Chapter 4 — The Gateway to Public Service

"Ma'am, please, you shouldn't have."

"This is our duty. It is us who owe you."

The elderly woman was weeping—crying openly and uncontrollably, much like a small child. A murmur of commotion rippled through the gathered crowd. There were heavy sighs, flickers of indignation, and the bitter tang of shared sorrow. I guided the old woman to a nearby bench and insisted she sit. Then, picking up my uncle's worn leather-paper envelope, I returned to service window number three. I placed the parcel squarely in front of Truong Khai Minh.

"Process this as well. Right now."

Truong Khai Minh snatched it up hastily, as if the package were a burning coal. He pried open the envelope and withdrew the documents. When his eyes caught the phrase "martyr's pension benefits," his hands visibly trembled. He examined the contents with far more scrutiny than before. Once finished, he looked up at me, his face drained of all color.

"Secretary Tran, this… this file has actually been complete for a very long time."

"It was complete as of last week."

I nodded curtly. "I am aware."

"Then why, after nine visits, has it still not been finalized?"

Truong Khai Minh had no answer. He could only cast a desperate, pleading look toward the head of the operations department. The department head wiped beads of cold sweat from his forehead and muttered in a low voice:

"Perhaps... Miss Ly... she is not very familiar with the document formats required by the military..."

"Not familiar?" I let out a sharp, frigid laugh. "Is being unfamiliar an excuse to kick people around like a football? Is that why you let these people make nine trips, only to have them collapse from a hypertensive crisis right at your front door? Director Truong, is this the kind of soldier you trained?"

Truong Khai Minh’s face flushed with deep shame. "It is my fault, it is my fault entirely..."

"Apply the stamp."

I had no interest in listening to further excuses. Truong Khai Minh did not dare delay; he immediately ordered the department head to find the corresponding seal. When they finally located the seal, they realized the ink pad was missing. The entire service counter was ransacked until, from the very bottom of her drawer, Ly pulled out the red ink box. As she handed it over, her hands shook so violently she could barely hold the container. The department head took the pad, placed it against the document, and pressed down with solemn weight. The sharp, rhythmic "thud" echoed throughout the grand hall. My uncle had been standing behind me the entire time. As he watched that red seal hit the paper, his aged, battle-worn frame seemed to straighten. His eyes grew bloodshot. I handed the stamped document to him.

"Uncle, it is finished."

He took the papers, his rough, calloused fingers gently stroking the red mark as if it were the rarest treasure on earth. He didn't offer a word of thanks; he simply gave me a heavy, profound nod. I knew the weight that had burdened his heart for so long had finally fallen to the ground. I turned to Truong Khai Minh.

"Effective immediately, all service windows are suspended. Have every one of your department-level leaders report to the conference room. And her," I pointed to Ly, "bring her along as well. We are holding an on-site inquiry."

The conference room on the third floor of the City Southern Administrative Center was stifling, the air so thick it felt as though it might freeze solid. Truong Khai Minh and more than a dozen officials sat in two rigid rows. Everyone held their backs straight, not daring to draw a full breath. Ly was relegated to a seat in the back corner, her head bowed low, her shoulders still trembling. My uncle and I sat at the head of the table. I refused to let him leave; he was the one who had endured today's ordeal and remained our primary witness. There was no tea in front of me, only a simple glass of water. I didn't look at anyone, but slowly flipped through a manual on the table—a collection of the center's own regulations. I turned the pages with agonizing slowness. In the silent room, the only sound was the rasp of paper, each rustle striking like a whip against the hearts of the officials present. Finally, I finished. I closed the book and slid it to the center of the table.

"Director Truong, you were the one who oversaw the drafting of these regulations, were you not?"

Truong Khai Minh scrambled to his feet. "Yes, yes, that is correct, Secretary Tran."

"It is written beautifully," I nodded. "Every article speaks of 'the people,' 'efficiency,' and 'service.' The slogans are loud enough to reach the heavens. Yet, why is it that once we reach that three-meter service counter downstairs, every single principle becomes useless? Why is it that a document written in black and white cannot control a single petty clerk?"

Truong Khai Minh’s face was slick with sweat; he stuttered, unable to form a response.

"Is it because these rules were written for others to read, rather than for you to actually follow? Or is it because certain individuals possess privileges that place them above these regulations?"

My final question was slow and heavy, my gaze sharpening into a blade as it landed on Truong Khai Minh. His expression curdled, and his lips parted as if to speak, but he swallowed the words back. His reaction confirmed my suspicions: Ly had a protector. Without one, she could never have acted with such insolent arrogance, nor would she have been beyond the reach of even the center's director.

"What? You dare not speak?"

I leaned forward slightly. "Comrade Truong Khai Minh, let me remind you. In front of me, it is best that you tell the truth. You know very well the consequences of shielding or concealing the truth."

My words were the final straw that broke the dam of Truong Khai Minh’s psychological defenses. He gritted his teeth, deciding to gamble everything. "Secretary Tran, I will tell you. I will tell you the truth."