Days as a Spiritual Mentor in American Comics

The IRS Special Investigation Unit's black SUV convoy slowly drove into the underground parking lot of the GTO Headquarters, the tires creating a low rumble against the ground. The headlights cut through the dim underground space with several blinding beams, reflecting upon the mottled stains and rust on the walls.

Bawell Smith was the first to push open the car door, the hem of her black coat lifted slightly with her steps. She was followed by a dozen fully armed agents, their footsteps uniform and synchronized, like a well-trained army.

The elevator doors opened, and Bawell led her team straight to the core office area of the GTO Headquarters. The security at the front tried to stop them, but Bawell coolly glanced at him and flashed her IRS badge: "Special Investigation Unit, we're requisitioning your office area. Cooperate and don't make trouble for yourself."

The security guard opened his mouth but eventually stepped aside, allowing this uninvited group to barge in.

Employees in the office area stopped their work one after another, looking up at these sudden intruders. Bawell ignored those surprised or angry gazes and headed straight for the largest conference room. The moment she pushed open the door, Nightwing was standing in the center of the room, arms crossed, with a hint of chill emanating from the eyes beneath his mask.

"Bawell Smith," Nightwing's voice was deep and calm, "IRS's special commissioner. Quite a rare visitor."

Bawell gave a slight smile, approached the conference table, leaned on it with both hands, her gaze sharp as knives at Nightwing: "Nightwing, or should I say, Richard Grayson. We finally meet."

Nightwing's brow furrowed slightly, but he quickly regained his composure: "It seems the IRS's intelligence network is broader than I imagined. Still, why have you and so many others stormed in here? What are you intending to do?"

"We're requisitioning your office area," Bawell said bluntly, "The financial issues of the GTO have been classified as the highest priority by the IRS. We need a temporary headquarters, and this place is just right."

Nightwing let out a cold laugh, fully aware that her intentions went beyond her words. He walked to the opposite side of the table, faced her, and leaned his hands on the table: "The IRS has quite the reach. Financial issues of the GTO? Do you have evidence?"

Bawell pulled out a document from the inner pocket of her coat and nonchalantly tossed it on the table: "Here's a search and seizure order from the federal court. As for evidence," she paused and a meaningful smile tugged at her lips, "we will find it soon enough."

Nightwing glanced at the document. His expression was unreadable behind the mask, but his voice grew colder: "This is an abuse of power. Every financial transaction of the GTO is transparent; we've done nothing wrong."

"Is that so?" Bawell raised an eyebrow, "Then why are there billions of US Dollars in your accounts with unclear destinations? Why is your 'charitable fund' actually a shell company? Nightwing, don't think wearing a cloak can cover up the truth."

Nightwing's fists clenched slightly but he quickly released them, his tone still even: "If you have doubts, we can cooperate with the investigation. But you have no right to just take over our office space. This is the heart of the GTO, not your playground."

Bawell chuckled lightly, stood up straight, and looked around: "The heart? To me, it looks more like a place to hide filth. Nightwing, you think you're upholding justice, but in reality, you're no different from those criminals. You're just more secretive and cunning."

Nightwing's gaze suddenly turned icy, and he stepped forward, his voice low and dangerous: "You'd better watch your words, Bawell. The IRS may be powerful, but that doesn't give you the right to slander others."

Unyielding, Bawell maintained eye contact: "Slander? No, these are facts. The actions of your GTO have long drawn the IRS's attention. Today is just the beginning."

The atmosphere between the two was tense, as if about to erupt into conflict at any moment. Just then, Bawell's agents behind her took a step forward, hands on their weapons, warily watching Nightwing.

Nightwing glanced at those agents and scoffed: "What, you want to make a move?"

Bawell gestured for the agents to stand down, her tone still calm: "We're not here to fight, Nightwing. We're here to audit. If you don't want to get into bigger trouble, you'd better cooperate with our work."

Nightwing was silent for a moment, then stepped back and opened his hands, his tone sarcastic: "Fine, Bawell. You can stay here. But I warn you, if you overstep, you'll bear the consequences."

Bawell smiled faintly, turned, and sat in the main seat of the conference table, then opened the document in her hand: "Don't worry, Nightwing. The IRS always follows the law. However, if you have anything to confess, now would be a good time."

Nightwing didn't answer, just gave Bawell a cold look and left the conference room. The moment the door closed, Bawell's smile gradually vanished, replaced by a thoughtful expression. She spoke softly to an agent beside her: "Keep a close watch on him, the large sum missing from the GTO's account is too mysterious. I didn't find any leads before coming, he must have someone knowledgeable behind him."

The agent nodded and quickly left the conference room. Bawell continued flipping through the documents, her mouth curving up slightly as if she could already see the dawn of victory.

Meanwhile, Nightwing stood at the end of the corridor, looking out through the window at the city outside. His fists clenched slightly, a trace of concern in the eyes beneath the mask.

GTO Headquarters, IRS temporary special investigation team office.

Bawell Smith slammed her black coffee onto the metal table. This veteran commissioner with Latino heritage stared at the electronic clock on the wall—09:37 PM. The neon blue of the surveillance screens cast shadows on her stern profile, the light dancing across her glasses.

Three unmarked Chevrolets pierced through the silent night sky of East Island. Agent Fkas tightened the fibrous seams of his bulletproof vest, as the beam of his tactical flashlight swept across the oaken porch to the limited edition marble door sign worth 8200 US Dollars: "J. Carter IV."

Baville growled into the headset, "Evidence team, seal off the west side study room, the Titan X server there has backup records of his three offshore shell companies' transactions!"

He suddenly paused, and turning around, Fkas's nose was only five centimeters from the framed photo of the yacht club gathering.

"Wait, isn't the third person from the left in this 2005 Saint Barth Charity Dinner photo the witness from last year's Florida digital asset issue hearing?"

Baville clicked a few times on the computer in front of her. A photograph appeared before her eyes. Her index finger precisely touched the expensive watch on the man's wrist in the photo, where the reflection on the watch face faintly revealed the guest bracelet of the hearing.

A trembling voice came from the cell, "You are engaging in entrapment! My accountant said those digital assets..."

Above the cell, another nonchalant voice suddenly sounded, "Mr. Carter, of the 2.8 million US Dollars in business consulting fees you declared in 2001, 1.47 million were paid to a shell company in the British Virgin Islands."

A plastic-sealed document was thrown down from mid-air, fluttering white papers scattering on the floor: "This is the custodial account transaction statement provided by Credit Suisse—Do I need to read out the answer to your password hint question? 'Mother's maiden name + first love's license plate number' is hardly a qualified information security strategy."

Baville suddenly turned her head towards the TV screen. The silhouette above the cell was barely visible but mostly hidden in the darkness.

"Go check who he is," Baville said, "Also, as he said, check Carter's Swiss Bank account."

"Understood."

Evidence room.

Under the UV lamp light, The Great Gatsby's pages glowed, and suddenly, a hand in rubber gloves paused, a string of numbers emerging among the letters.

"The encryption key for the hard disk," said the man with eagle-like eyes, looking up.

The female teammate next to him immediately picked up the walkie-talkie and said, "Search his study thoroughly, the hard disk should be hidden there."

A woman wearing glasses suddenly picked up a bookmark beside her—a yellowed 1998 Boston Red Sox ticket.

"This coincides perfectly with the suspected sports betting account opening time marked by headquarters' technical support system," the woman said as she walked around the table, "A classic move, but very effective."

She pinched the ticket between her index and middle finger, shaking it at Baville who had just walked in, "Boss, we've got it."

A technician behind the glass suddenly looked up and shouted, "Boss, chain tracking shows that this wallet address just transferred digital assets worth over 6 million US Dollars to an online casino in Malta last week, and during the same period, Carter Group was applying for charitable tax exemption..."

"This guy really knows how to diversify," the woman with glasses said, pushing up her glasses, "Greed is his gallows."

Suddenly, Baville's satellite phone vibrated, its special encrypted frequency call display causing her jawline to instantly tense.

An electronically processed unfamiliar voice on the other end of the phone said, "Commissioner Smith, do you remember the assets your father declared when he immigrated from Mexico City in 1989? Some tax issues related to your family's immigration... might need to be re-evaluated."

Baville's hand holding the coffee cup paused. Coffee spilled, leaving a stain on the IRS emblem on her chest. In the distance, Gotham's skyline began to illuminate with the pale light of dawn, and in the reflection of the glass curtain wall, her iris showed a special gray hue, somewhere between an agent and prey.

"What's wrong, Boss?"

"Nothing, keep looking."

Baville turned around. A young agent in uniform came in, knocking on the door, "Boss, nothing found."

"What?"

"The mysterious person who appeared above the cell is named Schiller Rodriguez, but apart from that name, we can't find anything else."