Upon entering the aquarium, Bai Chunian swiped the tech-department-issued ID and subtly pressed the facial recognition screen at the entrance, sticking a transparent disc as thin as a phone screen onto it.
Soon, his black-rimmed glasses displayed tiny images of every visitor passing through the facial recognition check.
The micro-imaging device was patented by Duan Yang of the Alliance tech department. Once the miniature reader is attached to the screen, it captures an area of 0.5 square meters around it and transmits the images to a receiving terminal—in this case, Bai Chunian’s glasses.
The mission target was Chen Yuan of Institute 109. His omega had died years ago in a chain-reaction car accident, leaving their child paralyzed. If Chen Yuan visited the aquarium, he would use the accessible route, and Bai Chunian needed to determine his entry time first.
After calibrating his glasses, Bai Chunian pushed Lan Bo’s wheelchair into the main hall with the flow of visitors.
The next step: locate the Red-Throated Bird operative who would meet Chen Yuan for the trade before he arrived.
The terrorist group Red-Throated Bird has members worldwide. Unlike other mafias, they are highly disciplined and maintain vast mercenary resources. Their leader’s identity is mysterious—rumored to be a retired soldier, though his exact background remains unverified.
Red-Throated Bird conducts business across industries, from small-scale drug and human trafficking to arms and mineral trade. With experimental subjects from Institute 109 being discussed on the black market, the group saw a chance to profit before regulations caught up.
Each Red-Throated Bird member sports a red bird tattoo on the neck—easy to identify but also easily concealed. Plus, the aquarium is crowded, making it hard to spot anyone.
“Red-Throated Bird operatives are probably cautious. Let’s walk around first to avoid suspicion,” Bai Chunian muttered, pushing Lan Bo’s wheelchair through the gates.
Lan Bo sat comfortably, playing the part of a legless omega. A small brown blanket covered his tail, and he wore the white cat-paw hoodie Bai Chunian had bought for him.
Lan Bo ignored all other clothes on display—until he saw the pink cat-paw hoodie on a mannequin. He couldn’t move, plucking it off the display and placing it on the checkout counter.
The hoodie had pink pom-poms dangling from each side of the hood. Lan Bo loved them and kept tugging until the hood grew snug, covering his entire head.
“You’re a good fish. Listen to me, don’t run off,” Bai Chunian said, adjusting the hood. He pushed Lan Bo into the underwater tunnel, an arched glass corridor with transparent floors, completely surrounded by deep blue sea.
Thick viewing glass shimmered with light, colorful schools of fish swimming overhead. Visitors gasped, and children pressed against the glass, eyes wide with wonder.
Bai Chunian turned back to grab a show schedule—and when he looked again, Lan Bo and the wheelchair had vanished.
“Damn, where’s my fish?” he muttered, scanning around. Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Lan Bo leaning over a giant scallop, gnawing at the glass.
The soft, creamy scallop flesh moved within its shell beneath coral. Lan Bo held onto the glass, utterly captivated.
Bai Chunian crouched beside him, lifting the blanket corner to wipe the drool from Lan Bo’s mouth. “Really? Did I hurt you at home?”
Lan Bo pointed at the giant scallop behind the glass. “This one… I want two.”
Bai Chunian raised an eyebrow. “? This is the seafood section of a supermarket?”
Lan Bo frowned. “Two.”
Bai Chunian shook his head. “I’ll buy you two pounds of scallops when we get home, but this one? You’d need a small fortune. You can look, but you can’t eat it.”
Lan Bo looked at him with sympathetic eyes, as if he were a Dubai prince watching a child in the slums nibble on dirt cakes. “Poor little thing.”
Bai Chunian was speechless.
Lan Bo muttered softly, almost to himself: “Take you home… eat fourteen every day.”
Bai Chunian bent down to tuck the blanket around him. For some reason, hearing Lan Bo say “take you home” made his chest tighten. The word “home” felt distant, yet its sound seemed softer and more pleasant than any other character in Chinese.
Lan Bo looked at him, and Bai Chunian noticed the alpha’s expression was deeper than before, weighed down with unspoken thoughts.
“Randi.” He tugged Bai Chunian’s sleeve. When Bai Chunian looked at him, Lan Bo tapped gently on the glass, whispering a string of syllables that sounded like a command.
Suddenly, the tropical fish in the underwater tunnel scattered in surprise, then quickly reformed, swimming close to Bai Chunian.
Shimmering scales glinted as the little fish linked head to tail, forming a heart shape against the glass right next to him.
Bai Chunian paused, hands in his pockets, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite his cool demeanor.
Curious onlookers gathered. After about seven seconds, the heart dissolved, and the little fish returned to their usual routines.
When they reached the open viewing area, the effect changed. Lan Bo’s scent slowly transmitted through the water, and every fish along his path gathered around, bowing as if paying homage.
Lan Bo reached in, trying to grab one, but Bai Chunian quickly steered the wheelchair away, avoiding all open viewing areas. Luckily, he had prepared in advance, securing Lan Bo to the wheelchair, though the mission’s difficulty spiked with Lan Bo’s presence.
As they neared the end of the underwater tunnel, Bai Chunian caught a fleeting face on his glasses. He tapped the frame, replaying the footage—there was Chen Yuan.
“Target acquired.” He pushed Lan Bo toward the performance hall. The planned route had been rehearsed in his mind countless times, timing every step. Just as he reached the area closest to the accessible entrance, Chen Yuan entered, pushing his child’s wheelchair, chatting happily.
They brushed past each other. Bai Chunian dropped his keys, bent to pick them up, and used the opportunity to glance under the child’s wheelchair. Under the seat was a foam block slightly shorter and thicker than a pencil—sure enough, the AC promoter prepared for the trade was hidden there.
Lan Bo’s tail tip, tucked under the blanket, stealthily attached the tracking chip under the wheelchair’s footrest.
Bai Chunian pushed the wheelchair onward.
Lan Bo was visibly displeased—his tail tip had been stepped on when attaching the tracker.
“Oops, stepped on you, huh?” Bai Chunian lifted the tail tip, saw the shoe print, wiped and blew on it, massaging gently to soothe it. He coaxed Lan Bo’s watery eyes back into calm, both concerned and amused.
He touched his glasses again. A red marker appeared on the lens, indicating Chen Yuan and his child’s location. After all, the child was in the wheelchair, and Chen Yuan couldn’t stray far.
“Let’s go.” Bai Chunian steered Lan Bo toward the performance hall.
The mission’s demands were strict: swap the vial without either party noticing, so they had to act carefully.
According to the show schedule, an hour later there would be a mermaid performance: “Dancing with Sharks.” Staff dressed in realistic fish tails would enter the display tank and swim with trained sharks behind the glass.
Typically, two omega staff performed as mermaids. Bai Chunian activated his companion ability, Pain Deception, on one omega just before the performance.
The omega suddenly clutched their stomach in pain, whispering to their colleague before hurriedly removing their mask and small breathing apparatus to run to the restroom.
The remaining omega had no choice but to perform solo.
Bai Chunian fitted Lan Bo with a diving mask and breathing apparatus, guiding him to the water entrance.
He had observed the setup multiple times: the only entry connecting to other display tanks was the mermaid performance area—the sole path for Lan Bo to enter the tank.
Bai Chunian immediately returned with the wheelchair. He controlled the intensity of Pain Deception—the omega couldn’t possibly walk to the restroom. In a blind spot of the cameras, Bai Chunian increased the effect; the omega collapsed.
He calmly maneuvered the wheelchair around the blind spots to the curled-up omega, politely asking, “You seem to be in a lot of pain. Do you need help?”
Before receiving an answer, he helped the omega onto the wheelchair, covered them with a blanket, avoiding any cameras capturing their face. He pushed them into the accessible restroom stall, locked it from inside, and struck firmly at the back of the neck. The omega slumped into his arms.
Bai Chunian, with no hesitation, pulled a golden wig from under the seat, placed it on the unconscious omega, dressed them in Lan Bo’s cat-paw hoodie, adjusted the hood, and covered them with the blanket for concealment. Nonchalantly, he pushed the wheelchair back into the crowd, walking as if nothing had happened.
Just like he was still pushing Lan Bo.
Moments later, the other mermaid staff entered the water. A few minutes later, Lan Bo, clutching his breathing apparatus and wearing the diving mask, followed him in.
Visibility underwater is far more limited than on land. With their faces obscured, the omega didn’t immediately notice that the figure jumping in wasn’t their colleague and even exhaled in relief, thinking their partner had returned from the restroom.
Lan Bo didn’t swim downward. A horizontal beam blocked his position, so only after moving half a meter down would his entire body be visible to the audience.
Seeing his partner delay, the omega turned back to urge them, but at that moment a sudden stinging sensation ran across his skin. Darkness flickered before his eyes, as if a weak electric current had struck him.
In that brief moment of distraction, a few blue jellyfish drifted slowly around him in the water—he was alone.
To the spectators, it appeared as a streak of blue lightning darting swiftly through the tank and vanishing.