After stealing the inhibitors, Lightwing society vanished without a trace. Not a single one of them was caught. Even Eugene, who had already been arrested and sentenced to death, managed to escape amidst the chaos.
It was a complete defeat for the Prosecutor’s Office and the police—so thorough that there wasn’t even an excuse they could use to save face in the newspapers.
At first, the Commissioner and Chief Prosecutor tried to cover up the fact that Lightwing had stolen the inhibitors. But within days, the media received an “anonymous tip” revealing everything—not just how Lightwing had tricked the authorities, but also the exact name and effects of the stolen drug.
—The drug, a form of inhibitor, was a type of medication that suppressed an Omega’s heat response. Not only that, but if mixed with other ingredients, it could alter an Omega’s pheromone scent, making them smell like an ordinary Beta, or even an Alpha.
Furthermore, the so-called “still in research” claim about the inhibitor was nothing but a lie from the authorities. The drug was actually developed more than a decade ago and has long been qualified for mass production.
However, for some rather obvious reasons, it was never publicly released by any institution and has remained classified until now.
No one knew whether this so-called informant was telling the truth or just making things up, but the media wasn’t going to let go of an opportunity like this.
The very next day, magazines, television, and online news outlets were flooded with reports about it.
The revelation caused widespread panic among the public, to the point where even government officials personally coming forward to refute the claims couldn’t quell the unrest.
People—especially those Alphas who were dirt poor and illiterate yet still dominated their circles due to their gender advantage—couldn’t accept the idea that Omegas might disguise themselves as Betas or even Alphas, allowing them to stand on equal footing. Outraged, they flocked to government buildings, hurling curses and causing chaos, forcing the authorities to deploy over a dozen security personnel daily just to disperse them.
The prosecution office and the police department, who were directly involved in the case, suffered even more.
Although the explosion in the evidence room had miraculously caused no casualties, every single case file and piece of evidence related to Omega crimes was completely destroyed in the blaze. Many cases, whether under investigation or awaiting trial, had to be scrapped entirely due to the loss of evidence.
As the police scrambled to clean up the aftermath of the explosion, they also had to endure a relentless wave of public outrage and accusations. Some officers couldn’t even step outside their homes without getting pelted in the face with rotten eggs by their neighbors.
The police chief and the head of the criminal division were so stressed that their hair was falling out in clumps—you could hear their sighs echoing through the hallways of the station.
Meanwhile, “Lightwing”—a name previously known only to government agencies and relevant personnel—had now become widely recognized by the public thanks to this incident.
On the day after the mission failure and the media’s exposure of the inhibitor case, Doyle personally convened a meeting with all prosecutors in the office.
At first, no one dared to speak. The conference room was deathly silent, in stark contrast to the angry protests outside the building.
The silence dragged on for several minutes before Doyle finally spoke, his voice slow and deep.
“Do you hear that outside?”
Still, no one responded.
“That is the voice of the people expressing their dissatisfaction with us. As a public institution in Nantes, the prosecution office is supposed to ensure the safety and well-being of our citizens. But look at where we are now—our own people have gathered to protest against us. Do you understand how serious this failure is?”
After scanning the entire room with his sharp gaze, Doyle continued.
“Why did the mission fail? How did the information about the inhibitor leak? Every single one of you is here today, and every single one of you must give me an explanation.”
The room remained silent for a few more seconds before someone finally spoke up.
Sitting in the front row, Daina—who had always been the most openly hostile toward Luo Hai—suddenly broke the silence.
“The lead prosecutor for the Lightwing case was always Luo Hai, and it was under his supervision that Oddis escaped. If anyone should be held accountable, it’s him.”
The others immediately turned their eyes toward Luo Hai.
As usual, Luo Hai sat in the farthest corner of the room, leaning against the wall. Regardless of whether the meeting was directly related to him or not, his position never changed. His dark eyes, like lifeless glass beads, reflected the light streaming in from the windows.
Doyle’s gaze also landed on Luo Hai before he calmly asked, “Luo Hai, I heard that after the explosion at the police station, you returned to your apartment to look for Eugene Oddis. Is that true?”
“Yes,” Luo Hai replied flatly. “I wanted to confirm as soon as possible that Oddis was still under control.”
“Did you see him when you arrived?” Doyle asked.
“I did,” Luo Hai said. “When I got there, he had already broken free from his ankle monitor and was preparing to escape.”
“How did he break free?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see it happen.”
“What did you do when you saw him?”
“I opened fire, but I missed because he was too far away,” Luo Hai said calmly. “Then a black van drove up, and he jumped in and disappeared down the street.”
As soon as Luo Hai finished speaking, murmurs spread through the conference room. Even without looking, he knew what kind of expressions they had on their faces.
Doyle kept his gaze on Luo Hai and spoke again, slowly, “The forensic examiner told me that your gun still had seven bullets left. Are you saying that not a single one of them hit him?”
Luo Hai’s expression remained unchanged—calm and steady as ever.
“That’s correct. By the time I arrived, Oddis was too far away, and I couldn’t land a shot.”
The moment those words left his mouth, director Kliman spoke in a cold voice.
“Too far? Missed every shot? Prosecutor Luo Hai, if I remember correctly, weren’t you ranked first in marksmanship back in training?”
The murmurs in the room grew louder. Luo Hai could even clearly make out who was saying what.
“Do you believe him? Because I sure don’t.”
“Luo Hai has always been too close to Oddis. That guy was locked up just fine, but Luo Hai insisted on releasing him and keeping him in his own home.”
“Do we even need to say it? He’s obviously—”
Luo Hai slowly exhaled, then lifted his gaze to meet Doyle’s eyes. His expression remained indifferent and composed, his tone unwavering.
“My shooting skills might have been decent back then, but ever since I became a prosecutor, I haven’t fired a gun. Compared to my outstanding colleagues, my marksmanship is now terrible. If it had been Director Kliman, Prosecutor Flock, or Prosecutor Daina who arrived instead of me, I’m sure they would have been able to land a perfect headshot from fifty meters away.”
The moment he finished speaking, the people he had named turned visibly pale with anger—yet none of them could come up with a rebuttal.
“Enough,” Doyle said in a deep voice. “This is the prosecutor’s office, not a place for you to bicker and attack each other.”
The conference room immediately fell silent again. Everyone averted their gazes and pretended to be busy.
“When mistakes are made, they must be corrected. The higher-ups have given their orders: we have one week to find Eugene Oddis and the headquarters of the Lightwing Society, arrest all the terrorists, and seize all the inhibitors.” Doyle walked from the front of the room to the back, stopping in front of Luo Hai. “Luo Hai, as usual, you will take full charge of this. You must complete the mission within one week.”
Luo Hai abruptly looked up. “One week is impossible! Just finding a single lead last time took months—how could we possibly—”
With a loud bang, Doyle slammed his palm onto the table in front of Luo Hai, making a sharp noise.
“You created this mess—figure out how to clean it up yourself. Things have escalated to this point, and you still think you have time for a slow investigation?”
Doyle then slowly lowered his head, leaning close to Luo Hai’s ear, and spoke in a lowered voice, “If you, as an Alpha, are this useless, maybe you’d be better off turning back into an Omega. What do you think?”
The hot breath against the back of Luo Hai’s neck made him shudder with disgust.
After saying this, Doyle straightened as if nothing had happened and raised his hand toward the people behind him. “Meeting adjourned.”
…..
Ever since the incident, Luo Hai hadn’t returned to his apartment for several days.
He ate near the prosecutor’s office, slept in his office under a thin blanket, and washed up in the building’s restroom.
The only small relief was that, even without trying to stay busy, there was always an endless stream of things demanding his attention.
One day it was the angry crowds protesting outside. The next, it was the towering stack of case files waiting to be processed. The day after, it was the lineup of trials waiting to be held.
But he knew—no matter how busy he was, it wasn’t that he couldn’t spare time to go home.
He just didn’t know how to face that empty apartment.
Eugene had only lived in his apartment for less than a month.
One month—just a third of a single case litigation process, a sixth of the time the prosecution had been tracking the Lightwing Society.
A mere seventy-second of the time Luo Hai had lived alone in that apartment.
And yet, somehow, in just that short month, everything seemed to have changed.
He found himself instinctively pulling out his phone during work breaks, only to freeze when he saw the empty screen.
The fast food from the restaurant he used to frequent suddenly tasted unbearable, forcing him to cycle through every takeout option nearby, yet nothing suited his taste.
He tried to avoid everything related to Eugene—removing his cufflinks, switching back to his old suit, deleting Eugene’s old number—but none of it worked. Eugene was like a stubborn bone spur embedded deep in his heart. He didn’t even have to think about him; just breathing was enough to feel the pain.
After the meeting, Luo Hai knew he had been pushed to the edge—he could no longer keep running away.
As the last sliver of sunset sank below the horizon, he pulled a key from his desk drawer, left the office, and walked toward his apartment.
