CHAPTER 158: PROMOTION!!

The hallway turned to ice.

Every sound, every whisper died under the weight of silence.

Chief Thomas’s voice cracked through it — sharp, arrogant, trembling underneath false confidence.

"And who the hell are you asking me that?"

His tone tried to sound defiant, but even he could hear the faint shake in his own words.

The officers around them shifted uneasily, glancing at one another.

Most of them knew.

They knew exactly who Miles Sterling was — General Miles Sterling, the man whose name was carried with silent reverence.

But Thomas Marshall — old, corrupt, drunk on power — clearly didn’t.

Miles’s reply came low and steady, calm enough to sting.

"Does it matter who I am?"

He stepped forward, closing the distance between them. "I’m simply stating the truth."

He turned his gaze from Thomas to one of the officers standing rigid at the wall.

"You," Miles said. "Officer, come here."

The young officer startled slightly, but obeyed. He stepped forward and saluted.

"Sir—"

Miles’s eyes stayed cold. "What’s your name, officer?"

"My name is Jesse Wong, sir."

"Good," Miles said. "Then, Jesse — I’m giving you a task."

Jesse straightened, every muscle tensed, ready for an order.

"Yes, sir."

Miles’s voice didn’t rise, but it filled the entire corridor.

"Tell this man standing here," he said, tilting his chin toward Thomas, "that he doesn’t deserve to be the Police Chief."

The entire hallway froze.

All eyes went to Jesse. The young officer’s throat went dry. He looked from Miles to Thomas — then back again.

The silence pressed down until it hurt.

Thomas sneered. "You dare—"

But Jesse suddenly spoke, his voice firm despite the fear.

"You don’t deserve to be a Police Chief."

The words echoed through the hall.

Miles chuckled softly — a cold, almost mocking sound. Then his expression hardened.

"So," he said, staring directly into Thomas’s eyes. "Did you hear that?"

He took a slow step forward.

"Like I said — you don’t deserve to be a Police Chief."

Then, without looking away, Miles said quietly,

"Everyone. Repeat it."

And they did.

One by one, the officers spoke — hesitant at first, then stronger, louder.

"You don’t deserve to be a Police Chief."

Again.

"You don’t deserve to be a Police Chief."

The chorus of voices filled the station, shaking the walls Thomas had ruled over for years.

He stood frozen — the blood draining from his face.

His pride, his power, his control — all of it evaporating in a single minute.

Miles turned slightly, looking at Captain Sam.

"Captain Sam."

Sam’s voice came firm. "Yes, sir."

Miles’s tone was crisp, formal.

"From this moment onwards, I’m promoting you to Chief of Police, Star Harbor PD. You will get the promotion letter by today."

A gasp went through the corridor.

Thomas blinked, lost, his authority ripped out from under him in real time.

Miles continued, his voice like iron.

"And I’m lodging a formal complaint — accusing this man of taking bribes, and committing unlawful acts under the mask of police authority. Arrest him."

The whispers erupted again — low, shocked, uncertain.

Thomas’s face went red, veins bulging.

"What— What?!" he shouted, but before he could finish, Sam saluted sharply.

"Copy that, General."

The word General hit the air like a thunderclap.

Thomas froze.

His eyes widened.

That single word explained everything.

The realization struck him like a bullet — this wasn’t just some businessman.

The man in front of him outranked everyone.

An honorary General, directly under the President’s jurisdiction. The kind of man even ministers hesitated to question.

"Officers," Sam ordered, "arrest him."

Two officers stepped forward instantly, grabbing Thomas by his arms.

He tried to resist, but they were already pulling his gun from its holster, cuffing his hands behind his back.

"This— this is unfair!" Thomas shouted, his voice breaking. "You have no proof of anything you said! This is unlawful! I’ll be out in minutes with my lawyer!"

Miles finally moved again.

He walked up close — close enough that Thomas could see the shadow of his own reflection in Miles’s eyes.

"Lawyer?" Miles said quietly. "You mean your lawyer?"

He tilted his head slightly and looked at his phone. "He just left the city."

Thomas’s face went pale.

Miles looked over at Sam.

"Sam."

"Yes, General?"

"Give him his phone back," Miles said. "It’s his right to call a lawyer."

Sam nodded, reached for the department phone, and handed it to the trembling man.

Thomas snatched it, breath shallow, eyes darting toward Miles — but Miles had already turned away.

That calm, unhurried voice drifted back over his shoulder.

"Call whoever you want, Chief, I mean ex Chief. But remember — it’s a long way back up once you fall."

The phone shook in Thomas’s hands.

Thomas’s hand trembled slightly as he pressed the redial button.

The ringing tone echoed through the tense silence of the hallway — one second, two, three — then stopped.

No answer.

He swallowed hard, trying again.

Same result.

Miles stood calmly in front of him, arms folded, a faint smirk on his face.

"What happened?" he asked quietly. "Didn’t pick up?"

Thomas didn’t reply. His pride was cracking. His throat felt dry.

Miles tilted his head. "Let me give you another chance then," he said. "Call another lawyer."

He turned to Singh. "Mr. Singh, you have contacts in the city, right?"

Singh stepped forward smoothly, the confidence of a man who knew where he stood.

"Yes, boss," he said with a nod.

"Good," Miles said. "Give him the contact he wants."

Singh smiled politely and held out his phone to the trembling Chief.

"Here," he said. "Call anyone you like."

Thomas snatched the phone from him, his fingers shaking slightly as he scrolled through the contact list.

Every officer was watching him — the once-mighty Chief, now fumbling like a desperate man.

He stopped at a number, pressed call, and held the phone to his ear.

The line clicked.

A voice answered. "Hello, Mr. Singh, how can I help you?"

Thomas exhaled a shaky breath of relief.

"I’m Thomas Marshall," he said quickly. "The Chief of Police. I’m—"

Click.

The line went dead.

The silence afterward was deafening.

Miles chuckled — low, humorless, like someone watching a once-proud building collapse on itself.

"See?" he said softly.

Thomas’s face drained of color. He looked at the phone like it had betrayed him. In truth, everyone already had.

Miles turned slightly. "Take the phones back."

Sam stepped forward, his movements sharp and efficient, retrieving the devices without a word.

Miles’s tone turned cool again. "Tell me, Sam," he said without looking back. "What happens when no lawyer arrives for someone?"

Sam’s reply came firmly. "They get assigned a public prosecutor by the end of the day."

Miles nodded once.

"That’s enough," he said quietly.

"Because before the end of the day... there will be evidence on the table — enough to make it a non-bailable case."

The officers around felt it — the certainty in his tone wasn’t a threat. It was a promise.

Miles looked at Thomas one last time, his eyes cold but calm — the kind of calm that made men like Thomas tremble.

Then, almost casually, he smiled.

And turned away.

As he walked down the corridor, every officer — one by one — straightened their backs and saluted.

Not out of formality. Not out of fear. But out of respect.

Thomas stood there, wrists bound, face pale, the echo of those salutes surrounding him like a judgment.

The realization hit him too late — he had no power anymore.

All that remained was regret.

And the faint sound of Miles’s footsteps fading down the hall,

steady, certain, unshaken.

The parking lot was quiet, just the distant hum of the city echoing through the underground chamber.

Singh adjusted his coat as he followed Miles toward the car. The echo of their footsteps filled the silence until curiosity finally broke through his composure.

"Boss," Singh said, still shaking his head slightly, "how did you do that?"

Miles stopped beside his black sedan, pulling the keys from his pocket.

"The lawyer thing?" he asked, half-smiling.

"Yes," Singh replied quickly. "If anyone gives money to a lawyer, they’ll work for them. That’s how it goes. Every lawyer has a price. You can’t just— shut all of them down like that."

Miles looked at him, amused. "Despite being a lawyer yourself, you’re saying that?"

Singh gave a small, awkward laugh. "Well, that’s just the truth, boss. Private lawyers these days... most of them work for firms. It’s all about money. If the offer is big enough, they’ll take it."

Miles leaned back against the car, calm as ever.

"Exactly," he said. "Like you said, Mr. Singh— it’s all about money."

Singh frowned. "So what did you do?"

Miles slipped his phone from his coat pocket, the faint glow of its screen reflecting in his eyes.

"I just hired all those firms against him," he said simply, "at a price they couldn’t refuse."

For a second, Singh forgot how to breathe.

He stared at Miles — the way he said it, so casually, so certain, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.

He remembered watching Miles type a message back in the interrogation room — just one short text — while talking to Liam.

And now he realized... that was the moment everything had been set in motion.

Within minutes, every private law firm in the city had switched sides — legally bound, paid, and silenced.

Singh blinked, almost laughing in disbelief. "You... planned all of this on the spot?"

Miles smiled faintly. "When you’ve seen how fast a battlefield changes, you learn to move faster."

The lawyer shook his head, genuinely impressed. "You’re something else, boss. Genius — and terrifying."

Miles chuckled softly, opening the car door. "That’s what they usually say before asking for a raise."

Singh laughed for real this time. "Well then, boss, I’ll take my leave. Remember me if you ever need anything."

Miles nodded, his tone even. "Thank you, Mr. Singh."

They exchanged a brief handshake — the kind between professionals who understood power when they saw it.

Singh walked toward his car still shaking his head, a faint grin on his face.

And as Miles started the engine, his reflection in the rearview mirror looked calm again — but behind that calm was a storm quietly forming.

Miles eased into the driver’s seat, engine purring into the low hum of the parking lot. He flipped his phone open and tapped Monica.

"What you got," he asked.

Monica’s voice came steady, efficient. "The phone number linked to Liam received a call last night. The caller belongs to a local criminal Russ— I’m sending you his picture now."

Miles glanced at the incoming image. A hard face, one small scar along the cheek, eyes that never seemed to settle. He looked up at the ceiling for a heartbeat, thinking. "Where is he now?"

"The phone is off," Monica said. "But I pulled the last ping. He was at the underground fight club last night."

Miles didn’t bother to hide the flash of recognition. "That fight club?"

"Yes," Monica confirmed. "That one."

Miles let the wheel rest under his hands for a moment, the city blurred by through the windshield. "Leave it to me then. I know exactly how to find him."

"Need backup?" Monica asked, cautious but already scanning possibilities on her end.

"Nah," Miles said, voice flat and certain. "Just keep an eye on the city. Flag him if you catch him before I do. If you find him first, I’ll give you a present."

A small laugh softened Monica’s tone. "You bet."