Shi Tiexin asked, "Outlaws?"
Without another word, Jim pulled the curtains aside with practiced ease. With a swish, sunlight spilled into the room, casting a shadow on the floor.
Someone had stuck a decal on the window—a large, simple owl drawing. Under the sunlight, the owl sticker cast a stretched-out shadow across the floor, like a savage Night Owl spreading its wings to pounce and tear apart field mice.
"That's his mark. He leaves one at every crime scene. He calls himself 'Night Hawk.' He first uses gas to break down people's ability to resist, then forcibly stuffs them with powder. That's his usual method."
Hearing this, Shi Tiexin asked curiously, "A gang shootout? No, that's not right. Gangs wouldn't waste their time forcibly feeding people powder. The cost of doing that isn't small. Such a peculiar pattern of behavior is either a religious ritual or targeted revenge."
Jim nodded. "That's right. Not a gang—one man acting alone."
One man could take down a whole room full of burly men, then forcibly feed them powder?
Shi Tiexin sniffed. "Gas."
"Yes, gas." Jim pointed at the traces at the scene. "That hole in the window was where he threw in the gas grenade. He first used it to make them tear up and struggle to breathe, then rushed in and beat these people until they lost all ability to resist. Then he fed them powder, cleaned up the traces, and left. That's Night Hawk's usual modus operandi."
Shi Tiexin looked at the burly men who were utterly out of it. "These people don't look like law-abiding citizens."
"Of course they aren't. They're all underlings of the Grey Street Bliss Gang. The powder is their own."
Shi Tiexin said, "Night Hawk has a grudge against gang members?"
"More accurately, he has a