Death Benefits

I was in the middle of a performance review at the office when I received news of my husband's death.

My boss patted my shoulder, telling me to accept my loss with grace.

I held myself together, gave a shaky salute, and then went home.

Once there, the delivery guy called, saying he had a package that required my signature.

The moment I opened the box, I froze.

Inside were two pairs of underwear, stained with a milky white substance, and at the bottom of the box, a dozen used condoms.

There was also a note that read: "Mrs. Peterson, I've taken Mr. Peterson for myself."

Another note said: "Afraid you'd be too lonely, so I mailed you some of Mr. Peterson's things. No need to thank me, darling."

So that's how he "sacrificed" himself.

I sat in the living room for three hours, numb.

I didn't go to the funeral home to mourn. Instead, I printed out documents, preparing to get a death certificate.

No matter what, legally, I needed to confirm my husband's death today.

I walked into Human Resources.

The door behind me clanged shut, cutting off the sunlight from outside.

"Ms. Quan." A young administrator greeted me.

She probably hadn't handled a case like mine before.

"My my condolences."

I nodded at her, saying nothing.

My condolences?

I wanted to beat drums and blow trumpets, celebrating his ultimate demise.

I walked straight to the service window, pulled the documents from my briefcase, and placed them on the counter.

"Hello, I'm here to process the death certificate for my husband, Commander Peterson."

A woman in her fifties, wearing reading glasses, sat behind the window. She looked up at me, her eyes filled with a flicker of pity.

She probably mistook me for a grieving spouse who was abnormally calm due to shock.

Good. Saved me the trouble of acting.

The office was quiet. Those around us pretended to be busy, but their ears were probably perked up like antennae.

"Ms. Quan,"

"Commander Peterson... he was a hero to us. The organization will not forget his contributions, nor will it neglect the family of a hero."

I forced a smile.

"Thank you, I understand. Please, just process it according to procedure."

She sighed, said no more, and began typing on her computer.

I stood there, my gaze falling on my blurry reflection in the window glass.

A faint scar above my eyebrow shimmered under the light.

This face had been with Commander Peterson from his humble beginnings to his decorated achievements.

Everyone said I was his virtuous wife, his strongest pillar of support.

They were right. Without me, Commander Peterson was nothing.

"Here, family signature."

The officer handed me a form and a pen.

I took the pen and saw the space after "Spouse," where my name was required.

That word, now, wasn't an identity; it was a qualification.

The qualification to legally take control of all his assets, the qualification to dismantle all his lies, the admission ticket to send him to hell.

My pen pressed hard, signing "Evelyn Quan." The force was so great it almost tore through the paper.

The officer retrieved the form, picked up a red stamp, and forcefully pressed it onto the final certificate.

"Thud!"

She handed the paper with the crimson stamp, along with the subsidy application form, through the window.

"Ms. Quan, the paperwork is done."

I took the paper, folded it, and tucked it into the closest pocket near my chest.

That spot, once, was where I kept photos of us together.

"Thank you."

I said, then turned and left.

Pushing open the heavy door, blinding sunlight rushed in.

I pulled out my phone and dialed a number I knew by heart.

"Run a check on an account for me,"

My voice was cold as ice,

"Commander Peterson's special offshore account. I need all his financial transactions from the past year, not a single one missing."

The certificate with the red stamp hadn't even warmed in my pocket when the call came back.

"Ev, I found it."

"Commander Peterson's account has thirty-seven procurement records in the past year, but one three-million-dollar fund bypassed regular procedures and went directly into an offshore anonymous account."

"Can it be traced?"

"No,"

She answered bluntly,

"The recipient is a top expert. All paths have been destroyed. To trace it, we'd have to start from the original paper documentssee who signed off and which approval channel it went through."

"Got it, thanks."

Early the next morning, I put on my work uniform and went straight to the archives.

The archives had a scent of old paper and dust, making my nose itch.

The archivist saw me and immediately stood up from her chair.

"Ms. Quan, what brings you here? You could have just called, and I would have brought it to you."

"I'm here to find something."

I was concise.

"What exactly?"

"All files from Commander Peterson's last mission, including logistics and supply requisitions."

The archivist's expression froze. She wrung her hands. "Ms. Quan, this... this isn't allowed. Mission files, especially those involving fatalities, are sealed. As family, you should avoid any appearance of impropriety"

I ignored her "rules," walked past her, and headed for the row of metal cabinets.

From memory, I quickly located the section marked "Highly Classified."

My hand rested on the handle of one of the cabinets, about to pull it open.

"Ms. Quan."

I turned.

A ranking officer in uniform stood not far away, wearing gold-rimmed glasses. Her eyes behind the lenses were calm and sharp, fixed on me.

She also held a file folder, apparently there to check documents herself.

I didn't know her.

"Can I help you?" I asked.

She pushed up her glasses, walked over, and stopped in front of me, her gaze falling on the metal cabinet by my hand.

"According to regulations, the files for this mission have been sealed. Access requires special authorization from a superior officer."

Her voice, like her demeanor, was devoid of warmth, strictly business.

I released the handle, turning to her, and forced a weary smile befitting a "grieving widow."

"My apologies, I just wanted to look at the records of his last mission again. I want to know what he went through in his final moments."

The excuse was flawless, full of emotion, enough to silence anyone with a shred of sympathy.

She quietly watched me for a few seconds. Then, she smiled too.

"Is that so?"

She softly countered, then leaned forward slightly, lowering her voice to a volume only we could hear.

"I thought Ms. Quan would be more interested in the amount of the death benefits."

I stared into her eyes behind the lenses. There was no sympathy there, only scrutiny and probing.

I deepened my feigned weariness, my voice taking on a hint of offended hoarseness.

"Ma'am, my husband just died, his body barely cold. I'm just a widow wanting to know what he last experienced. As for the death benefits,"

I paused, looking directly at her,

"That's an honor he earned with his life. Of course I care. What, is there a problem with that?"

She pushed up her glasses, not pursuing the topic. Instead, she stepped back half a pace.

"My condolences. But regulations are regulations, Ms. Quan. Without authorization, no one can see them."

"The memorial service is about to begin."

The archivist behind her scurried over, as if she'd found a savior.

"Ms. Quan, please hurry. The senior officers have all arrived. As family, you can't be late!"

I took one last look at the metal cabinet, then turned and left.

Alright, rules, huh?

I love playing by the rules.

Commander Peterson's memorial service was of high stature.

The auditorium was packed, a sea of dark uniforms. His enlarged black-and-white photo hung prominently in the center, showing him in his crisp uniform.

I sat in the very middle of the first row, holding his portrait.

The ceremony proceeded, with speeches from senior officers and eulogies from comrades.

Just then, a small commotion erupted at the back of the auditorium.

I didn't need to turn around to know who it was.

Barbie Seiple.

She had indeed arrived, and with quite a show.

Two male dancers from her troupe flanked her, helping her along. She wore a pristine white performance gown, starkly conspicuous amidst the sea of uniforms.

Her innocent face was drenched in tears, her lips bitten pale, as if a gust of wind could topple her.

Well, well, someone might think the memorial was being held for her.

She was supported as she walked, step by step, her destination clearthe empty seat next to me.

That seat was reserved for the closest family.

She wanted to sit there.

All eyes in the auditorium converged on us.

This was getting interesting.

She stopped beside me, her voice choked with sobs.

"Mrs. Peterson I'm so sorry, I'm late I I just couldn't stand when I heard the news about Commander Peterson"

As she spoke, her knees buckled, and she began to sway towards me.

I didn't move. Just as she was about to lean on my shoulder, ready to perform a melodramatic scene of "we both loved him, let's comfort each other," I, holding his portrait, stood up.

I turned to her, my movements slow, my gaze traveling from her tear-swollen eyes to her white dress, utterly inappropriate for the occasion.

"Which unit are you with?"

I spoke, my voice low, yet it cut like a cold blade.

She froze, her sobbing pausing for half a second.

"I'm Barbie Seiple from the dance troupe. Commander Peterson, he"

"Madam."

I cut her off, raising my voice slightly, enough for the senior officers in the first three rows to hear clearly.

"A memorial service is a solemn and respectful occasion, with explicit dress code requirements. Your attire is inappropriate."

I took a step forward, holding Commander Peterson's portrait, blocking her view of the officers.

"Furthermore, this is the family section."

I looked at her, enunciating each word.

"Your place is with your unit, in the back. Now, please return to where you belong."

Barbie's face instantly went from ashen to crimson, then back to ashen.

She stood there, like a clown stripped naked in public.

She probably thought I would argue, make a scene, or at least silently condone her performance for sympathy.

A mere clown. I didn't even need to lift a finger.

Rules and discipline would clearly tell hershe didn't belong.

The memorial service ended, and I returned home with Commander Peterson's portrait.

The house was empty, no different from when he was away on assignment, but I knew this time, he wouldn't be coming back. At least, not as my husband.

They wouldn't let me see the files? No problem.

Rules are rigid; people are flexible.

As an information warfare expert in a specialized unit, I had plenty of ways to see what I wanted to see.

I opened a specially modified laptop, bypassing conventional paths, and directly entered the Southern Command's mission database.

The entire process took less than ten minutes.

Commander Peterson was a logistics officer; he couldn't have imagined that his wife could so easily tear through his proudly built firewall.

All the data about his last mission unfolded before me, entry by entry.

Mission brief, travel routes, logistical supply requests, casualty reports.

Everything looked flawless.

I pulled up all associated information preceding the mission's initiation.

An inconspicuous dynamic brief was retrieved from the depths of the data.

The brief stated that a border patrol unit had detected signs of small-scale hostile activity, urgently requiring a batch of specialized communication equipment.

It was this very brief that directly led to Commander Peterson's "perilous" transport mission.

The problem was, the source of this brief was tagged "Snow Wolf Assault Team."

The Snow Wolf Assault Team was my former unit.

During that period, they were not conducting missions in that region at all.

The records were clear: they were undergoing wilderness survival training in another jungle, three hundred kilometers away.

I magnified the digital signature of the message file.

Beneath layers of encrypted code, I found the original issuance key.

The key belonged to Commander Peterson.

He had forged a front-line message.

Using the name of my unit, he forged a message significant enough to mobilize an entire transport echelon.

This wasn't simple greed, not a minor financial scheme.

This was a treasonous felony that could shake the very foundations of the organization.

If confirmed, a special tribunal would make him regret ever being born.

So this was his true Achilles' heel.

Faking his death to escape, embezzling fundsthese were just the surface.

What he truly wanted to hide was this.

I leaned back in my chair, my heart pounding in my chest.

I thought I was just catching a cheating spouse; I never expected to stumble upon a bomb capable of destroying an entire unit.

Just then, my personal phone "pinged."

It was a multimedia message from an unknown number.

I tapped to open it.

Azure skies, turquoise waters, white sandy beach chairs, and Barbie, in a bikini, intimately nestled in Commander Peterson's arms.

Commander Peterson held her, a smile on his face I had never seen before.

The background of the photo was a locally distinctive seven-star sail-shaped hotel.

Below the photo, a line of text read:

[Mrs. Peterson, Commander Peterson would rather fake his death than not be with me.]

[You had him for so many years; now he's mine.]

I looked at that foolish, triumphant face and suddenly laughed.

The heavens truly helped me.

I was racking my brain trying to find them, and they delivered their address right to my doorstep.

I put down my phone, picked up another encrypted device, and dialed the number of a distant cousin of Barbie's from her hometown.

I had arranged to get it earlier.

"Hello, who is this?"

"Hello, I'm from the Family Welfare Committee. Regarding Barbie Seiple's application for special medical assistance for a family genetic illness, we need family members to verify the situation."

"What? What illness?"

The woman on the other end of the phone was clearly bewildered.

"Our family has been as strong as oxen for generations. We don't have any genetic illnesses!"

I hung up.

Alright, all done.

Evidence of betrayal, hidden location, motive for fraud.

I looked at everything spread out on the tablethe forged message, the boastful photo on my phone, and that phrase I'd just written down: "Our family doesn't have any genetic illness."

Commander Peterson, Barbie Seiple.

You're in for a treat.

I arrived at the Tribunal without an appointment.

The guard at the gate stopped me. I showed the faint scar above my eyebrow and handed over my ID.

"Special Information Unit, Evelyn Quan. I need to see Director Rogers."

The guard glanced at my ID, then at me, a hint of surprise in his eyes, but he quickly saluted and let me pass.

I walked straight to Director Rogers's office door; it wasn't fully closed.

I didn't knock, just pushed the door open and walked in.

Director Rogers looked up, and seeing me, he clearly paused.

"Ms. Quan," he pushed up his gold-rimmed glasses. "My condolences."

I took an encrypted USB drive and several paper documents from my briefcase.

"Director Rogers, you said last time that everything is based on evidence."

"This is the intelligence related to Commander Peterson's last mission."

I pushed the forged border message across the table to him.

"Issued under the name of the Snow Wolf Assault Team, signed with Commander Peterson's encryption key. During that time, my unit was training three hundred kilometers away. This is their complete operational log."

Director Rogers's gaze fell on the document. He scanned it quickly, then picked it up, examining it carefully.

His brow furrowed progressively.

I didn't give him much time to process, plugging the USB drive into his computer.

"This is the financial flow from Commander Peterson's logistics account, ultimately leading to an offshore anonymous account. Totaling nine million seven hundred and twenty thousand."

Next, I pushed the printed copy of the multimedia message photo across.

"This is Commander Peterson and Barbie Seiple, two days ago at the Burj Al Arab in Dubai. He's not dead."

Finally, I placed a summarized transcript of a phone call.

"This is my conversation with Barbie Seiple's relatives from her hometown. Her family comes from three generations of poor farmers, all in good health. No one knows anything about a 'family genetic illness.'"

I finished speaking.

The office was dead silent.

Director Rogers's fingers still clutched the forged message, his knuckles white from the pressure.

He finished reviewing everything without a word.

"Forging military intelligence, faking his death to escape, embezzling public funds, and desertion."

He summarized, word for word,

"Ms. Quan, your husband has committed treason."

"Ex-husband,"

I corrected him,

"I need you to bring him back to face trial in a special tribunal."

"This isn't your 'need,' Ms. Quan."

Director Rogers's voice was gravely serious.

"This is my responsibility, and the responsibility of this uniform I wear. Anyone who defiles its honor must pay the price."

He stood up, walked to me, saluted, and spoke solemnly:

"Thank you, Evelyn Quan. You have upheld the dignity of this uniform."

With that, he turned back to his desk and picked up the red encrypted phone.

His voice was devoid of any personal emotion, only the resolute and cold tone of command.

"Connect me to Sector Two Intelligence. I need to speak directly with Deputy Director Vance."

The call connected quickly.

"Director Vance, this is Director Rogers. I've uncovered a Level One security incident here and require your department to immediately initiate an international fugitive recovery procedure. Target: Commander Peterson. Yes, the combat hero who just 'sacrificed' himself."