Interrogation Room - Xuān Láng
Xuān Láng sat in a metal chair bolted to the floor, his hands cuffed in front of him, his considerable weight making the chair creak ominously with every shift. The interrogation room was exactly what you'd expect, concrete walls, a single overhead light, a metal table, and a two-way mirror on one wall.
Across from him sat a professional interrogator, middle-aged, well-dressed, the kind of person who made lying detection look easy.
"Have you purchased any ice jade recently?" the interrogator asked, his voice calm, conversational. "Imperial quality. Qing Dynasty provenance. Very specific piece."
Xuān Láng shook his head, his multiple chins wobbling with the movement. "No. Never. I don't deal in pieces that high-end. Too much scrutiny. Too many questions about authenticity and provenance."
"But you buy jade in general, correct?"
"Of course. Jade necklaces, bracelets, small carvings, that's standard pawn shop inventory. People bring them in all the time. I buy them, authenticate them, resell them. Completely legitimate business."
The interrogator leaned forward slightly, his eyes narrowing. "So you DO have expertise in jade authentication."
"For common pieces, yes. But imperial ice jade? That's museum-level. That requires specialists with credentials and equipment I don't have."
"But if someone BROUGHT you imperial ice jade, you could recognize it, couldn't you?"
Xuān Láng saw the trap immediately, the interrogator was trying to twist his words, make him accidentally confess through a slip-up.
"I'm not dumb," Xuān Láng said flatly, his sleazy customer-service persona completely gone, replaced with the hardened survival instincts of someone who'd dealt with authorities for decades. "Pawn shop owners get questioned daily by police, tax authorities, anti-smuggling units—everyone wants to know where our inventory comes from. I've been through hundreds of interrogations. I'm not some chump who's going to slip up on word games."
He leaned forward as much as his cuffs would allow, his expression deadly serious.
"I swear on my daughters' lives—all three of them—I do not know anything about imperial ice jade. I haven't bought it. I haven't sold it. I haven't authenticated it. I haven't even SEEN it. I'm just a pawn shop owner trying to feed my family and stay out of trouble."
The interrogator stared at him for a long moment, searching for any sign of deception.
Finding none, his expression darkened. He slammed his hand on the metal table with enough force to make it ring like a gong.
"FUCK!"
He stood abruptly and walked out of the room, the door slamming behind him.
Observation Room - Behind the Two-Way Mirror
The interrogator entered the observation room where several Black Hawk members were monitoring the interrogation. He ran his hand through his hair, frustration evident.
"He still hasn't talked. Twenty-four hours of questioning and he's maintaining the same story. No contradictions. No slip-ups. Either he's telling the truth or he's the best liar I've ever encountered."
One of the Black Hawk members—a woman with short-cropped hair—frowned. "Could we have gotten the wrong person? Maybe our intelligence was faulty?"
Before anyone could answer, a new voice cut through the room.
"That means he's hiding something."
Everyone turned.
A tall, skinny man stood in the doorway, wearing an impeccably tailored suit that contrasted sharply with his unsettling appearance. His eyes were completely blank, milky white, no visible pupils or iris. Blind. But the way he carried himself, the way he oriented toward people when they spoke, suggested he compensated for his lack of sight through other means.
"Mr. Nergui," the interrogator said respectfully, his earlier frustration replaced with deference. "I was just explaining that—"
"I heard." Nergui's voice was soft, almost gentle, which made it somehow more disturbing.
"The target maintains his innocence too consistently. Too perfectly. Innocent people panic. They contradict themselves. They offer too much information trying to prove their innocence. This man is controlled. Professional. Which means he's been trained or has extensive experience hiding information."
He walked further into the room, his movements precise despite his blindness, stopping directly in front of the two-way mirror as if he could see Xuān Láng on the other side.
"Remove his access to food and water. Turn off the heating. Make the environment as uncomfortable as possible without visible injury."
The room fell silent. One of the Black Hawk members—younger, less experienced—spoke up hesitantly.
"Sir... that's torture. That's illegal. We could face serious charges if—"
Nergui turned toward the speaker, his blank eyes somehow locking onto the exact position despite having no visual input. He didn't say anything. Just stared.
The silence stretched. Became oppressive. The younger member's face went pale.
"Yes, sir. Understood, sir."
Nergui nodded once and left the room, his footsteps fading down the hallway.
The moment he was gone, the team members exchanged looks.
"How the hell does a blind man manage to be THAT scary?" one of them whispered.
The woman with short hair shrugged. "That's Nergui for you. I've worked with him for three years and I still don't understand it. But when he gives an order, you follow it. Every time."
They moved to implement his instructions, none of them willing to risk disobeying.
Back to Tòumíng's Cell
Tòumíng laid out his plan in a hushed whisper, mindful that guards could be listening.
"Okay, here's what we're doing. I'm going to fake having a seizure. You're going to get the guard's attention—scream, panic, make a big scene. When he enters the cell to check on me, I knock him out. Then we grab his keys, cut that power wire up there—" he pointed to the thick cable running along the ceiling "—which should kill the lights and probably the security systems. Then we find Xuān Láng and get the fuck out."
Háo Héng nodded eagerly. "Yes! Yes! Perfect plan! I can do that!"
Cupid's voice cut in. "I could actually cause a real heart attack. Make it more believable. Just a minor one—nothing permanent. Your Schrödinger's Heart would prevent actual death."
"FUCK NO!" Tòumíng hissed. "I am NOT having a real heart attack as part of this plan!"
"Fine. Whatever. Your fake seizure better be Oscar-worthy then."
Tòumíng took a deep breath, mentally preparing. He'd never had a seizure, never even seen one in person, just vague memories from medical dramas on TV.
Good enough.
He threw himself to the ground, his body convulsing, his limbs jerking in what he hoped looked like uncontrolled spasms. He let saliva foam at the corners of his mouth, rolled his eyes back until only the whites showed, made choking sounds in his throat.
Háo Héng immediately launched into his performance.
"GUARD! GUARD! OH MY GOD! MY FRIEND IS HAVING A SEIZURE! HE'S DYING! HE NEEDS HELP! PLEASE! SOMEONE HELP! HE'S TURNING BLUE! HIS EYES ARE ROLLING BACK! I THINK HE'S CHOKING ON HIS TONGUE!"
His voice was absolutely perfect, the exact tone of someone witnessing a medical emergency, panic and desperation blending into genuine-sounding hysteria.
Footsteps approached. A guard appeared—skinny, short, probably assigned to cell duty because he wasn't suited for more physical operations.
"What's going on?!" he demanded in Mandarin, his hand on his weapon but not drawing it yet.
"SEIZURE! HE'S HAVING A SEIZURE! YOU HAVE TO HELP HIM! PLEASE!" Háo Héng pressed against the bars, pointing frantically at Tòumíng's convulsing form.
The guard hesitated, clearly weighing protocol against the possibility of a captive dying on his watch. Medical emergencies created paperwork. Created problems.
He unlocked Tòumíng's cell and stepped inside, kneeling down to check—
Tòumíng's fist shot up and connected with the guard's groin with brutal precision.
The man's eyes bulged. His mouth opened in a silent scream. He doubled over, all the air leaving his lungs, and Tòumíng followed up with a quick punch to the temple that sent him crumpling to the floor unconscious.
"YES!" Háo Héng cheered. "Oh my god, my performance was AMAZING! Did you see how I modulated my voice? The panic? The desperation? I should have gone into theater professionally!"
Tòumíng grabbed the guard's keys and started working on unlocking Háo Héng's cell. "Your acting WAS good. Very convincing."
"Oh please, it wasn't THAT good—" Háo Héng's false modesty dissolved immediately into genuine pride. "Actually, I DID do theater in college! I was Hamlet in our senior production! The director said I had real potential! I could have pursued it professionally but my parents wanted me to go into real estate and—"
"Shut up," Tòumíng said, unlocking the cell and pulling Háo Héng out.
"I'm just saying, if circumstances had been different—"
Tòumíng grabbed the unconscious guard and started dragging him into the cell. Háo Héng watched with a slight frown.
"Did you have to punch him in the... you know... the balls? Couldn't you have knocked him out with a headlock or something cooler? A nut punch feels so graphic. So crude."
Tòumíng stopped dragging, turned to Háo Héng, and stared at him with absolutely zero patience.
"Dude... you wanna escape or not?"
"Yes, obviously—"
"You do? Then shut up."