Ji Rui was brought to the Interrogation Room by Ji Tingxi. Once she grew familiar with the surroundings, she actually calmed down a bit.
The Guard Institute’s Interrogation Room was much like those in the Police Bureau—similar in tone and layout, with the same functional equipment.
Ji Rui had been in a room like this before, back when she’d gotten hauled in for gambling. She’d managed to wriggle her way out of it then.
That successful escape gave her confidence now, but what made her uneasy was the reason she’d been brought in this time.
“Ji Rui, you hired a Sern person and used a homemade generator to shock her body, correct?”
“Yeah,” Ji Rui replied without a second thought.
It was just for this? Was it really worth the Guard Institute hauling her in personally? Couldn’t the Police Bureau have handled it with a quick formality?
“You had a friend film the process of shocking her and upload it online, correct?”
“Yeah.”
Ji Rui admitted it boldly. She wanted to see what crime the Guard Institute would try to pin on her. The law didn’t regulate this stuff so strictly—how could they?
Ji Tingxi set aside the interrogation materials and stared straight ahead. “Abusing someone and spreading it online—you think that’s okay?”
“Commander, you’re using the wrong words there. It wasn’t abuse; it was an experiment. I needed to test if the generator’s energy stayed within safe limits. Uploading it online wasn’t for spreading it around—it was for academic exchange, so others could reference it. Really, after us, other people uploaded their stuff too. Everyone shares and discusses—such a vibrant community!”
Ji Tingxi didn’t grit her teeth. Outside, someone was listening in and doing it for her.
“I know all about the platform you uploaded to. I’ve browsed every piece of information on it. That platform is one of our key surveillance targets. Tell me—who shared the entry link with you?”
Ji Rui’s mouth twitched, hesitation flickering across her face. “I… I saw it shared on a forum, so I went in and checked it out.”
“What forum?”
“The one for recommending hired workers.”
“The Sern hired worker recommendation platform, right?”
The corners of Ji Rui’s eyes and mouth both quirked slyly. “You already know, so why ask me?”
“Then let me tell you something else I know. That so-called academic sharing platform is a channel for foreign powers to gather intelligence. Every bit of text, image, and video you upload—they see it all crystal clear. They’ve saved it too. Even if you delete it now, the backend keeps the original traces.”
The conversation had veered beyond the Sern person issue, touching on foreign factions. This was outside Ji Rui’s “expertise,” and she could no longer gauge how serious her actions really were.
“Ji Rui, you’re now suspected of colluding with foreign powers—carrying out and documenting sensitive acts, then spreading them to help collect information that tarnishes our nation’s image.”
Abusing Sern people wasn’t punishable by law, though it wasn’t encouraged either.
Great Bailunting followed a refined path of democracy. Sern people’s lower status stemmed from objective genetic factors. Treatment differed by class, but they still received basic human rights—like safety of body and life—which weren’t stripped away lightly.
This was Rui’er Terrace’s strongest retort to international criticism: Who says our nation lacks democracy and equality? Within each class, everyone is equal, living in harmony without infringing on one another.
This rhetoric could be explained away as “unique national circumstances.” Since it was unique, foreigners had to respect it even if they didn’t understand.
Thus, paired with Bailunting’s ever-growing economic might, it formed the backdrop for friendly exchanges and trade with foreign nations.
Some bought this line; others didn’t.
Take Gailie Country—they called it utter nonsense. To debunk Rui’er Terrace’s lies, they worked tirelessly to collect evidence of Sern people’s mistreatment in Bailunting: abuses of life, body, dignity, property, and more.
Even if Ji Rui ignored the news, the keywords in Ji Tingxi’s words told her things were grave. Her confidence deflated by half, her heart sloshing like a half-filled water bag, bouncing up and down.
But beneath the fear, anger surged up, smothering her panic.
“On what grounds? What gives you the right to say that? I just happened to stumble on the link, like anyone else, and shared my little project. If that’s collusion, does every account on that platform count? Have you rounded them all up? Let me see them—otherwise, I’ll sue you for discriminatory treatment!”
With that, Ji Rui went fully off the rails, refusing to answer questions and just demanding fair treatment.
Faced with this explosive suspect, Ji Tingxi didn’t resort to force. She gave no emotional response whatsoever, simply leaving the Interrogation Room in silence.
Ji Rui’s nameless rage had nowhere to land—like a dud firecracker, it fell limp and soft to the ground.
The water in her heart sloshed harder. The adrenaline surging through her veins lost its momentum all at once, cooling rapidly.
Bai Zhuo was listening from outside. His face wasn’t any prettier than Ji Rui’s. When Ji Tingxi emerged, he pulled off his headphones, leaving deep marks around his ears from pressing too hard—the outer shells had nearly dug into his flesh.
Thanks to He De’s deliberate arrangements, Ji Tingxi and Bai Zhuo had rarely worked together lately, diluting their power to some degree.
But this time, they were teaming up. Ji Tingxi’s team had uncovered something new involving a Gailie espionage platform, which fell squarely in Bai Zhuo’s current purview with the Gailie Forces.
“Have you contacted Chief Ji yet?”
“Not yet,” Bai Zhuo said, running a hand through his hair. The interrogation dialogue had given him a headache. “You’re better at talking than I am. Why don’t you handle it?”
Ji Tingxi leaned against the table and took a sip of water. “Sure. Chief Ji dotes on his daughter, but on matters of principle, he’ll back us up.”
“What backing? We’re just giving her a talking-to. You gonna lock her up for real?”
“There are different kinds of criticism and education. Some barely sting; others stick for life.” Ji Tingxi turned her head, glancing at Ji Rui inside. “Let her stew for a bit. I’ll go contact Chief Ji first.”
After Ji Tingxi left, Bai Zhuo ran a hand through his hair again. He’d cut it extremely short for convenience, but it still got in the way sometimes—like now, when emotions boiled over and he wanted to soothe his scalp. A quick rub just left his palm full of prickles, ramping up his irritation.
Before Ji Tingxi returned, he shoved open the door, strode in, and planted himself at the interrogation desk, facing Ji Rui directly.
Her blood hadn’t fully cooled before it ignited again. She gave the new interrogator the same sour look.
“Switching people won’t help. Just bring my dad in. I’ll tell him—he’ll prove I’m innocent.”
“How’s he gonna prove that?”
“You’ll see when you call him. He’ll show you!”
“You think because your dad’s the Police Bureau station chief, he’ll go easy on us once he’s here?”
Ji Rui ignored him, rolling her eyes so the whites showed more than her under-eye bags.
Bai Zhuo slammed the table, his voice booming. “Let me tell you— even if your dad shows up, he’ll tan your hide first! You think he can protect you in this? Someone’s already planted a bug in your phone. Even when you sleep, you’re under surveillance! That platform link? It was sent to you on purpose. You think their target is you? What are you besides some privileged pervert pulling strings? Their target is your dad!”
His volume was like a barbed whip lashing across her face. Ji Rui froze—not just from his intensity, but the content. The info hit too hard and too fast; her brain struggled to process it, like a bad signal forcing data through.
“At least today it was us who found you. One step later, and it’d be them—then using you to threaten your dad next. You got the nerve to call him here? You nearly got him booted from the Police Bureau in disgrace! I’m telling you, today not even your dad could saunter in here. Even if he did, he’d have to sit up straight. The one I’m interrogating is your dad!”
Bai Zhuo grabbed the materials from the table, ready to continue, but he was still fuming. He slammed the folder down instead.
“Don’t play games with me. Answer my questions truthfully, or it’s three days in the holding cell until you learn to talk like a human!”
…
By the time Ji Tingxi returned, the statement was already compiled.
Bai Zhuo handed back the interrogation materials. He wasn’t rubbing his head anymore—instead, he massaged his neck. He’d broken a sweat earlier, and the room’s AC chilled his nape.
“I’ve never seen Director Bai lose his temper like that before.”
Bai Zhuo hadn’t expected it himself. He knew he wasn’t the smoothest talker, but neither was he reckless. He was well aware of Ji Lanmu’s status, yet Miss Ji’s attitude had pricked at him like needles—he had to set her straight.
“If it works, that’s what matters. We got the statement, right? Miss Ji will remember this one for life, like you said.”
“Yeah.” Ji Tingxi couldn’t help giving him a thumbs-up in her mind. “Next time she pulls some stunt, she can do it on the down-low—just don’t post it online. As long as she gets the confidentiality memo.”
Bai Zhuo didn’t look relieved. His face darkened instead.
“These high-society elites—they don’t see regular people as human. Hell, we’re probably animals in their eyes too!”
Ji Tingxi glanced at him, then quickly looked away, flipping through the pages in her hand.
—Hearing him say that shocked her more than his earlier outburst.
Ji Rui abused a Sern hired worker, but hadn’t Bai Zhuo used force on Sern people in interrogation rooms too? The scars he’d left were far worse than electric shocks.
On second thought, Bai Zhuo roughed up Sern people, Libo Faction members—even if he caught a Gailie person, he’d give them the full treatment. Equal-opportunity brutality for every suspect—wasn’t that its own form of egalitarian professionalism?
Ji Tingxi rolled the folder into a tube and tapped his shoulder with it. “Exactly. So us animals better keep at it—gotta make sure the ‘masters’ live even safer and more comfortably.”
…
The case details were relayed to Ji Lanmu almost verbatim, though Bai Zhuo’s fiery speech got a polish.
He De lacked the guts to write “The one I’m interrogating is your dad,” opting instead for a warm note: The Guard Institute is deeply concerned for Director Ji’s personal safety and job satisfaction.
Ji Lanmu knew his daughter had been scolded, but he grasped the gravity even more. He thanked He De profusely and vowed strict discipline at home to prevent a repeat.
Whether Ji Lanmu followed through, He De didn’t know. But soon after, he heard Ji Rui had terminated her hiring contract, returning Li Da to the housekeeping agency.
Her friends followed suit, dismissing their household Sern hired workers without bad reviews—just noting “personal reasons from employer,” which wouldn’t hurt future job prospects.
Once these young elites quieted down, the craze for hiring Sern workers in the city finally showed signs of waning.
The trend had risen fast and vanished just as quick—faster than the monthly hot rose varieties in the city.
Wen Du heard the news and felt a wave of satisfaction. This was their first win without smuggling Sern people out of the country—they’d still pulled them from the fire.
—The path to salvation was broadening beyond just “escape,” sprouting new routes.
After work that day, Wen Du skipped the dessert shop and headed to the flower shop. She bought the month’s trendy butterfly orchids paired with carnations, intending to deliver them to Ji Tingxi as thanks for her “heroic intervention.”
