately distributed the cash from his backpack into separate hiding spots, as if executing a well rehearsed routine. It was still early. He put on a hoodie, pulled the brim down low and found a mask to cover the lower half of his face; those blue eyes in the mirror were too conspicuous. He didn't want to leave such a memorable feature in unfamiliar neighbourhoods.

Next came tool preparation. Victor's past life had taught him that clean-up operations didn't always require guns. Often, the most effective tools were inexpensive. Nail polish, for example, could mask fingerprints without compromising dexterity. When applied to fingertips like a thin film, it made sweat and oil residue almost impossible to read. Razor blades were even better: they were ubiquitous in supermarkets and could be disposed of after use. Even if someone found one, little evidence could be gleaned from a thin piece of metal. When necessary, he’d substitute specially formulated glue for nail polish to maintain a smooth skin surface and minimise traces. He did this not for the sake of professionalism, but because he was tired of being chased, preferring instead to ensure that every step was secure.

With everything prepared, he got back in the car and headed towards the city centre. Though nominally the most bustling part of Los Angeles, reality often played cruel jokes. Some areas labelled 'downtown' resembled slums. The closer he got to his destination, the denser the streetlights became, but the people became more complex and the shadows along the road multiplied. Daytime brought relative calm, but nightfall unleashed chaos like a rising tide. Junkies, vagrants, day labourers and g**g members crowded the street corners. Patrol cars passed through but lingered nowhere. Here, the rules weren't laws; they were guts, fists and a little luck.

By nine o'clock, the bars had just opened, yet long queues had already formed at the doors. Several burly Mexicans stood outside, maintaining order as they scanned each face.

Small groups huddled together along the streets, muttering incoherently with unfocused eyes. They reeked of a mixture of alcohol and chemicals an unsettling blend of energy and decay. Neon lights painted the walls in shifting colours while low frequency music seeped through doorways like an invisible hand pounding relentlessly against chests.

Victor didn't park directly outside the bar. Instead, he steered the pickup into an empty alley. With only rubbish bins and damp walls for company, he spent several minutes meticulously erasing any traces he might have left. Then he made a seemingly casual yet calculated decision, deliberately leaving the doors open and the keys in plain sight as if he were a careless owner.

In neighbourhoods like this, a car left with the keys inside was like leaving cash on a table no invitation needed; it would vanish quickly. Changing the plates, modifying the engine, stripping parts the locals here were far more skilled at this than he was, and erasing every trace leading back to him. Victor didn't need to do the work himself. He just needed to make the pickup truck disappear from his life as if it had never existed.

He pulled the hood of his hoodie tight, masking his expression and hiding his blue eyes in shadow, and walked towards the strip club. The roar of the crowd hit him like a hot wall, mingled with the stench of alcohol, perfume and sweat. Victor silently repeated Isabella's name in his mind, testing its sharpness like a blade against his palm.

The threat was now before him. The next step wasn't hesitation; it was deciding how to eliminate it.