The Crime Leveling System

The Frame and the Countermove

The dampness hung heavily in the alley, the walls seemingly freshly washed by rain and radiating a cold, clammy chill.

Isabella could feel the man's hot breath tracing her skin and sending a wave of goosebumps across her back.

The blade seemed to loosen slightly. Mistaking this for a sign that her appeasement was working, her body instinctively tried to ease the tension, as though grasping a swaying rope in the darkness. She desperately told herself that just a little more cooperation would save her life.

But reality shattered her illusion with brutal directness when a massive hand yanked her hair, jerking her head back violently. The back of her skull slammed against the icy wall, pressing against her skin like a sheet of iron. Darkness flooded her vision, threatening to steal her consciousness.

But the searing pain of her scalp being torn back wrenched her away from unconsciousness. Forced to press her chin against the wall, she could only breathe in choked gasps and muffled whimpers escaped her throat.

The man's low, raspy voice scraped against her ear like sandpaper on metal, each word deliberate: "I ask. You answer. One extra word, one lie, one second of hesitation, and you won't see tomorrow's sun.'

It wasn't a threat, but a cold, calculated rule, as if he had long been accustomed to handling matters this way.

Isabella tried to nod, but found herself unable to move, able only to signal her understanding with ragged gasps. She felt like a specimen pinned to a wall.

The grip on her hair suddenly loosened. Isabella staggered, then regained her footing, her legs feeling as weak as if she were walking on cotton. The man asked, his tone simple yet as sharp and clean as a blade.

“What is your name?” Isabella answered almost at a life-or-death pace: “Isabella. Isabella Taylor.”

Her voice trembled as she spoke too quickly, as if fearing that any delay would invite a blow. The man offered no reassurance or judgement, only the next question. 'Where do you live?'

This question made her heart sink. Her home meant her daughter, and her daughter meant her last remaining vulnerability.

She hesitated instinctively. The moment she opened her mouth, a sharp pain shot through her wrist. Warm blood instantly trickled down her skin and dripped onto the floor with a faint sound.

The man's voice remained calm. “This cut is only a hair's breadth from your artery. You can keep hesitating, but the next cut will rob you of your ability to enjoy anything.”

Fear wasn't the moment of death, but standing on the edge of a cliff, uncertain whether the next gust of wind would push you over.

Isabella's mental defences collapsed instantly. Tears gushed forth like a burst dam. She slumped against Victor, her voice breaking with terror. 'Apartment 502, 72nd Street, Chinatown.'

The man pressed immediately: 'Which Chinatown? Los Angeles has two.” She dared not hesitate any longer. ‘Los Angeles Plaza, the Chinatown near Hanqing District.’

The questions that followed felt like an emotionless interrogation, covering everything from her income and savings to her relationships and daily routines, as if someone were meticulously examining every page of her life.

Isabella grew numb, her answers becoming increasingly mechanical, as if surrendering information would buy her a moment's respite.

Until the man asked that question, causing her pupils to suddenly contract: 'How many people did you tell about the Hogan Bank armoured truck?' She stammered her reply, as if suddenly yanked back to reality. “Eight, nine... Sorry, I can't remember.

There were so many people there, and I'd been drinking.'

Victor fell silent for a moment, the quiet settling like a stone in the air.

In those few seconds, Isabella ran through the worst possible scenarios: Marcus was missing; the armoured truck had been robbed; and she had spread the news like a joke. She finally realised that she might have been swept into a much larger vortex.

She thought of her daughter's face. If she could turn back time, she would rather be an ordinary waitress — life might be harder, but it would be better than standing on the brink of death now. Her legs began to tremble and she lost control.

Victor's hands, however, were terrifyingly steady, as if he had long been accustomed to dealing with people on the brink of death.

He knew how to restore calm, how to stop the bleeding and how to silence screams before they left the lips. Yet when too many people knew a secret, it ceased to be one.

Killing the woman before him wouldn't make the world forget. Victor retracted the blade, his tone suddenly flat. 'Very good. I like your cooperation. Close your eyes, count to one hundred, then open them and go to the hospital.'

With that, he turned and walked away without looking back or showing any emotion.

Isabella clung to his words like a lifeline, nodding frantically. With her back pressed against the cold wall and her eyes tightly shut, she began counting, her voice trembling.

Only the wind whistled through the alley. Footsteps faded into the distance, growing faint until they were nearly inaudible. Yet her counting persisted, halting and broken, echoing through the night as if she were struggling to pull her soul back into her body.

When Victor emerged from the alley, he remained on high alert. He knew the real trouble hadn't ended yet.

He couldn't keep the money, and he couldn't risk his identity any further. He needed to turn this situation into a controllable chess game.

Back in his old apartment in the South District, he first checked the small traps he had set to confirm that no one had broken in, before locking the door from the inside. Exhaustion washed over him like a tide.

Still, he forced himself to review his options one last time before going to sleep. Isabella's survival meant risk, but it also meant that clues were now scattered.

Holding onto over three million in cash would only make him a target. He resolved to turn this into a career move: he would contact Evelyn the next day and trade his achievements for a quieter department. At least he could live like a human being in the sunlight.

Early the next morning, a knock on the door jolted him from a light sleep. The sound was steady and unhurried, yet it felt as though it was pounding on his bones. Victor's hand instinctively reached for the g*n tucked under his pillow. He rolled over into the corner by the bed, breathing extremely lightly. He didn't respond immediately, choosing instead to listen.

A soft female voice came from outside the door: 'Victor, are you there?' He had heard this voice countless times before on the phone — Evelyn, the deputy team leader of the Anti-Organised Crime and Narcotics Division.

How had she ended up here?

Victor remained silent, gently smoothing the bedsheets instead to create the illusion of an unoccupied room, before retreating into the shadows behind the curtains. The hallway was quiet, the sound of the neighbour's TV like distant tides.

Evelyn waited a few seconds outside the door. Seeing no response, she glanced left and right down the hallway. She quickly slipped on gloves, pulled a thin wire from her pocket and inserted it into the door c***k.

The old lock clicked softly, like a muffled sigh. She pushed the door open.

After entering, she swiftly scanned the empty living room and bed to confirm that no one was present, then closed the door.

She walked straight to the bed, took a packet of white powder out of her coat and expertly stuffed it into the gap in the mattress with practised precision. Then she retrieved a small handheld camera and a g*n, as if preparing a complete chain of evidence for this set-up.

As she turned to leave, her gaze suddenly fell upon the bedsheets. Impulsively, she removed her gloves and lightly touched the fabric with her fingertips; it was warm.

Evelyn's pupils contracted sharply and her body stiffened instantly. The next instant, a dark shadow lunged from behind the curtains and struck her neck with pinpoint accuracy.

She gave a muffled grunt as her vision collapsed and she crashed heavily onto the bed. Victor made no unnecessary movements.

Like a machine, he swiftly disarmed her, handcuffing her hands behind her back. Only then did he pull the white package from beneath the mattress, checking its weight and texture — roughly five hundred grams, enough to send someone to maximum security.

He stared at the package, anger slowly rising within him. Evelyn hadn't come to discuss a partnership. She'd come to frame him. She had brought a camera and a g*n to frame him, gather evidence and use it to bind him forever.

Victor had just endured the stifling frustration of cutting his cash losses the previous night, and now it felt like salt being rubbed into his wounds. He propped Evelyn against the headboard to get her in the right position, then dragged two bags of cash from under the bed. He unzipped them and spread the bundles of bills before her.

When Evelyn awoke, her eyes were first blank, then swiftly filled with terror. The moment she saw the money, her breath caught sharply, as if someone had suddenly clamped their hand around her throat.

“Surprised, Deputy Evelyn?” Victor's voice came from the side, unnaturally gentle.

Evelyn forced herself to steady and squeezed out a professional smile. 'Hi, Victor. I think there's been a misunderstanding between us.' Victor gently pressed his hand against her shoulder, his tone still soft. 'A misunderstanding? You planted drugs on my bed and set up a camera? That's quite the elaborate misunderstanding.'

Evelyn tried to steer the conversation back to the negotiation. She dared not struggle, but her eyes scanned the room for an opportunity.

‘What do you want?’ she ground out. ‘Kill me and you’ll be chased to the ends of the earth by the police and the senator’s people with this money. You'll drag your family down with you.'

Victor raised his hand and slapped her across the face. His voice was crisp, like the sound of something being switched off. Her cheek flushed instantly and anger flashed in her eyes, but it was quickly crushed by reality.

Victor unlocked the handcuffs, giving Evelyn some freedom of movement while still maintaining control.

“What happens next is up to you.” He positioned the camera, framing her, the cash and the bag of white powder. “You broke the trust first, so now I need security.

If you want credit, Edmund Hawthorne's favour or a higher position, I can give you all that. But first, put down your knife and replace it with something that reassures me.”

Evelyn stared at the money, her throat moving as her voice finally lowered. 'What do you want me to do?'

Victor handed her two documents and a pen. One document was a statement detailing the origin of the drugs and their destruction. The other document was an internal transfer request and endorsement to ensure that he could be reassigned from the Anti-Corruption and Narcotics Division to a more secure position.

He also demanded that she record a video statement, in which she would admit to leading this operation and take full responsibility, promise not to pursue the source of his cash, and confirm that all future directives would be issued through her official channels.

Evelyn's expression shifted several times anger, embarrassment and inner conflict flickered across her face.

Victor grabbed her hair, forcing her to stare at the pile of money. His tone was no longer gentle. 'I could walk away with this money without you. But you, Evelyn you don't want to lose this achievement, do you?'

His words struck her like a key turning in the lock of her heart. Evelyn was a politician at heart — she weighed risks and rewards, trading dignity for an escape route in an instant.

Her breath caught for a few seconds before she finally reached for the pen. Her fingers trembled slightly, yet her hand moved swiftly, as if she was afraid she might change her mind.

After signing, she looked up at him, her eyes reflecting both humiliation and clarity. 'Do you think this gives you control over me?'

Victor didn't argue. Instead, he simply adjusted the camera lens to its most stable position, ensuring that the document, the cash and her face were all captured in the frame.

He made Evelyn repeat her promises, confirming each sentence as if he were recording an insurance policy that would never expire.

Only after completing all this did he exhale slowly, as if a weight had finally lifted from his chest a weary relief, rather than satisfaction.

Victor packed away the camera, calculating coldly in his mind that the security of the bulk of the money had been replaced by a passageway and a leverage point a survival-level trade.

Evelyn was attractive, but he had no interest in her. What mattered more was that he would no longer be led by her nose. Staring at the greyish-white sky outside the window, Victor suddenly felt absurd. He’d wanted to be a good person, yet step by step he’d been pushed back into the darkness.

He remained silent for a long time, finally sighing inwardly, 'It's so hard.'