The Crime Leveling System

A Detective with Two Lives

The coolness of night lingered in the early morning air, and the highway outside Los Angeles appeared desolate and tranquil in the grey-blue light of dawn. The forests that lined both sides of the road gradually thinned out, while the distant hills were shrouded in morning mist, appearing as hazy silhouettes. Occasionally, a gentle breeze blew through, stirring up fine dust that dispersed quickly under the car's headlights.

An old pickup truck crept southwards along the motorway, its engine humming distinctly in the stillness of dawn. Inside the cab, there was no music and no voices — only the faint vibration of tyres rolling over the tarmac.

Victor gripped the steering wheel with one hand and rested the other on the window sill. His gaze frequently drifted to the rear-view mirror. He appeared calm, yet his eyes retained a hint of scrutiny, like someone who had just acquired an unfamiliar weapon and was meticulously examining every detail of its structure.

The face reflected in the mirror still felt somewhat unfamiliar to him.

He had a sharply defined jawline, sunken eye sockets and strikingly clear blue pupils in the dim light. His slightly tousled black hair added a touch of wildness to his features. From any angle, it was an intensely recognisable face.

Victor stared at the mirror for a moment before letting out a soft, disbelieving chuckle, as if commenting on some absurd reality. He slowly shook his head, his tone dripping with sarcasm. ‘A face like this, if it appeared on a magazine cover or billboard, would probably be stared at by countless girls. Yet the original owner of this body chose the most dangerous path.'

Victor thought that such a face would be better suited to modelling or acting than undercover work. At least those careers didn't require daily vigilance against g*n barrels or navigating the treacherous terrain between gangsters and police officers. He knew better than anyone what it meant to live on the edge. There was no romance or heroism in that life — mostly just a game of chance. The lucky ones lived a few extra years, while the unlucky ones were often not even remembered by name.

At this thought, Victor couldn't help but let out a soft sigh. He wasn't lamenting the previous owner of this body, but felt that they had clearly lacked rationality in choosing their path in life. Had they not been so deeply involved with the underworld, they might have had a chance to sever all ties and live an ordinary life. They could have become a police officer, earned a steady salary and walked in the sunlight instead of lurking in the shadows and dealing with constant danger.

But if things had already reached a point of no return, then another solution would have to be found. Starting over in another state wouldn't be difficult for Victor. America was vast, and as long as he was willing to leave Los Angeles, he could always find somewhere new to start again.

The pickup truck continued driving forward, the highway stretching ever straighter ahead. About half an hour later, the woodlands on both sides of the road gradually disappeared and the landscape became more open. Victor was about to ease off the gas when an intense, sudden wave of dizziness washed over him, as if someone were stirring the depths of his consciousness violently.

His vision blurred and he gripped the steering wheel tighter instinctively. The next instant, a flood of unfamiliar images surged into his mind: childhood memories, scenes from school, training at the police academy, d**g investigations... Fragments of different lives flashed through his awareness, as if two films had been forcibly spliced together.

Victor slammed on the brakes, bringing the pickup to a halt by the roadside. He closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead hard. Then he raised his hand and slapped himself hard across the face. The crisp sound echoed inside the cabin. The pain temporarily brought his consciousness back into focus.

He was clearly not in a fit state to drive, especially given the added burden that would raise any police officer's suspicions: two heavy backpacks containing over three million dollars in cash lay silently on the back seat. If anyone opened the door, that money alone would explain everything.

There were no vehicles on the highway ahead or behind. The surroundings were desolate, as if forgotten by the world. Victor paused in silence before abruptly turning the wheel. The pickup veered off the motorway and plunged into the adjacent wasteland, jolting over the uneven terrain as it went. Rocks and dry grass crunched beneath the tyres. Minutes later, he parked in a low-lying area where earthen mounds blocked any view of the motorway.

After confirming the area was clear, he locked the doors, leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. Exhaustion quickly overwhelmed him. His chaotic memories gradually blurred and he soon slipped into a deep sleep.

A long time passed before a persistent vibration jolted him awake. His phone buzzed incessantly in his pocket. Victor frowned as he pulled it out, instinctively pressing the answer button.

After a moment of silence, a woman's voice came through: 'Victor?'

“Victor?”

Her tone was crisp and composed.

Victor's mind snapped into focus. Staring at the phone screen, his thoughts raced. This voice was clearly familiar to his former self. However, as he hadn't fully integrated those memories yet, he could only respond cautiously.

'Yeah, I'm listening.'

The woman seemed to exhale in relief, but her tone quickly turned serious. She reminded him that he hadn't initiated contact in over five days. According to protocol, he was supposed to report every three days. If she heard nothing more, she would almost certainly assume that he had been killed in action.

Victor instantly realised that this wasn't a casual, private call. The other party was clearly someone of high rank within the police department. Rather than rushing to explain, he used an ambiguous tone to mention that recent circumstances were complicated and the operational environment unstable.

The woman paused briefly before getting straight to the point. She told Victor that he needed to investigate a recent bank robbery using the Marcus lead. The stolen funds belonged to the Edmund Hawthorne family. Securing clues would significantly strengthen Victor's application to join the Robbery Homicide Division.

Hearing this, Victor nearly froze solid.

His gaze slowly drifted to the back seat, where two backpacks lay silently, seeming to mock the absurdity of the situation.

Marcus had sent him to infiltrate the police department.

Now, the police department was demanding that he infiltrate Marcus.

This relationship made Victor inwardly curse.

It was like a set of Russian dolls — open one layer to find another, with no end in sight.

The woman on the line sensed Victor's silence, her tone hardening. She emphasised that this was an order, not a suggestion, and reminded him that he was still a probationary officer. Failure would not only result in his removal from the LAPD roster, but could also prevent him from working as a police officer anywhere in the region.

Hearing these threats, Victor felt a sense of absurdity — the $3 million in the back seat rendered them almost meaningless. If he chose to leave Los Angeles, moving to another state wouldn't be a problem.

He kept these thoughts to himself, merely giving a perfunctory assurance that he would continue the investigation. The woman seemed satisfied with this response and quickly ended the call.

Silence returned to the car.

Victor leaned back in his seat and stared at the ceiling as he slowly processed the new information. His dual undercover identity felt like a complex web, trapping him firmly at its centre.

Exhaustion washed over him again and his consciousness grew hazy. As memories merged, he began to experience another life in his dreams.

Meanwhile, in the LAPD office, Evelyn sat at her desk reviewing Victor's file. Though she had just ended the call, her brow remained furrowed.

In a sense, Victor was merely a pawn in her hands; she had assigned this rookie to go undercover because he had volunteered for the Robbery-Homicide Division and she needed someone capable of covert operations.

Bank robberies typically fell outside the jurisdiction of the Organised Crime and Narcotics Division. But this case involved Edmund Hawthorne. If she could secure the lead first, she'd have a chance to take over the investigation and gain higher-level support.

That would be a shortcut to becoming captain.

Evelyn stared at the photo in the file, her gaze hardening. Victor was her only available resource. If he could bring back even a shred of evidence, she could justify her involvement in the case.

Sunlight crept upwards, brightening the sky outside the car window. Light streamed through the windscreen, illuminating Victor's face. He slowly opened his eyes.

After prolonged sleep and memory integration, his two lives finally merged within his consciousness. His fragmented memories gradually sharpened and the experiences of his former self fully surfaced in his mind.

Victor sat silently in the car for a long time. Finally, he lifted his head and looked into the rear-view mirror.

The face in the mirror felt both familiar and alien.

He gently rubbed his cheek and gave a slightly stiff smile.

From that moment on, he was Victor — a young detective who was ostensibly striving to join the Robbery-Homicide Division in order to uncover the truth behind his father's death.

Of course, that was merely the objective of his previous life.

For Victor in the present, only one thing mattered above all else:

How to safely acquire those three million-plus dollars and eliminate every potential threat to himself.

At this thought, his hand instinctively brushed the pistol at his waist. The cold metal felt reassuring.

Victor started the engine. The pickup truck turned around in the wilderness and headed towards Los Angeles.