The Golden Cicada Sheds Its Shell

Seattle, Mercer Island. Late at night.

An unassuming Ford Focus silently drove out of a quiet driveway on the east side of Mercer Island, without its headlights on, like a shadow blending into the night, heading north along the lakeside road.

In the driver's seat, Mike Anderson was wearing a plain dark gray jacket and a baseball cap pulled low over his head, obscuring most of his face.

He wore a pair of non-prescription Glasses and had a neatly trimmed fake mustache above his lips—this appearance made him look like a tired middle-aged office worker, a far cry from the "financial tycoon" who frequently appeared on the front page of Seattle's financial section.

He glanced at the mansion receding into the distance in the rearview mirror. All the lights were off, and the entire house, like a sleeping giant, lay silently crouching in the night. He had lived there for seven years; every window, every floorboard, every corner held his memories—laughter, arguments, lavish parties, secret deals... But now, none of that mattered to him anymore.

He withdrew his gaze and focused on the road ahead. This was not the time for sentimentality.

A few hours earlier, he had completed the first step of his "sleight of hand" as planned. His stunt double—a former stuntman of similar build, with simple makeup—wearing sunglasses and a mask, and dressed in his signature camel coat, got into a car through the front door of the mansion, accompanied by his private doctor, and headed to a private hospital in Seattle. Sure enough, several paparazzi lying in wait nearby took photos of "Mike Anderson seriously ill and hospitalized," which would appear in the tabloids' entertainment pages the next morning. Everyone thought he was still in Seattle, still "resting" in that hospital.

The real him, at this moment, is driving an ordinary car that has nothing to do with his identity, heading south on Interstate 5.

His plan was simple: first, drive to Portland, then transfer to a pre-arranged private jet to Cancún, Mexico. From Cancún, he would transit through the city and eventually arrive in a Central American country that had no extradition treaty with the United States. There, he had already purchased a property under a fictitious offshore company. He had enough cash and cryptocurrency to live a fairly comfortable life there, living in anonymity until things calmed down—or, never to return.

He touched the fake passport in the inside pocket of his jacket. The name on the cover was "James Wilson," a Canada citizen. The person in the photo looked quite similar to him, enough to pass off as a regular border checkpoint. He had spent nearly $100,000 on this passport through a black market channel that specialized in producing highly realistic counterfeit travel documents. Hopefully, it was worth the money.

The night wind howled, and the scenery outside the car window gradually changed from a bustling city to a desolate countryside. The streetlights grew farther apart, and the darkness deepened. He turned on the radio and tuned to the local news channel. A news segment caught his attention:

Seattle police confirmed today that they are investigating a financial fraud case involving multiple investment firms. According to unnamed sources, the amount involved could be hundreds of millions of dollars. Police have not yet released specific details but stated that a special task force has been established and are urging affected investors to contact them.

A cold smile crept across Mike's lips. The police had finally found out, but it was too late. All he left them was an empty shell company, a pile of forged financial statements, and thousands of investors who had lost everything. The angry calls for compensation, the lawyers' letters, and the court summons would all be dealt with by that shell company and the unsuspecting executives. And he, thousands of kilometers away on some beach, would be sipping a cocktail and watching the farce he had orchestrated gradually come to an end.

At least, that was his original plan.

At 2:40 a. m., he arrived at a motel in the suburbs of Portland. The motel was in a remote location, with outdated facilities, and only two or three cars parked in the parking lot. There was only an elderly Indian man dozing at the front desk. Mike checked in with cash, using the name on his fake passport. He received Key to a room at the far end of the second floor. The room was small and simply furnished, but it was enough for him. He only needed to rest here for a few hours, and before dawn, he would continue his journey to a small private airport east of Portland, where a Gulfstream jet was waiting for him.

He locked the door, placed his luggage on the bed, and without turning on the light, walked to the window, pulled back a corner of the curtain, and observed the parking lot downstairs. Everything seemed normal. His Ford Focus was parked quietly in the corner, with no suspicious vehicles or people around.

He lowered the curtains, breathed a sigh of relief, turned around to wash his face, and then took the time to rest for a while.

Just then, his gaze swept across the bedside table and then suddenly froze.

There was a cell phone on the bedside table.

A cell phone he had never seen before.

A cell phone that doesn't belong to him.

Mike's pupils contracted sharply. His gaze was fixed on the phone, as if it were a venomous snake coiled on the bedside table. He was absolutely certain that there was nothing on the bedside table before he left the room. He was absolutely certain that no one had entered the room after he checked in—the door lock was intact, and the windows were locked from the inside.

But the phone just lay there quietly, screen up, as if it had been waiting for his return.

Mike felt a chill run from the soles of his feet to the top of his head. His hands trembled slightly as he reached for the phone and picked it up.

The screen is on.

The above displays a line of text:

"Have a pleasant journey. But we haven't reached our destination yet. --L"

Mike's face turned deathly pale in an instant.

L. Lin. Lin Feng

How could he have known? How could he possibly have known?! His plan was so meticulous—the double, the fake passport, the late-night departure, the detour through Portland ... he had scrutinized every single detail to ensure absolute success. How could Lin Feng possibly have known he would be staying at this motel?!

Unless—from the very beginning, all his plans were under Lin Feng's watchful eye.

Mike felt a wave of intense dizziness, almost losing his balance. He clung to the wall, gasping for breath, countless thoughts racing through his mind. His first instinct was to flee the hotel immediately, jump into his car, and drive as far as he could, in any direction. But his reason told him that if Lin Feng had accurately located the hotel and placed the phone on his bedside table, it meant his whereabouts were completely exposed. Running was pointless now.

He gripped the phone so tightly his knuckles turned white. He stared at the words on the screen, as if trying to see through those letters the face hidden behind the scenes, the one who had been manipulating him all along.

Then he heard footsteps outside the door.

Unhurried and steady, his voice stood out clearly in the empty corridor.

The footsteps stopped in front of his door.

Then, someone gently and politely knocked on the door three times.

Thump, thump, thump.

Mike stood motionless in the center of the dark room, holding the phone. His heart was pounding, but a strange, almost relieved calm appeared on his face.

He knew that the people outside wouldn't give him a second choice.

He took a deep breath and slowly walked towards the door.