“The youth will march first,” he said. “Let them scream betrayal. Let them drape themselves in nostalgia for something they never lived through. Our job is not to control them — it’s to guide the flood once it breaks.”
Hao took the envelope, sliding it inside his coat. “So, what happens if Taipei overreacts?”
“Then they lose the frame. A truncheon on a protester’s face is worth more than ten manifestos.”
“And if they don’t respond?”
Cuī looked him dead in the eye. “They will.”
The Ghost stood then, adjusting his coat. “One last thing,” he said, his voice low. “Phase two — should it come — is already in place. No need for ferries or fatigues. The house is built. The keys are simply waiting to be turned.”
And with that, he vanished into the winter rain, leaving the room as quiet as it had been before he entered.
Hao stared at the flash drive.
Gao reached for the tea and finally took a sip.
“Time to set the match,” he said.
The plaza had become a furnace.
What had begun as coordinated chants and student-led speeches was dissolving — now chants overlapped, flags tore in the wind, and young men were shoving the police line. Thin-lipped conscripts, barely older than the protesters themselves, gripped plastic shields with whitening knuckles.
Above the crowd, on the second-floor balcony of a tea shop, Gao Rong watched it unravel in real time.
“Too soon,” he muttered.
Hao Lei stood beside him, sweat darkening his collar. “I know that kid — front row, black hoodie. He was in the dorm chat six weeks ago asking about ferry discounts. Now he’s screaming for blood.”
Down below, a protester launched a paint balloon. It splattered across a police visor, triggering a surge. Three students rushed forward, slamming into the shield line. A baton swung. Once, twice, and a girl went down, screaming.
Gao’s burner phone buzzed.
“PLA cell’s breaking cover. Civilian gear discarded. Beach axis open. Kinmen command element en route.”
The second message read, “Engage ROE breach. Justify military intervention.”
Gao looked up. “They’re coming. It’s now.”
Across the plaza, an unmarked white box truck screeched to a halt just off Zhongzheng Road. Four men spilled out, dressed like aid workers. Their posture gave them away. Each had squared shoulders, close-cut hair, and the unmistakable gait of a man trained to kill quickly. Each wore a red armband that read “People’s Relief Front.”
One carried a duffel. Another unzipped it, revealing wrapped metal pipes and riot shields stenciled with Chinese characters. They moved fast — blending into the crowd, passing out gear. Within minutes, ten protesters were suddenly armored. And armed.
A makeshift formation advanced on the outer police flank, swinging pipes at plastic riot shields. One ROC conscript went down hard, helmet cracking on the curb. Another tripped under a tangle of limbs. His sidearm was visible — exposed.
A protester lunged for it.
Gunshots cracked.
The crowd screamed, splintering like shattered glass. Two people hit the pavement — one protester, one police officer.
That was the ignition.
Behind the crowd, PLA special operations cells posing as humanitarian volunteers dropped their disguises and moved — tactically, surgically — into alleyways and rooftops. Some fired blank rounds. Others used rubber bullets. The point wasn’t to kill.
It was to make it all look out of control — to give Beijing a reason to “restore order.”
Hao swore, ducking as a whizzing canister exploded against a nearby pillar, releasing gray smoke. He yanked Gao by the sleeve. “We’ve got to go. Right now.”
Gao nodded, stuffing the monocular into his bag. “We’ll slip past the old market road. Meet extraction at the harbor.”
They advanced quickly — keeping low, avoiding cameras. But the tea shop owner burst out the side door and pointed at them, screaming, “You! I
From across the alley, a local militia officer — recently recruited from a PRC-friendly security agency — whistled and shouted, “Hey! Stop!”
Gao broke into a sprint. Hao hesitated.
“Go!” Gao barked. “I’ll shake him!”
But Hao turned the wrong corner — straight into two PLA-affiliated militia in plainclothes. They grabbed him hard, forcing him against the wall.
“Name!” one barked. “Who sent you?”
He stayed silent.
A fist slammed into his gut. He went down hard.
Gao didn’t look back. He heard the scuffle, the shouts, but he couldn’t afford to stop. The plaza was collapsing into a war zone, and phase two was well underway.
By the time Gao reached the harbor and slipped into the tide of evacuees posing as ferry-bound tourists, he’d ditched his phone and jacket. His face was soaked with sweat, his eyes cold.
Above the city, smoke was rising. Sirens wailed
Hao would be among the dozens detained that afternoon, likely listed as “an unknown instigator,” unnamed in official press releases. He would be a ghost, just like the ones who trained him.
