Huangpu City, Qingfu Prison.**
The stench of cheap tobacco hung thick in a nondescript office.
A handsome young man in an orange prison vest sat slouched in a chair, his freshly shaved head gleaming. He rocked back and forth, the chair's legs screeching against the floor with each movement.
Ren Ye—Inmate #00848—was a model prisoner in the general population.
Across the spotless table, a scruffy middle-aged man pinched a cigarette between stained fingers, scratching sleep from his eyes. "Three years inside?"
"Three years, three months, five days," Ren confirmed.
"I'm Huang Wei." The man's leather jacket looked older than some inmates. His voice rasped like gravel under tires. *Hack—cough—thwip!* He hawked a glob of phlegm into an empty cigarette box, crumpled it, and tossed it on the table.
Ren studied him. *Inspector? Psych eval? Prosecutor?* None fit the slovenly figure before him.
Huang took a drag. "How much time left?"
"Two years, eight months, twenty-five days. With parole."
"Regrets?"
Ren's laugh was dry as desert bone.
"Young. Reckless." Huang jabbed a nicotine-yellowed finger. "Wasted talent."
"Youth means room for mistakes. Six years won't break me." Ren's shrug was almost convincing. "Besides, my cellmates? Artists. Real virtuosos."
A ghost of a smile touched Huang's lips.
Three years earlier: Ren, fresh to border anti-fraud task force. Two suspects—tied to the gang that dismembered his partner overseas—tried to escape custody. Ren fired seven shots. Both skulls shattered.
His partner? Only arms and torso recovered. He'd been newly married, his wife eight months pregnant.
Prosecutors argued excessive force. Ren got six years, ten months.
*Regrets?*
Behind the lazy grin, Ren had asked himself that nightly. From cop to convict—the fall broke something no prison could fix.
Yes, he regretted where he was. But given the choice again? He'd still pull the trigger.
Huang stubbed out his cigarette, lit another without pause. "I'm with… *special* operations."
"Figured."
"What comes next might sound insane." Huang's eyes sharpened. "But a man with your record? You'll keep your cool."
"Try me."
"Two stories."
"Make it quick. I've got sewing quotas to hit tomorrow."
Huang ignored him. "1973. A toddler named Jiang told his parents, *'I'm not your son. I died in a gang fight in Danzhou a decade ago. Take me back.'* They humored him at six. Kid led them straight to his 'past life' home—knew details no stranger could."
Ren raised an eyebrow. *X-Files crap?*
"1995." Huang leaned in. "Antarctic researchers saw an anomalous fog—a perfect circle, unmoved by gale-force winds. Sensors sent into it returned dated *1965*. Years later, three men vanished inside it."
Silence.
"You're saying… weird shit's real?" Ren ventured.
Huang exhaled smoke. "We know nothing about this world. But here's your ticket out." A beat. "Might die, though."
The chair stopped rocking. "Die?"
"This isn't a deal. It's a *favor*."
"Who's asking?"
"Can't say. Our people? Your country? Me?" Huang's voice dropped. "We're in trouble. Deep trouble."
Ren stared at the wall. *Two years, eight months, twenty-five days.*
"My sister. My old man." Ren's knuckles whitened. "They've waited this long."
"Succeed, and your life becomes… extraordinary."
"*If*."
Huang stood abruptly. "We're done." He crushed his cigarette. "Guard! Return #00848!"
Footsteps echoed. Ren snapped to attention. "Here!"
"Exit. Now."
"Yes, sir." Ren moved to the door—head bowed, hands laced behind his skull. The posture he'd forced on countless perps.
Huang watched him in the door's reflection. Suddenly: "Ren Ye!"
Ren froze mid-crouch.
The scruffy man straightened. His hand rose in a blade-sharp salute.
"*Officer Ren.* Hell of a job."
Ren's breath hitched.
"Those animals deserved worse."
The words cracked Ren's composure. Red rimmed his eyes. "What… what did you call me?"
"*Officer Ren.*"
A slow, broken grin spread across Ren's face. "Haven't heard that… in a while