Suspicion and "Hospitality"

The monitoring and observation room is located on the second basement level of the IRS Seattle office building.

Under the stark white light, a massive one-way mirror separated the horrific scene inside the interrogation room from the observation room, creating two separate worlds. Inside the glass, Zhao Zhiyong, like an insect nailed to a specimen board, silently endured his pain under the intense light. Outside the glass, Richard Cohen, Karl Miller, and Tony Rodriguez, who had just been summoned, were repeatedly replaying the footage of Zhao Zhiyong speaking and making his demands on several monitors from different angles.

The image paused at the moment Zhao Zhiyong said, "We can't talk here, can we?" The expression on his face, a mixture of extreme exhaustion, pain, and a subtle calculation, appeared somewhat blurry under the high-definition magnification of the screen, adding to his enigmatic nature.

"What do you think, Karl?" Cohen crossed his arms, leaned against the control panel, his eyes never leaving the screen, his tone devoid of emotion.

Karl Miller stood to the side, his brow furrowed. He was the first person to come into contact with Zhao Zhiyong's "transformation," and his feelings at this moment were the most complex. "He suddenly spoke up, demanding guarantees of safety and hinting at a hefty price, which is typical of a prisoner whose psychological defenses have crumbled and who has begun to weigh the pros and cons. Especially when he mentioned his family, his eyes showed a clear shift in emotion. He's been here for too long; his body and mind have reached their limits, and seeking a way out is instinctive."

He paused, then added, "But he requested a change of location and specifically asked for a doctor... It was a bit deliberate. It's like he knew we needed him to speak up, so he was testing our limits or trying to get better negotiating terms for himself. Or perhaps, he genuinely couldn't relax and confess in this environment that had caused him so much pain."

Tony Rodriguez scoffed, grabbed a half-cold cup of coffee, and gulped it down, his face displaying an air of nonchalance that said, "I knew it all along." "Couldn't hold on any longer, boss. What's there to analyze?" He tapped Zhao Zhiyong's battered face on the screen. "Even if he's a professional spy, trained to the most rigorous counter-interrogation methods, the requirement is only to endure forty-eight or seventy-two hours. And him? An ordinary warehouse manager, relying on sheer grit to hold out for over a day—that's a miracle. He's in our hands now, there's no escape. He knows he can't hold out forever; continuing to resist will only lead to death. Giving in now means less suffering, and maybe even some benefits. That's human nature—greedy and afraid of death."

Tony's view represents the empiricism of a large portion of law enforcement: under absolute power and sustained oppression, resistance will eventually crumble; the only difference lies in the length of time and the manner of collapse. Although Zhao Zhiyong's performance was unexpectedly "long," he ultimately fell into this trap.

Cohen didn't immediately respond. He stared at Zhao Zhiyong's calm yet strangely unsettling gaze on the screen, the chilling unease in his heart not completely dissipating. This Zhao Zhiyong, from his calm middle finger gesture when arrested, to his eerie silence during torture, and now his seemingly collapsing yet actually "sober" demeanor as he made demands—every step was strange. Was it really just a matter of "not being able to take it anymore"?

"Is that so?" Cohen, as if he were asking Karl and Tony, but also as if he were asking himself. He recalled Zhao Zhiyong's last look at him, that indescribable sense of "looking down" on him. Would a prisoner on the verge of collapse have that kind of look in his eyes?

"Boss, I think Tony has a point," Karl chimed in, inclined to believe this was a sign of a breakthrough. "Whether he's playing tricks or not, the fact that he's brought it up is an opportunity. We're in control; why would we be afraid of some kind of scheme coming from someone handcuffed to a chair and half-dead? Giving him this much, moving him somewhere else, and offering him a little 'sweetener' might get us to talk faster. It's better than wasting time here. A doctor's checkup would put our minds at ease; if someone really dies, there would be a lot of trouble later."

Risks and rewards. Cohen weighed the options quickly. Taking Zhao Zhiyong out of this tightly controlled interrogation room carried theoretical risks, such as unexpected events during the transfer or medical treatment (though the probability was extremely low). But the rewards were enormous—they might obtain crucial testimony directly implicating Lin Feng, or even uncover deeper secrets. Moreover, as Karl said, they held an absolute advantage; what trouble could a severely injured and weakened Zhao Zhiyong cause?

Ultimately, the desire for a "breakthrough" and confidence in their own control overcame the slight doubt in their hearts.

"Okay." Cohen made the decision, his voice regaining its usual cold and decisive tone, "But we must proceed at our own pace. We can't let him think we're rushing things."

He turned and gave orders to Karl and Tony:

"First, don't directly respond to his request to change locations. Call the medical staff from the bureau to give him a thorough examination of his injuries right here and provide necessary emergency treatment. Let him know that we 'care' about his health, and that this is part of our 'sincerity.' But he shouldn't leave this room for the time being."

"Second, after treating his injuries, move him to the standard interrogation room B next door. There are no bright lights or noise there, and there are normal tables and chairs. Prepare some simple food and water for him, the standard detention meal. Let him regain some strength and also let him adapt to the 'negotiation' environment."

"Third," Cohen's eyes sharpened, "You and Tony must be present the entire time, never leaving his side. During the transfer, he must wear leg irons and have two additional armed guards. The surveillance and recording equipment in Room B must be absolutely functioning. We need to make him understand that even with a more comfortable cage, he's still a caged bird, and our patience and 'goodwill' are limited."

"Understood!" Karl and Tony replied in unison.

"Go ahead." Cohen waved his hand, his gaze returning to the monitor screen, his eyes deep. "I want to see how he plans to put on this show."

The command was executed swiftly.

Soon, a doctor and a nurse from the IRS's internal medical team, carrying medical kits, entered interrogation room D-7, accompanied by Karl, Tony, and two fully armed guards. The glaring lights were temporarily dimmed, but the surveillance cameras remained on all sides.

The doctor, a middle-aged man with a blank expression, seemed quite used to such scenes. He examined Zhao Zhiyong's wrist and ankle injuries, cleaned and bandaged them, injected medication to relieve pain and prevent infection, and gave him some saline and glucose solution. The nurse helped clean the blood off his face and body.

Throughout the process, Zhao Zhiyong was very cooperative, even somewhat "compliant." He kept his eyes closed, letting the doctor do as he pleased. Only when the alcohol stimulated the wound would his body tremble uncontrollably a few times, but he remained silent. After the treatment, his complexion seemed to have improved a little, but he was still extremely weak.

After the wound was treated, the doctor nodded to Karl, indicating that he was not in life-threatening danger but needed rest and further observation. Then the medical team left.

Next, following Cohen's instructions, Zhao Zhiyong was untied, but his hands remained cuffed behind his back. Heavy shackles were placed on his ankles. Under the close watch of Karl, Tony, and two guards, he was led out of the D-7 interrogation room, a place filled with painful memories, through a short corridor, and into the adjacent "Standard Interrogation Room B."

The environment here is indeed much more "friendly." There are no glaring bright lights, only normal fluorescent lighting from the ceiling. There's an ordinary table, two chairs, beige walls, and even a small ventilation opening. Although it's still enclosed, compared to D-7, this feels more like a formal place for "conversations."

Zhao Zhiyong was seated in a chair to the side of the table. His handcuffs were moved to the front to allow for his limited movement. His leg irons remained in place.

After a while, a guard came in carrying a tray and placed it on the table in front of Zhao Zhiyong. On the tray was a ham sandwich wrapped in clear plastic that looked dry, and a glass of water in a white paper cup. It was standard detention center food, not good, but enough to fill his stomach.

"Eat," Karl said calmly, standing across the table. "We'll talk after you finish eating."

Zhao Zhiyong glanced at the meager food and water in front of him, then slowly raised his head, his gaze sweeping over Karl and Tony, who stood by the door with his arms crossed, watching coldly. His eyes were still tired, but there seemed to be something different in them, like... assessment, or perhaps, a deep-seated coldness.

He didn't act immediately, but closed his eyes again, his chest rising and falling slightly, as if gathering strength or calming his mind.

A few seconds later, he reopened his eyes, extended his handcuffed hands, and slowly and laboriously picked up the sandwich. The plastic wrapping made a slight tearing sound. He lowered his head and began to chew slowly and mechanically. He ate very slowly, each bite seeming to require a great deal of effort, but he persisted, drinking water as he ate.

Karl and Tony waited quietly, the surveillance cameras silently recording everything. The only sounds in the room were Zhao Zhiyong's soft chewing and swallowing.

Time flowed silently. It took Zhao Zhiyong a long time to finish the small sandwich and then slowly drink the water. The food and water entered his parched body, bringing a little warmth and strength. He put down the paper cup, exhaled a long, slow breath, and a faint trace of color seemed to return to his deathly pale face, although he was still extremely haggard.

He leaned back in his chair, his handcuffed hands resting on the table, his fingers unconsciously curling and relaxing slightly. After doing this, he raised his eyes again to look at Karl across from him. In those eyes, weariness remained, but the sense of impending collapse seemed to have subsided somewhat, replaced by a deeper, more elusive calm.

He didn't speak, but just looked at Karl, as if to say: I've finished eating, and then what?

Negotiation, or rather, playful banter, seems poised to move into its next act. But does the hunter truly hold the prey firmly in control, or Chief General the prey disguising itself as bait, waiting for the hunter to approach?

Beneath the seemingly relaxed surface, the atmosphere was subtly tense.