New York, 26 Federal Plaza, Manhattan, Jacob Federal Office Building, 9:00 AM.
Floors 23-26 served as the exclusive headquarters of the FBI's New York Branch.
In a small meeting room—
"Didn't expect myself to become a legendary FBI agent?"
Sitting in the corner behind the conference table, Roan raised his hand to examine the formal suit on his body. His gaze then shifted to the golden badge hanging on his chest, his expression dull and incredulous.
He distinctly remembered boarding a plane to Japan to explore the local customs and culture. But why, after merely closing and reopening his eyes, did he find himself here?
Snap—
The conference room door swung open. A middle-aged, balding man in a suit entered, carrying a folder. He scanned the room, confirmed that everyone was present, and immediately got to the point:
"Attention, this is a shooting homicide case in a park."
Without wasting any time, the man opened the folder, pulled out a stack of crime scene photos, and tossed them onto the table.
"The victim was Mike Robert, 43 years old. He was shot dead in an alley in Central Park at 11:34 PM on April 11, 2005."
As soon as the case details were revealed, the trainee detectives at the table eagerly reached for the photos. However, Roan remained still, preoccupied with sorting through his fragmented memories.
In his past life, he had been raised by a dying assassin. Naturally, he had acquired a vast array of skills—his professional ability was exceptional, and his technical expertise was top-notch.
The old assassin had nurtured Roan solely for the purpose of avenging his blood feud. However, when the old man finally passed away and Roan set out to seek his enemy, he learned that the man had already been captured by local law enforcement and sentenced to death by the court.
With no family left, no ties to his past, and no desire to take on the entire prison system, Roan had pondered his future. After a brief moment of thought, he had boarded a plane to Japan, planning to experience the local culture before settling down and opening a milk tea shop.
Becoming an assassin again? Impossible. The risk was too high, and the money came in too slowly. Running a milk tea shop in Japan? Now that was a lucrative business!
"Sir, there's something I don't understand."
As the balding man summarized the case, Fisher—a young white man with short brown hair and thin lips—tilted his head and asked:
"Why is this case being assigned to us?"
A regular homicide should be handled by the NYPD. There was no reason for the FBI to get involved.
Before the balding man could answer, Mona—a striking red-haired beauty with an aerodynamic figure—snorted at Fisher and said with disdain:
"The victim was a Black special correspondent who had just returned from a war zone. The word 'pest' was written in blood next to his body. It's obviously a special hate crime targeting his identity."
Hate crimes of this nature fell under FBI jurisdiction.
The balding man nodded approvingly at Mona's explanation. His gaze briefly flickered to Roan, who remained motionless at the end of the table, deep in thought. Although he frowned slightly, he didn't comment. Instead, he clapped his hands to regain everyone's attention and said:
"This hate crime case will serve as your next assessment. The twenty of you, as new trainee detectives, must solve the case and catch the murderer within three days. Senior detectives will evaluate your performance and assign points accordingly. Those with high scores will be promoted to full-time agents first, while those with low scores will need to keep working hard."
With that, the balding man turned and exited the room without even bothering to collect his folder.
As soon as the door shut, the conference room erupted with noise. The trainee agents eagerly examined the photos and discussed potential leads.
"Is the 'pest' message targeting the victim's race or his profession?"
"Could be both."
"Maybe it's more about his journalism. He just returned from a war zone. Those places are full of religious extremists—nothing is off-limits for them."
"Not necessarily. He also exposed numerous corrupt politicians."
"He definitely had enemies everywhere."
Roan ignored the chatter. Just as the balding man left, a sudden "buzz" rang in his ears. Before he could react, a translucent, light-blue panel materialized before his eyes.
[System Loading...]
[System Successfully Loaded!]
[Today's Treasure Chest is Ready. Do You Want to Open It?]
[Novice Gift Pack is Available. Would You Like to Open It?]
…
Roan's pupils constricted. His first instinct was to look around, but no one else seemed to notice anything unusual.
"I haven't been reading web novels in vain all these years. Those authors weren't lying—time travelers really do get system bonuses!"
Taking a deep breath, Roan mentally commanded: [Open]
A crude, game-like cutscene played as the system displayed his rewards:
[Today's Treasure Chest] contained $20 and $50.
[Novice Gift Pack] contained one bottle of hemostatic potion and one bottle of scuba potion.
…
Roan blinked, momentarily dumbfounded.
This system is so basic!
While the other trainees focused on analyzing the crime scene details, Fisher noticed something in the victim's chest wound. Raising an eyebrow, he called out loudly:
"Roan! Go to my desk and grab the third folder from the upper right corner!"
…
Silence.
Fisher turned around in confusion, only to see Roan sitting in the corner, deep in thought, completely ignoring him.
Frowning, Fisher picked up a pen and threw it at Roan.
Snap!
Hearing the pen cut through the air, Roan instinctively raised his hand and caught it mid-flight.
Snapping out of his thoughts and dismissing the system interface, he turned to look at Fisher. As he did, a memory surfaced in his mind—
Some time ago, Roan, Fisher, and another trainee agent named Markey had been assigned to an operation. Fisher and Markey had made critical mistakes that allowed the suspect to escape. However, when reporting to their superior, only Roan had been penalized—he lost 100 points, while Fisher and Markey received nothing more than a verbal reprimand.
His predecessor had been livid but powerless to object. With no background or connections, he had swallowed the injustice in the hope of securing his promotion as soon as possible. This had only emboldened Fisher to push him around even more.
Roan's expression darkened. He was not the type to tolerate such behavior. Just as he was about to retaliate, Mona—who had been observing the scene—pointed her pen at Fisher and asked loudly:
"What the hell are you doing? Can't you grab your own stuff?"
As a rare computer expert among the new trainees—and a stunning beauty to boot—Mona's words carried weight. Fisher, unwilling to argue with her, snorted and refocused on analyzing the crime scene photos.
"Ignore him. He's just a spoiled brat."
Seeing Roan's displeased expression, Mona grabbed a few photos, walked over, and plopped down beside him. She then offered some reassuring words:
"The case file states that solving this murder will earn 80 points—enough to recover most of what you lost. Plus, the New York Journalists Association is offering a $50,000 reward."
"Fifty grand?"
In 2005, the average American worker's salary was only around $2,500 per month.
Roan wasn't particularly interested in the 80 points. But $50,000? That caught his attention.
Because he suddenly recalled something the old assassin had once told him—
"I never cared about love stories. When I was young, all I wanted was money! What's the point of envying others? If you want wealth, you have to go out and take it yourself!"