The Uninvited Guest

San Mateo County, home of Chief Blake.

It was 9:40 p. m. The two-story detached house, nestled deep in a quiet residential area, was shrouded in a seemingly ordinary tranquility.

The light from the neighbor's house could be faintly seen through the gaps in the hedge, and the occasional bark of a dog could be heard in the distance. The porch light was off—unusually. Blake's wife, Emily, would usually turn on the porch light before dark to light her husband's way home.

Blake parked his black Chevrolet Tahoe in the driveway but didn't immediately turn off the engine and get out. He sat in the driver's seat, looking through the windshield at the dark doorway, his brow slightly furrowed.

He spent nearly twelve hours at the branch office today. The formation of the special task force, the allocation of tasks, coordination with other branches, dealing with inquiries from the media and superiors... he barely sat down all day. Physical exhaustion was secondary; what weighed heavily on him was the mental pressure. He had to launch a high-profile investigation into the murder case while simultaneously carefully controlling the direction of the investigation to prevent the police from touching on anything they shouldn't. This feeling of walking a tightrope left him utterly drained.

Now, back at his doorstep, not even the porch light was on, which brought back that lingering sense of unease in his heart.

He turned off the engine, removed the Key, but didn't get out of the car immediately. He sat in the darkness, quietly observing for a few minutes. Everything in the house seemed normal. A faint light shone from the windows—the living room light was on, but it seemed dimmer than usual, perhaps only the wall lamp or floor lamp was on. There was no unusual movement, no suspicious vehicles.

Maybe Emily forgot to turn on the light? Or maybe she was too tired today and took Lily upstairs to bed early?

Blake tried to convince himself, but his hand still reached into the glove compartment and took out the Glock 19 pistol he always carried. He checked the magazine, pulled the slide to chamber a round, then gripped the gun, opened the car door, and got out.

A cool night breeze rustled the lemon tree leaves in the yard. Blake closed the car door, leaving it unlocked so he could quickly get in and leave if necessary. Holding his gun, he walked slowly towards his house, keeping close to the car's shadow.

Two steps, then one. He stepped onto the small platform by the door, pressed himself against the doorframe, and listened intently. The room was quiet; there was no talking, no television sound, only an almost stagnant silence. This silence made him uneasy.

He slowly inserted the Key into the lock, turned it gently, and with a "click," the lock opened. He took a deep breath, pushed the door open abruptly, and simultaneously shifted his body to the side, pointing the gun inside!

The living room lights were on—just as he had seen earlier, only the wall lamps were on, casting a dim, yellowish light. The smell of dinner wafted through the air, seemingly the aroma of stewed beef and toast, and it was already a little cold.

Then he saw that image, an image that made his pupils shrink.

His wife, Emily, sat on the sofa in the living room. She wore a casual beige cardigan, her hair was slightly disheveled, her face was as pale as paper, and her eyes were red-rimmed, clearly from crying not long ago. Her arms were tightly wrapped around their six-year-old daughter, Lily, whose head was buried in her mother's chest, her small body trembling slightly, not daring to look up.

A man was sitting on the single sofa opposite the mother and daughter.

He was a white man who looked to be around forty years old, wearing a well-tailored dark gray suit, a white shirt, and no tie, the collar casually open. His hair was light brown, combed back, revealing a full forehead. His face wasn't exactly handsome, but he possessed a composure and demeanor unique to mature men. There was even a polite, just-right smile on his lips, as if he were a friend visiting rather than an uninvited guest intruding into someone's home.

In front of him, on the coffee table, were three black briefcases. One hand rested casually on a briefcase, the other on his knee, his posture relaxed and composed.

Blake's heart skipped at least twenty beats in that instant. But he was a man of the trade, and the professionalism honed by years of police service kept him from losing control. He steadied his breathing, the muzzle of his gun firmly pointed at the stranger, his voice low and cold:

"Who are you?! How did you get in?!"

Facing the dark muzzle of a gun, the man's expression remained unchanged. He didn't even sit up straight; he simply raised his hands slowly, making a "calm down" gesture. His movements were slow and steady, without any sudden actions that could cause misunderstanding.

"Chief Blake, good evening." His voice was steady, with a peculiar, irresistible magnetism that drew people in. "Please forgive me for visiting in this manner. But I have some very important matters I'd like to discuss with you privately."

"I'm asking you how you got in!" Blake didn't lower his gun, his voice even harsher. His gaze swept across the living room—the windows were intact, and there were no signs of forced entry on the back door. How had this man bypassed his security system to get inside?

"The door lock isn't a problem for me," the man replied casually, as if it were a trivial matter. "But please rest assured, I didn't cause any harm to your wife and daughter. I just... asked them to sit down and wait for you to come home."

His tone was polite, even apologetic, but Blake detected an undeniable sense of control in it. This man wasn't there to beg him, nor to negotiate. He was there to give him an ultimatum.

Blake's gaze lingered for a moment on his wife's pale face and his daughter's trembling little body, a surge of intense guilt and anger welling up inside him. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. He knew that in this situation, acting impulsively would solve nothing.

He slowly lowered the muzzle of his gun, but still did not put it away.

"Emily, take Lily upstairs." He tried to keep his voice calm.

Emily looked up at her husband, her eyes filled with fear and worry. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but in the end, she just nodded, picked up her daughter, and hurried towards the stairs. As she passed Blake, she squeezed his arm tightly, silently conveying the message "be careful," and then went upstairs without looking back.

I heard the sound of a bedroom door closing upstairs.

In the living room, only Blake and the strange man remained, Blake and sitting face to face. A subtle, tense standoff hung in the air.

"Alright." Blake placed the pistol on the shoe rack, keeping it within easy reach. He walked to the sofa opposite the man, didn't sit down, but crossed his arms and looked down at him. "Now, you can tell me. What do you really want?"

The man smiled slightly, seemingly appreciating Blake's cooperation. He didn't answer directly, but instead bent down, opened the three black briefcases in front of him one by one, turned them around, and pushed them toward Blake.

Blake's pupils contracted again.

Three boxes were filled with brand-new, neatly stacked hundred-dollar bills. Under the dim light of the wall lamp, the bills gleamed with an alluring, soft sheen. Based on Blake's years of experience, he roughly estimated that the three boxes together contained at least one million dollars.

One million.

cash.

duty free.

No explanation or source is required.

Blake's Adam's apple bobbed involuntarily. He forced his gaze away from the pile of banknotes and looked back at the man. "... What do you mean by this?"

"It's simple." The man leaned back on the sofa, crossed his legs, and became even more relaxed. "We want to be friends with the bureau chief."

He extended a finger and gently tapped the edge of the leftmost briefcase. "If the director is willing to be our friend, then this million dollars is yours. No contract needed, no invoice needed, no explanation required. It's yours, completely yours."

Blake was silent for a few seconds. His mind was racing. One million dollars was equivalent to almost ten years' worth of his salary. With that money, he could pay off his mortgage, save enough for Lily's college tuition, and stop Emily from having to carefully budget for supermarket coupons...

But he knew that there's no such thing as a free lunch. Such a large sum of money must come with equally demanding requirements.

"... What do you want?" he heard his own voice ask, somewhat hoarse.

The man's smile deepened, seemingly pleased with Blake's "getting the hang of it." He lowered his leg, leaned forward slightly, placed his hands on his knees, looked directly into Blake's eyes, and his tone became serious:

"It's simple. We want to know where the leader of the South District Black Snakes — Big Snake —is hiding right now."

Blake's heart skipped a beat! Although he tried his best to remain calm, that subtle change in expression did not escape the keen eyes of the man opposite him.

"You... you're going to touch the Big Snake?" Blake's voice was lowered, carrying a hint of barely perceptible tension.

The man didn't answer the question directly. He simply maintained his polite and composed smile and continued, "Chief, all you need to do is provide an address to get this million. Besides, think about it—the death of the Big Snake might not be a bad thing for you."

He paused, his tone becoming more meaningful. "While he was alive, you received 'protection money' from him every month, but you also bore the risk that he might be caught at any time and betray you. If he's dead, you not only eliminate that risk, but you also get a lump sum equivalent to several years' worth of protection money. A win-win situation, isn't it?"

Blake fell silent.

He knew that every word the man said was true. The fact that the Big Snake was alive was indeed a ticking time bomb for him. If the Big Snake were ever caught, it was highly likely that it would implicate him, its protector, in order to get a reduced sentence. At that point, he would face an Federal Bureau of Investigation investigation, the end of his career, and even imprisonment.

But if he betrays the Big Snake... then Blake will go from a bribe-taking cop to a corrupt cop who colludes with the mob and betrays informants. That charge is enough to destroy him.

He was caught in a dilemma.

The man seemed to sense his hesitation but didn't urge him. He simply sat there quietly, smiling, waiting for Blake's answer. The three open suitcases, like three tempting pieces of cheese, exuded a deadly aroma.

Time passed by, second by second.

Fine beads of sweat appeared on Blake's forehead.

He thought of Emily's pale face, and Lily's trembling little body. He thought of the impassioned speech he gave at the precinct that day, and the "real culprit" that the officers he had dispatched were searching for.

He thought of the Big Snake, his "old friend" of nearly ten years who had regularly sent him money every month.

He closed his eyes.

Then he heard his own voice, hoarse and weary, as if coming from a very far place:

"... He was at Hunters Point, on Third Street, in a house with a blue tin roof."

The man nodded in satisfaction, stood up, and straightened the hem of his suit. He didn't touch the three briefcases, as if they were already Blake's for the taking.

"Thank you for your cooperation, Chief." He extended his hand and shook hands with Blake. "The money is yours. Good night."

He turned and walked towards the door, his steps calm and composed, without a trace of lingering.

Blake stood there, watching the man's Back View disappear into the night at the doorway, listening to his footsteps fade into the distance until they were swallowed by the night wind.

Silence returned to the living room.

Only the three open boxes of banknotes gleamed silently and alluringly under the dim light.

Blake slowly slumped onto the sofa. He stared at the three boxes of money, his face devoid of any joy, only a deep weariness and bewilderment, as if his soul had been emptied.