The only way to avoid tragedy is to never start it at all.
Ring ring ring!
"We're rolling out!"
A sharp police siren cut through the pre-dawn stillness, rousing a group of twenty-somethings who forced themselves awake and lined up in an instant.
"Move, move! Yongnian Road, Yongnian Road!"
A swarthy man clutched a freshly printed sheet of paper, herding the young men toward their vehicle with his arm as a makeshift baton. He himself stepped calmly into the garage, opened the passenger door, and slid in.
In less than a minute, the same young men who'd been in nothing but shorts and tees moments earlier were fully geared up, their combat uniforms emblazoned with two bold characters: Special Operations.
June 12th, Qingdao, 3 a.m.
A special forces vehicle tore through the glow of streetlamps. The roads were empty, and its white license plate let it blow through every traffic light. From the moment it left the garage, the car never let up on its breakneck speed.
"Hello? What's the situation? Huh?... Alright, but... Fine."
The man in the passenger seat turned to the men in the back.
"Who's got a cigarette?"
"Me, Captain! Here."
A fresh-faced young man pulled an open pack of Huagui cigarettes from his pocket and held them out to the man he called captain.
The man took the pack without a word of thanks, twisted around in his seat, fished a lighter out of the door compartment, and lit up for himself.
He took a deep drag, his features softening in relief, then spoke.
"Mass rioting on Yongnian Road. Police initial assessment says it's a cult sacrifice. They've got knives, homemade Molotov cocktails, crossbows—cops don't have the firepower to hold them back. Two officers are already injured, a few auxiliary cops were hacked down, their conditions unknown. No more casualties on our watch when we get there. Lei, load live rounds. If things go south, you take the shot. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
The reply came from the same young man who'd handed over the cigarettes.
Next to him stood another man, around the same age, but his eyes held an unnameable shadow. He nudged Lei with his elbow.
"Hey, Shi Lei—heard you got engaged to your girlfriend the day before yesterday?"
At that, Shi Lei's stern expression melted away, replaced by unbridled pride. He quirked a smile and drawled,
"You bet I did. She's liked me since high school—chased me the whole way. Waited for me for years while I was in the military. Unlike some people, still a bachelor."
Shi Lei shot the man a smug raise of his eyebrow.
The man broke into a mischievous grin, his tone lewd.
"With how big you are, can she even handle it? Especially that first time back in school—didn't you say you two hooked up then?"
Laughter erupted through the compartment. Shi Lei didn't take offense; he knew his comrades too well. He waved a hand, laughing it off.
"Yeah, yeah, cut the crap. Shunzi, can't you talk about something else?"
The man Shi Lei called Shunzi, who looked even younger than him, patted his chest and said earnestly,
"C'mon, it's for you! This is your first op like this—haven't touched a gun since you left the regular army, right? I'm just telling a joke to take the edge off, that's all. Jeez."
Shunzi feigned a hint of hurt. Shi Lei shook his head and pointed at him.
"Zhang Wanshun, you're something else."
"Ugh, you're just—"
"We're here. Out!"
The captain's sharp voice cut Zhang Wanshun off mid-sentence. Six armed special forces soldiers burst out of the car in an instant. At the crossroads ahead, a mob had gathered, the ground splattered with large patches of red. Police officers and cruisers ringed the crowd, their flashing red and blue lights dancing across the rioters' faces. The mob was eerily silent, no shouting—only the whistle of the wind, the rustle of clothes, the scrape of shoes on concrete, and the police's urgent shouts.
The captain, cigarette still in hand, hopped out of the passenger seat, waved his men over, and jogged to a police officer in a white t-shirt.
"Chief Ren. What's the play?"
The portly middle-aged man's brows were knotted tight with worry, his voice unsteady.
"Stop them. Fast."
Suddenly, a Molotov cocktail arced out of the crowd—no one saw who threw it. But the captain reacted in a heartbeat, yanking Chief Ren down into a crouch, then roared a command. The men, already ready to fire, pulled the triggers in unison.
Five of them fired rubber bullets, but from assault rifles, the rapid volleys still managed to gain control of the scene. The rioters crumpled like wheat before a scythe, screaming in pain, shattering the uncanny silence. Shi Lei's brow was furrowed, though—he hadn't seen a single crossbow yet. The gun in his hand felt like a caged beast. Believe it or not, soldiers crave glory—there's truth to that saying.
The soldiers advanced as they fired, slowly encircling the crowd, until the five men had the rioters boxed in. The rubber bullets left the mob writhing in agony, and they fell back step by step, the group shrinking by the second. The captain stepped forward and boomed,
"Hands on your heads! Get on your knees!"
The sharp, authoritative tone of a military command made the rioters flinch visibly. Whether cowed by the guns, truly terrified, or coming to their senses, they exchanged hesitant glances before dropping to their knees, hands clasped over their heads.
They sank to the ground like bamboo shoots sprouting in reverse. Then, from the center of the huddle, a few white-haired elderly men let out a thunderous shout: "FAROLL!!!"
In an instant, fire exploded into the sky. The heat was so intense it singed the skin of the masked soldiers through their gear. Chaos erupted. The rioters who'd just knelt burst into flames, then lunged like rabid animals at everything in their path. Cops and soldiers close by were tackled to the ground—but the highly trained soldiers broke free in an instant, while the less experienced auxiliary and regular officers struggled desperately.
"Load live rounds!"
The captain spun around the second the flames erupted, barking the order a split second later. The soldiers ejected their rubber bullet mags and slammed in live ones. By then, Shi Lei had already taken out three rioters charging at him and his team.
Guilt gnawed at Shi Lei. If he hadn't been frozen by the old man's shout, he could have shot him dead the first chance he got, and the fire never would have happened. Now, all he could do was end this farce with his brothers—fast.
The steady crackle of gunfire faded into sporadic shots. The crossroads was littered with bodies, sprawled and fallen. Blood was sparse; the soldiers aimed for the head, avoiding messy, widespread bleeding—a small favor to the municipal authorities cleaning up the mess.
Most of the remaining rioters had their hands raised high, kneeling on the ground, trembling. A few soldiers, Zhang Wanshun included, lowered their guns, thinking it was over. Then Zhang Wanshun spotted an old man in the crowd. He looked familiar, somehow. He took a few steps closer, and his heart dropped into his stomach. The old man was wearing the cashmere coat Zhang Wanshun had just bought for his father.
It was his father.
"Dad?"
Crack!
Zhang Wanshun's whisper was drowned out by a deafening gunshot. He spun around in shock, then whirled back—but it was too late. His father crumpled to the ground like a quilt slipping off a clothesline, a crossbow clattering from his limp hand.
Zhang Wanshun's pupils blew wide. His vision tunneled. He let out a scream: "Dad!!!" and sprinted toward the old man Shi Lei had just shot dead.
Ringing. An endless, ear-splitting ringing. He had no idea how long it lasted. Everything after that scream was a blank. It was as if he'd just arrived here, his consciousness severed. He stood there motionless, a statue of wood. Flashbacks flooded his mind—moments with his father, clear as day:
"Dad, look—bought you a new phone."
"Dad, tomorrow I'll take you to see Tiananmen Square."
"Dad, I don't wanna get married anymore. I wanna take you traveling, see the world."
"Dad, stop staring at your phone so much—it's bad for your eyes."
"Dad, drink more pork rib soup. It's good for your bones."
"Shunzi, I wish you were my real son."
"Dad, don't say that again. As long as you're alive, I'm your son. Always."
Captain's office. Zhang Wanshun stood in front of the desk, finally coming to his senses. He stared around in confusion, as if wondering how he'd ended up here. The captain sat behind the desk, leaning forward, his elbows on the table, fingers laced together to cover his mouth and nose—only his eyes and the bridge of his nose were visible, fixed on Zhang Wanshun with a grave, unblinking stare. Zhang Wanshun's gaze drifted around the room, then locked with the captain's.
"Shunzi. You've been back here for a full day and night.