Chapter 37: Weakling Luo An

Catching a faint whiff of gasoline drifting down from the second floor, Roan glanced at the stun grenades strapped to his body and sighed. In this situation, he couldn’t risk using them—the intense flash from an explosion might ignite the entire villa.

One by one, he took out the stun grenades, smoke bombs, and other equipment, setting them carefully on the ground. Silently, he recited a command in his mind. The pale blue interface of the system, which had been absent for several chapters, reappeared before his eyes.

It was currently 11:20 p.m., about forty minutes until midnight, the daily time for opening the treasure chest.

Roan looked at the inventory page. Displayed were a single bottle of Aquabreath potion, two stamina potions, one fire-resistance potion, and one night-vision potion.

But there was no hemostatic potion—the one thing Roan had yearned for. Ever since he’d used the last one on the girl in the trunk and witnessed its remarkable effect, he’d hoped the system would grant him another. In a critical moment, that potion could genuinely save a life.

“Well, so be it,” Roan muttered, resigning himself. He stretched his limbs, narrowed his eyes, and shed most of his equipment, keeping only a bulletproof vest. The pale blue interface faded, and he called out loudly, “Fraser, I’m coming in now!”

“Fine!” Fraser’s voice trembled with tension but rang out clearly. “I’ve unlocked the bedroom door for you, but don’t try anything! If I see you make a move, I’ll shoot and ignite the gasoline. We’ll all go to hell together!”

“Sure! You’re the boss!” Roan replied with indifference, ignoring the frantic signals Lacey was sending him from nearby. He stepped over his discarded gear and strolled unhurriedly into the villa.

As he passed through the living room, Roan casually picked up a few pens from the table.

“Fu—k!” Lacey cursed outside the villa, pulling out her phone to call August. “Sir, Roan went in unarmed. Did you see that?”

“Of course I did,” August replied, exasperated. The camera outside the villa was broadcasting everything live. He had witnessed Roan’s every move.

“So what now?” Lacey stood rooted to the spot, drenched in sweat. She trusted Roan’s investigative skills but had never heard of him being trained in negotiation. “If talks break down and Fraser opens fire, what do we do? Damn it, how much longer until SWAT arrives?!”

In the office of Investigation Team Five, Mona watched Roan’s solitary figure entering the villa on TV, her expression grave, palms slick with sweat as she gripped her phone. August’s face was a stormy purple, while Veronese frowned deeply, legs crossing and uncrossing in restless succession.

Hearing Lacey’s words, Veronese kept her eyes glued to the screen, repeating, “Trust Roan.”

With a snap, Lacey hung up, resisting the urge to hurl her phone. Remembering she might need it to contact August again, she shoved it back into her pocket with a grunt of frustration.

“Son of a—! Is this killer insane?” Bronson muttered, disappointed that Roan had been allowed inside. Matthews, too, cursed the perpetrator for being so foolish. But then Bronson reconsidered. Roan had given up all his gear, while the suspect was armed and had a hostage. Taking a deep breath, Bronson’s grip on his glass relaxed. He had read Roan’s file—the man had no formal negotiation training, just the basics from his time at the FBI Academy.

After a sip of wine, Bronson’s composure returned. No need to panic; there was a high chance Roan’s negotiation would fail, and the suspect might well open fire.

“What’s that agent’s name?” On another channel, viewers were riveted by the lone FBI agent entering the villa. Some prayed silently for Roan, others waited for the drama to unfold. Not a few influential night owls were now watching Roan with keen interest.

“I’m inside!” Roan called out, slipping the pens into his pocket as he climbed the stairs to the second floor, adopting the stiff, formal posture of a French soldier as he moved toward the bedroom at the side of the villa.

Inside, Fraser held Sabina in the shadowed corner, invisible from the window. His left hand clamped around her neck, his right pressed a gun to her temple, his own head buried behind her for cover.

Beside them was a meticulously decorated pink bed, heaped with an assortment of toys. At its foot sat two buckets of gasoline; one of them was cracked, and a steady stream had seeped across two-thirds of the bedroom floor.

“Damn it,” Roan muttered, grimacing at the scene. Fraser had shielded his head too well—there was no way to strike.

Hearing Roan’s footsteps, Fraser risked a glance and, seeing Roan truly unarmed, finally let out a cautious breath. Still, he barked, “Walk slowly! No funny business!”

“OK! OK!” Roan called back from the doorway. He shot a reassuring look to Sabina—her hands tied behind her back, face pale above a lacy, see-through dress—urging her not to panic.

But Roan did not enter. Instead, he began to pace just outside the door, turning in place as he said, “Take a good look, Fraser. I’m really unarmed, all right?”

At this, Fraser peered from behind Sabina and saw Roan’s empty hands—no weapon in sight, nor any bulge at his waist or pockets. He relaxed slightly, but then his gaze caught Roan’s face—strikingly handsome—and instantly darted to Sabina.

Sure enough, Sabina was no longer panicking. Her eyes were fixed intently on Roan.

Fraser’s anger flared, and he swung the gun toward Roan, shouting, “Damn FBI agent! You’re still wearing a bulletproof vest! Take it off, now!”

“Hey, Fraser, a vest isn’t a weapon, okay?” Roan protested, exasperated. “I’ve left my weapons outside to show my good faith. Now I’d like you to show yours. Deal?”

But Fraser only grinned, sneering into Sabina’s ear, “See, darling? What good is a handsome face? He’s nothing but a coward!”

Sabina remained silent—she couldn’t speak, with Fraser’s gun jammed between her lips.

Roan glanced down, gauging the distance between himself and Fraser, then calmly asked, “Fraser, may I enter the bedroom?”

At this, Fraser’s face, still hidden behind Sabina, flushed with a strange excitement. Smiling, he replied, “Of course, FBI coward, you can come in.”

“Listen, Fraser, I’m not a coward. This is just a job—I’m not about to die for it, all right?” Roan strode in, his long legs carrying him forward with an air of feigned meekness, his expression cool and unhurried. “You want your dog, and I just want to finish my assignment. Let’s keep things simple—no surprises, no trouble for either of us, agreed?”

Bronson remembered correctly—Roan Greenwood had never studied negotiation formally. But in a previous life, Roan had learned from an old contract killer.

When a killer is trapped by the enemy, how should he negotiate? It’s simple—negotiate, empathize, and, when the moment comes, strike and escape.