Chapter 4: Interest Principle
Night fell over Berlin.
The car rolled to a steady stop in front of the Night Salon.
Shiloh and Roman stepped out shoulder to shoulder, as if they were merely colleagues arriving to settle a routine matter. But the salon bar, which should have been loud and overflowing at this hour, was eerily empty. Only the neon lights still blazed, throwing cold, garish colors across the street.
Even a fool could tell something was wrong.
Shiloh had no intention of pretending any longer. He clearly meant to settle everything here, once and for all.
Two subordinates moved to his side and murmured into his ear.
"Officer, everything is prepared."
"Take him inside," Shiloh said quietly. "And be quick. He's still a nobleman, after all. Don't leave anyone an excuse to make trouble afterward."
The land deed, carefully wrapped in oil paper, had just been handed over to him.
Roman turned slightly, intending to read the expression on Shiloh's face, but what he saw was only a faint, restrained smile.
As Roman began to pivot toward the car, Shiloh suddenly leaned in close, his breath brushing past Roman's ear. Perhaps he had remembered every moment of his earlier humiliation, every degrading second of forced flattery. His voice was low, venomous.
"You still refuse to kneel and beg for mercy, Roman? You nobles really are stubborn creatures. I wonder whether you'll remain this stubborn after a bullet shatters your leg."
Roman's expression did not change.
"Oh? Then do you still remember what you said in the hospital room?" he replied evenly. "I'm taking back everything I once granted you."
Behind his back, his hand moved in a subtle wave.
Bang!
The gunshot tore through the night.
A bullet slammed squarely into Shiloh's chest. Bright blood burst out at once, spreading uncontrollably across his clothes. The paper bag in his hand, held so tightly only a second ago, was instantly stained with flecks of plum red.
As Roman watched a living man stumble into death before his eyes, he felt nothing.
No pity. No excitement. No horror.
Only the calm satisfaction of removing a necessary obstacle, of finishing something that had to be done.
Screams erupted all around them. The surrounding crowd scattered in panic, fleeing in every direction.
Roman seized the paper bag from Shiloh's weakening grip with a sharp tug.
"Don't stain my land deed, Shiloh," he murmured.
Then, in the very next breath, his face transformed. His voice rose, filled with righteous fury.
"The gang dares murder a police officer in broad daylight! Call for reinforcements at once!"
In the distance, Adolun had just lit a cigarette, intending to enjoy the spectacle of police dogs tearing at one another.
The sudden reversal made the cigarette slip from his fingers and drop to the ground.
When he heard Roman's shout, his mood plunged straight into the abyss.
It was over. All over.
A chief of the public security police had died on gang turf. Whether he had done it or not no longer mattered. The crime would be pinned on him.
Hadn't that idiot Shiloh assured him Roman would be easy to handle?
Easy to handle?
What was easy about this?
A police officer who kills his superior and then frames the scene the instant it happens is no different from a madman gripping a submachine gun. More dangerous, if anything.
Shiloh's two trusted men were jolted awake by Roman's roar.
Instinctively, they reached for their guns, about to turn and fire at the unseen killer who had just murdered their superior. But Roman calmly cut through their reaction before it could take shape.
"What is it, officers?" he said, his tone cold and measured. "Are you refusing to obey your superior's orders? Or are you in league with this gang as well? Have you taken their dirty money?"
Their hands froze.
They had indeed taken dirty money.
And now Shiloh was dead.
With him gone, their protection was gone too. If they made a move against Roman, another chief of public security, then they would be choosing death with their own hands.
The two exchanged a look.
Then they made their choice.
They turned their guns.
Bang! Bang!
Two shots cracked through the air. The bullets pierced the foreheads of two South District gang members standing at the entrance, dropping them where they stood.
The two officers immediately put on expressions of fierce loyalty.
"Chief Roman, you should leave first. We'll cover you."
A moment ago, they had been Shiloh's faithful subordinates.
Now, with only a few words and the weight of naked self interest, their allegiance had shifted completely.
Roman did not even move.
Just by standing there, he had settled an old debt, turned a hostile gang into political capital, and stepped into the vacancy Shiloh had left behind.
From the second floor viewing platform, Adolun could only stare in stunned silence.
He had already handed over the land deed they wanted. He had already agreed to cooperate in dealing with Roman. And now, the moment Shiloh died, they had turned around and pinned everything on him.
This was not a police force.
This was darker than a gang.
As sirens wailed in the streets outside, police units from across the city converged on the salon. Adolun's strategist, pale with terror, stammered beside him.
"B Boss… what do we do? Do we fight? We just received a new shipment of firearms. They're in the warehouse downstairs."
The thought of making a desperate stand did flash through Adolun's mind.
But only for a few seconds.
He crushed it almost immediately.
He had only a handful of men. In the gang world, that was enough to make him important. But fight all the police in Berlin?
He was in this for money, not martyrdom.
Then he looked outside and his face turned even uglier.
The entire Public Security Anti Riot Squad had arrived. Hundreds of armed men encircled the Night Salon in tight formation, sealing it off so completely that not even a mouse could escape.
Shiloh might have held office for only a few months, and plenty of policemen might not even have recognized him on sight, but that no longer mattered.
A gang had openly murdered a police chief.
This had gone beyond questions of profit or territory. This was about face.
If they failed to make an example of someone tonight, then by tomorrow the Berlin Public Security Police would become a laughingstock in every department across Germany.
A violent institution had to behave like a violent institution.
With the supreme chief lying dead on the ground, and with Roman's noble status and prior record of credited service weighing in his favor, he unexpectedly became the interim chief on the spot.
He sat in the open back seat of a car, calm amid the chaos, issuing orders to the other chiefs who had gathered around him.
The police lights flashed in the distance, staining the night red and blue.
Roman lifted a hand and signaled for the other chiefs to come closer.
"First, secure the scene," he said. "And control the reporters. A chief may be dead, but if this is reported recklessly, the entire Berlin Public Security Department will be disgraced."
Those words immediately steadied the atmosphere.
The men present exchanged glances. When they looked back at Roman, there was a new depth in their eyes. His reasoning was not only sound, it was useful.
One of the chiefs, a man with a short beard, frowned.
"So we just let this go?"
"No," Roman replied evenly. "What has happened cannot be changed. But there is more than one way for a man to die."
He let the words settle before continuing.
"If the public hears that a gang gunned down a police chief, then the whole city will see us as weak. But if this becomes a private vendetta, a clash caused by personal enmity and a verbal dispute, then the impact of the incident can be controlled. Compared to the spectacle of gangs murdering police officers, people rarely care about the details of a private grudge."
His tone remained unhurried, almost detached.
He invoked the honor of the police not because he gave a damn about institutional glory, but because the men inside knew too much.
Those gangsters knew a little about the original Roman's dealings with Shiloh. They knew enough dirt that, if cornered too hard, they might start talking to the press. And if reporters dug deeper, the suspicious traces in Roman's earlier arrangements could become a problem.
Transmigration was one thing.
Delusion was another.
Roman had no intention of imagining himself the protagonist of some absurd tale, protected by a halo that made everyone around him stupid. Gangsters did not all die cleanly. Men under pressure surrendered. They bargained. They talked.
And while he had influence in the Public Security Department, the Criminal Investigation Unit was another branch entirely.
More importantly, gangs still had value.
There was no need to destroy them before they had fully surrendered everything they could still provide.
Roman's gaze swept over the assembled chiefs.
One after another, they nodded.
Not because they cared about the dignity of the police.
But because none of them wanted to lose the benefits they had long enjoyed from gang connections.
That was exactly the answer Roman had been waiting for.
Just then, two policemen ran up to the car, saluted sharply, and reported:
"Chief, the people inside want to speak with you."
Roman gave a small nod.
The silent consensus among the chiefs told him everything he needed to know. With this solution in place, his succession to Shiloh's position would likely meet no serious resistance.
"No problem," he said.