Homework tutoring?

The room held nothing but the low hum of the air conditioner and my own heartbeat, each beat pounding against my eardrums.

The first three digits of the Cayman Islands account number were wrong.

The performance had real dramatic tension.

But remember to check the details next time.

Homework tutoring.

Fucking homework tutoring.

Icy rage flooded every inch of my body like liquid nitrogen, freezing my fingertips numb. But beneath that absolute cold, something hotter, something more frenzied roared, trying to tear through the ice.

What gave him the right? Who did he think he was? A ghost hiding behind an electronic voice, a stalker who wouldn't dare show his face-what gave him the right to judge my judgment in that condescending tone, with that hint of "regret"? As though I were just a beginner who needed guidance, an apprentice capable of the occasional brilliant design but ultimately careless?

An overwhelming sense of humiliation nearly swallowed me. But a second later, an even stronger excitement devoured it.

He'd taken the bait. Not only that, he'd tried to straighten the hook and throw it back, then teach me how to fish.

He knew the account number. The first three digits. What did that mean? It meant he, or the forces behind him, had access to secret overseas financial channels. That was far beyond anything ordinary police, or even standard national security agencies, could easily manage. The field was narrowing.

I didn't respond immediately. In the darkness, I stood like a cold stone statue until blood surged through my veins again, carrying a new, searing calculation.

Homework tutoring? Fine. Let's see who really needs tutoring.

The next target had to strip him of that sickening composure. I had to hit him where it hurt, somewhere he couldn't casually dismiss as a "detail error."

I needed someone. A point of connection. A target who could expose deeper darkness, and whose manner of death could precisely mirror the shadow of this "mentor."

My mind worked faster than ever, sifting through fragments of memory and streams of online information. The name Zhou Yixuan had shouted before he died... Deputy Mayor Liu's brother-in-law... that connection... capital... official circles...

Got it.

Sun Ming. A division chief in the city's Development and Reform Commission. His rank wasn't especially high, but his position was crucial: he handled approvals for major projects. More importantly, he was the late judge Wang Yaoqing's brother-in-law, and one of the key contacts the financial interests behind Zhou Yixuan had regularly paid off for years. A gray figure moving between two networks. He had to be holding something that could point to the deeper truth behind Wang Yaoqing's corrupt rulings while implicating the financial network behind Zhou Yixuan.

Going after him would mean striking both networks at once, right when they'd just been rattled and their nerves were at their rawest.

His death couldn't be a confession. That was too cheap. It had to be... a handover. A forced handover.

I walked to the desk and snapped the notebook open. The tip of my pen nearly pierced the page.

[Sun Ming]

Cause of death: atonement through surrender. Time: three tomorrow afternoon, in the study of his luxury apartment in the south of the city. Cause of death: severing his own windpipe with the paper knife in his study. Before dying, he must send all encrypted files on his computer concerning the internal manipulation of Wang Yaoqing's rulings and the illicit transfers of benefits involving Zhou Yixuan's financial interests (he knows the passwords), in a single anonymous email to all major media outlets in this city, the public inboxes of the Commission for Discipline Inspection and the Supervisory Commission, and... that email address I knew by heart, belonging to the father of the victim in Wang Yaoqing's case.

When I finished the last line, an almost savage exhilaration swept through me. This wasn't a performance. It was an ultimatum. I was hurling bloody evidence straight into everyone's faces, including that self-important "mentor."

Let's see how you check the details this time!

The next afternoon, at two fifty-nine.

Everything outside Sun Ming's apartment building was as quiet as usual.

Three o'clock sharp.

Dozens of media outlets, oversight agencies, and that despairing father received an email from an anonymous encrypted account at almost the same moment. Its subject line contained just one word: [Atonement].

Attached were hundreds of scanned documents, internal directives, bank transaction records, and screenshots of secret chat logs. Their contents were horrifying, clearly tracing a dark chain of collusion that ran from financial interests to government officials to the judiciary, with utter disregard for human life.

The instant the email was successfully sent, Sun Ming precisely sliced open his own throat with his paper knife in his study. Blood spattered across the expensive rosewood desk, staining the paper copies he hadn't had time to destroy.

The information detonated like a nuclear bomb in a city already seething with hidden currents. The media erupted, the internet boiled over, and the relevant departments were driven to the brink, forced to respond.

This time, the death itself had almost become secondary. The evidence thrown into the open was the truly lethal weapon.

I sat at my computer, watching countless "explosive" tags climb the trending lists, watching the authorities issue emergency notices in panic, watching a flicker of incredulous shock finally cross the victim's father's haggard face.

In the corner, Ryuk offered no further commentary. He simply watched me in silence with a new, appraising gaze, slowly gnawing on a shriveled apple.

I was waiting.

Waiting for that assessment.

How long would his phone stay silent this time?

The answer surprised me.

Just one hour later.

A little after four, the burner phone rang shrilly. Faster than any previous response.

I answered.

There was no electrical static, no deliberate silence.

The electronic voice sounded immediately. It was no longer flat and even, but carried an unmistakable, icy, incensed edge.

"Do you think this is a game?"

Even through the voice processor, I could feel the anger he was suppressing beneath it.

"Muddying the waters so everyone can fish in them?"

A brief pause, like a blade slicing through the air.

"One of the addresses on your email's CC list belongs to a disciplinary commission official who was sent away for training three months ago."

"That mistake..."

"Was amateurish."

"You almost compromised the admissibility of all the evidence!"

By the end, he almost sounded as though he were speaking through clenched teeth. Despite the processing, the fury in his voice was undisguised.

Click!

He abruptly hung up.

The busy tone sounded.

I slowly lowered the phone.

Outside the window, the sun shone brightly.

I bowed my head and began to laugh silently.

I laughed for a long time.

I had added that reassigned official's email address deliberately.

Now I knew.

He, or they, weren't just monitoring me, analyzing me. They...

Were right there in the organizations that received those emails.

Perhaps even among the people scrambling to handle this sudden evidence of "atonement."

Mentor...

You've finally lost your composure.

Are you satisfied with my homework?