The Wing Chun Hall felt strangely peaceful when Huang Wen finally slipped back through his bedroom window. He stripped off the Magical Tuxedo, which vanished into a burst of digital light, and placed the Slow Motion Glasses back in their invisible storage.
The work was done. There was no need to linger. Inspector Yves was an unpleasant necessity, a piece of residual debt from the world of his predecessor, and now that debt was paid—with a little extra interest in the form of setting up a perfect scapegoat.
He knew Logan had heard him return. The beast's hearing was too keen for any subtlety. Yet, the mutant made no move to check on him this time.
Logan was smart enough to piece together the narrative: his boss, the Grandmaster, had gone out, dressed like an assassin, to settle a score, and now he was back, mission accomplished. There was a mutual understanding, a silent contract of non-interference.
Meanwhile, down in the grittier, darker crevices of the city, the immediate aftermath of the localized explosion was unfolding in a chaos of fear and suspicion.
The handful of plainclothes officers who had just departed Yves's side, feeling pleased with their ill-gotten gains, were suddenly jolted by the sharp BANG! that had cut through the night air. Their steps faltered, their eyes wide and flicking toward the direction they had just come from.
"What in God's name was that?" The youngest officer, a nervous type named Dave, stammered, his hand instinctively gripping his weapon.
"It was an explosion, you idiot, but muffled," the second officer, a grizzled veteran named John, corrected, his face pale. John had been around long enough to know a large-caliber gunshot sound, but this was different—a concentrated, violent pop.
"No, what I heard... that was too localized to be a normal grenade. Too clean," another chimed in, sweat beading on his forehead. "Wait... that place... we just left Boss Yves there. He wouldn't have run into... them, again, would he? He was furious about the money cut."
A sickening realization dawned on the two officers who had accompanied Yves inside the low-house fence. They exchanged a look of sheer dread. They knew how explosive Yves's temper was, especially when money was involved.
"Boss Yves was spitting fire," one mumbled, clutching his stomach. "He said they wouldn't dare short him and Dickinson. If he went back in there alone, unarmed..."
John, the veteran, snapped them out of their daze. "Stop speculating! If Yves is in trouble, we're all swimming in the cesspit! The Chief will hang us out to dry if we leave his deputy bleeding in the street. Draw your sidearms. We go back, slow and steady. We need to know what happened!"
With their service pistols drawn, their hearts hammering against their ribs, the small, terrified crew retraced their steps. As they reached the corner that Yves had turned only moments before, they froze.
The scene was a visceral nightmare. There, sprawled obscenely on the pavement, was the large, headless body of Chief Inspector Yves. And worse, they saw movement near the corpse. Several menacing figures, the low-house fence crew, were hunched over the remains, clearly attempting to wrap the body in plastic sheeting and drag it back into the darkness of the house.
"Don't you dare move!" John hissed, pulling the younger officer, Dave, back behind the corner with a powerful yank. "This is their ground! They killed him! They're trying to hide the evidence now. We rush in, we die, and no one ever finds out what happened to us! We need backup. The Chief needs to know now."
The veteran officer was thinking purely about self-preservation and systemic continuity. If they died, the whole scheme—the Colin money, the corruption—would unravel. But if they reported a murder, they could control the narrative.
Ring, ring! Ring, ring!
Sheriff Dickinson, a man who believed he was above the law and the petty details of police work, was enjoying a well-deserved, illicit 'rest' at a secluded cabin deep in the picturesque countryside. He was just about to drift off into a contented, wine-induced slumber when the grating sound of his cell phone shattered the peace.
"Ugh, who is it now? Is that your perpetually haggard wife nagging you to come home?" A charming, high-pitched voice purred from the cheap, synthetic perfume next to him. "You said you were filing the divorce papers, darling. Don't tell me you're going to use me and then go back to her?"
Dickinson shoved the woman away impatiently, his expression instantly shifting from lecherous complacency to annoyed suspicion. He gestured for silence. "Shut up. That's a secure line. It's one of the men." His mind, though fogged by alcohol, instantly raced to the clandestine operation: the final sell-off of the Colin Gang's safe through the low-house fence, orchestrated by Yves.
He snatched the phone. "Hello?"
"Chief! Chief, it's bad! Something terrible has happened!" A young, hysterical voice—Dave's—shrieked down the line. "Boss Yves is in trouble! He's dead! They're trying to steal our goods and cover it up!"
Dickinson's world tilted. "What? They dared to do that? What happened to Yves? Is he hurt?" The loss of the money was secondary; the exposure of the plot was everything.
"Boss Yves is dead, sir! His head... it's been blown clean off! They were trying to drag the body into the house right now. John pulled us back, and told me to call you immediately for backup!" Dave's frantic report, though slightly inaccurate (Yves was dead before they tried to steal the goods), cemented the perfect frame in Dickinson's mind.
Yves is dead?! Dickinson's pupils contracted to pinpricks. The wine-fueled haze instantly burned away, replaced by pure, cold panic. Yves was not just a hired thug; he was a Deputy Inspector, a high-ranking shield.
The murder of an officer, especially one in a deputy rank, triggered an immediate, intense Internal Affairs investigation. If they found Yves's body near a house full of stolen goods that he himself was selling off, Dickinson's career, his freedom, and his entire corrupt empire would implode.
"Damn those greedy, low-life animals! How dare they!" Dickinson roared, throwing the cell phone onto the cheap carpet. He roughly shoved the woman off the bed, his mind working with furious, calculated speed. He had no time for panic; he had to build a wall of lies, and he had to build it now.
He grabbed his official radio, bypassing the normal dispatch system, and used the precinct's secure emergency channel. He issued a frantic, code-red mobilization order, summoning every available armed officer from his district.
Within the hour, Sheriff Dickinson, his face carefully composed into a mask of righteous fury and profound sorrow, stood at the head of a small army of police officers—some uniformed, some plainclothes—outside the narrow alley leading to the low-rise house.
Mark, the crew leader inside the fence, had sensed the massive, sudden influx of police activity. He was currently huddled with his men, weapons drawn, confusion turning into dread.
Mark looked at his crew. "Damn it! I knew we shouldn't have been so tight on the price! But who in hell killed Yves? A professional hit? They blew his head off! We're being set up!"
He felt a deep, chilling sense of injustice. They hadn't killed the Inspector, but since they were caught trying to hide the body and steal the safe, they were now responsible for everything.
"No time for fights! Dickinson is out there, and he's going to make us the villains!" Mark ordered, his voice cracking with desperation. "He won't leave any witnesses to his own dirty deal! Find the bolt-hole! We go underground. We can always regroup and rebuild, but only if we live!"
Outside, Dickinson was giving the performance of a lifetime. He stood beneath the flickering streetlamp, his voice choked with what sounded like genuine, gut-wrenching grief.
"Look at that alley! Look at that squalor!" Dickinson cried out, pointing a trembling hand toward the scene. "Deputy Inspector Yves... a man who sacrificed every waking hour to clean up this city... a man who went out alone, on a lone scouting mission, to root out this nest of depravity!"
He turned to face the assembled officers, his eyes red and glistening with moisture he had expertly forced out.
"Yves discovered this... this fence, this den of thieves. He was investigating it alone, trying to gather enough evidence to bring down this entire network. And for his bravery, for his dedication to the badge, they brutally murdered him!"
Dickinson's voice broke on the final word. "He died a martyr! He sacrificed his life for the Department, and I will personally ensure his deeds are honored. His family will receive the maximum benefits and compensation! He deserves nothing less!"
The act was incredibly convincing. Most of the officers, oblivious to the fact that Yves was selling stolen goods rather than investigating them, felt a surge of genuine grief and adrenaline-fueled rage.
As for John and the two officers who knew the truth—that Yves was an arrogant thief whose death was being cleaned up—they looked at each other and said nothing. They knew the stakes. If Dickinson fell, they fell. The lie was now their only life raft. They needed to avenge "Martyr Yves" to protect their own pensions, their freedom, and the continued operation of the precinct's illicit network.
"And now," Dickinson continued, his voice regaining its steel, "the terrorists inside that house—for that is what they are now, cop killers—have barbarically murdered one of our own! We must apprehend them, and we must secure justice for Yves! We must avenge him, no matter the cost!"
A unified roar erupted from the assembled police force: "Avenge Chief Ev! Avenge Ev!"
Dickinson held up a hand. "I want them taken alive, if possible, but I will not lose any more good officers tonight. You will proceed with caution. You will take good care of yourselves. Avenge Yves, but preserve your own lives, for the Department needs you!"
The order was given. The officers began to move, their adrenaline high, their motive twisted from greedy complicity to noble vengeance. The Grandmaster's plan had worked flawlessly. The police were now moving to destroy the perfect scapegoat, effectively covering Huang Wen's tracks with a self-generated, bloody smokescreen.