The Deathsworn's Middle Finger

Cohen was confident. He had seen far too many "front-line people" like this. Faced with enormous legal threats and even greater temptations, and considering the future of their families, 99% of them would break down and choose self-preservation. Especially someone like Zhao Zhiyong, a seemingly honest and unsophisticated immigrant from the lower class. He could almost hear the sound of the other man's psychological defenses crumbling.

Time ticked by. Zhao Zhiyong kept his head down, his hands tightly clasped together, his shoulders trembling slightly, as if he were engaged in a fierce internal struggle. Beads of sweat slid down his dark neck, soaking the collar of his work jacket.

Cohen waited patiently, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the table. Ten seconds, twenty seconds, half a minute...

Finally, Zhao Zhiyong's shoulders stopped shrugging. He took a deep, slow breath, and then raised his head.

Cohen wore a triumphant smile, ready to face the opponent's surrender and confession.

However, what he saw was not the collapse, compromise, or pleading he had expected.

All the tension, panic, and fear that had been on Zhao Zhiyong's face receded like the tide, disappearing without a trace. In its place was a strange, almost empty calm. His eyes no longer darted away, no longer showed fear, but simply stared straight at Cohen without any emotion or thought, only a bottomless indifference.

Cohen's smile froze. This reaction was wrong.

Then, under the watchful eyes of Cohen, Miller, and Mendoza, Zhao Zhiyong slowly raised his right hand. His movement was steady, without the slightest tremor.

He raised his right hand, calloused and scarred from years of labor, to eye level. Then, as Cohen's gaze grew increasingly astonished, confused, and then furious, Zhao Zhiyong slowly bent his other four fingers, extending only his middle finger, straight up, pointing it at Richard Cohen.

This action is filled with a primitive, rude, yet incredibly clear contempt and rejection.

Then, Zhao Zhiyong spoke. His English still had a heavy accent, but each word was spoken clearly and slowly, his tone flat and without any inflection, yet it pierced Cohen's eardrums like an ice pick:

"Fuck you."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over Cohen's frozen face, then added three more words, with the same calm and disdain:

"And fuck your deal."

There was no hesitation, no fear, no bargaining. Only the most direct, brutal, and uncompromising rejection and insult. It was as if what the other party offered was not a lifeline, but a disgusting pile of dog shit.

The interrogation room was deathly silent. Miller and Mendoza stared wide-eyed at Zhao Zhiyong, then at Cohen, whose face had turned ashen. They had seen all sorts of reactions in their years in the profession, but they had never seen anything like this... a calm and complete raising of the middle finger, and such a "blessing."

Cohen's facial muscles began to twitch uncontrollably, his mask of "gentleness" and "understanding" completely shattered, revealing his true face twisted with extreme humiliation and rage. He stared intently at Zhao Zhiyong, at the straight, defiant middle finger, feeling his authority, wisdom, and all sense of control being crushed to dust by that finger!

"You fucking want to die!" Cohen slammed his fist on the table, the loud noise echoing in the small room! He jumped to his feet, pointing at Zhao Zhiyong's nose, his voice hoarse with extreme anger, roaring, "You're asking for it! You think you can get away with this by not saying anything?! You think you can take this?!"

He turned to Miller and Mendoza, almost shouting, "Turn him around! Arrest him formally on suspicion of major tax fraud, obstruction of justice, and contempt of a federal officer! Put him in jail! Let's see how long you can keep up this stubbornness! Let's see how tight your mouth is!"

Miller and Mendoza snapped out of their shock and immediately stepped forward, their actions no longer showing any "politeness." Miller yanked Zhao Zhiyong up from the chair and twisted his arm behind his back, while Mendoza swiftly pulled out cold handcuffs.

Zhao Zhiyong offered no resistance, not even a struggle. He allowed Miller to roughly twist his arms, and Mendoza to snap the handcuffs onto his wrists. The cold touch of the metal was palpable, but his face remained expressionless. Beneath that calm indifference, however, seemed to flash a barely perceptible hint of relief, as if he had accomplished some task.

As Miller and Mendoza escorted him to the door of the interrogation room, Zhao Zhiyong suddenly stopped. He turned around and glanced at Richard Cohen, who was still standing there, his chest heaving with anger and his face extremely pale.

That glance was fleeting.

But Cohen saw something in those terrifyingly calm eyes... something indescribable. It wasn't hatred, fear, or even contempt. It was more like... looking down on someone. As if, in the other person's eyes, he, Cohen, this powerful figure in the IRS, was no different from a roadside stone or a stain on a wall.

Then, Zhao Zhiyong turned around and was escorted out of the interrogation room by two detectives. The door closed behind him, cutting off his view.

In the interrogation room, only Cohen remained, standing there, panting heavily. The three cups of black coffee on the table, long since cold, emitted a bitter aroma. He looked down at his palms, which were slightly red from slamming his fist on the table, then looked up at the closed door, as if he could still see Zhao Zhiyong's raised middle finger and those chillingly calm eyes.

A strange, icy chill crept up his spine without warning.