Don't Want to Talk? Then Fucking Don't!

Brian was not very familiar with the area.

He did not know where Little Sparrow Inn was.

Considering that the target, Andreas, was more familiar with the surrounding area.

The inn probably would not be too far from his residential neighborhood.

After circling around a few times.

Brian finally spotted the neon sign of Little Sparrow Takes Flight on a rundown street.

"Thank the Privacy Act!"

At this hour, many public places in downtown Los Angeles still had no surveillance cameras. Meanwhile, because public safety was not particularly good, most private residences had cameras installed in their yards.

Brian chose a spot without cameras, parked his car, avoided the private residences with surveillance, and took several turns. It took him seven or eight minutes to reach the alley behind Little Sparrow Inn.

The surroundings were pitch-black.

In the early hours of the morning, most cities in America were unsafe.

Very few people went out at this time.

Holding a flashlight and the repair screwdriver kept in his car, Brian fumbled around for a while before reaching an electrical box. After some maneuvering, he cut off the power to the small inn.

After doing all that.

Brian pricked up his ears and listened for movement inside the inn.

In the silent night.

Aside from the occasional distant bark of a dog or cry of a cat, there was no sound coming from the inn.

That was normal.

It was not a bar or nightclub.

At three in the morning, even people playing ping-pong would have long since gone to bed.

Probably no one in the inn had even noticed the power outage.

After waiting a little longer.

Brian returned to the inn's front entrance.

He glanced at the now-dark inn sign, crouched down, stuffed foam torn from the back seat of his car into his shoe covers, then put the covers back on.

This would not only effectively muffle his footsteps, but also blur the distinctive impression left by the shoe covers.

Even if he accidentally left traces in the inn.

No matter how skilled a trace expert was, they could only tell that the owner of the traces had deliberately disguised them. It would be difficult to obtain precise information.

Little Sparrow Inn was a typical family-run neighborhood motel.

Compared with the cumbersome procedures required to rent a house.

Many families with unstable work and income lived in this kind of small inn long-term.

Some people came here to cheat on their partners or sleep with prostitutes.

They also chose places like this for their transactions.

So the inn's front desk was extremely crude, more like a long table placed there casually. There was a small gap by the wall for entry and exit, and a sofa sat in the modest space behind it.

A fat man with a face full of beard was sprawled on the sofa, snoring soundly.

A small wired desk lamp was still lit on the table.

The lamp must have had a backup battery.

That was why it had not been affected by the power outage.

It also made Brian's job easier.

Moving lightly, he passed through the small gap and came before the fat man at the front desk. Finding the right position, his gloved hands viciously clamped over the man's mouth and the carotid arteries on both sides of his neck.

The sleeping, snoring fat man began to struggle noticeably.

But before his consciousness could fully return, the blood supply through his carotid arteries was cut off. In just a few seconds, the fat man returned to the sweet sleeping posture of an infant.

Brian quickly withdrew his hands.

Fainting caused by insufficient blood supply.

Depending on a person's constitution, it generally lasted several minutes.

If it was severe, they could just croak outright.

A few minutes was more than enough for Brian to act freely.

He first picked up the notebook on the desk, found the registration for Room 304, and confirmed that Andreas was staying there. Then he found the key to Room 304 among the keys hanging on the wall.

A moment later.

Brian stepped across the cheap carpet beneath his feet and inserted the key into the lock.

As the door cracked open.

Brian silently extended a hand into the darkness and, guided by touch, removed the hanging security chain. He then quietly pushed the door open and gently closed it behind him.

By the hazy moonlight filtering through the window.

Brian saw a not particularly large human figure lying on the tall, thick bed pushed against the wall.

The room reeked strongly of alcohol.

Clearly, the figure on the bed had drunk quite a lot before going to sleep.

Brian did not lower his guard because of that.

Like a ghost, he walked to the bedside and extended his hands with even greater practiced ease.

The first time was unfamiliar; the second came naturally.

Perhaps due to the alcohol, the figure on the bed was sleeping more deeply. Even when his breathing was cut off, he only made weak instinctive struggles, and after a few seconds, even those stopped.

Only then.

Brian let out a breath and withdrew his hands.

He first tied up the figure's hands and feet and stuffed his mouth. Only then did he turn on his flashlight, search the room for a moment, and find the man's driver's license.

Comparing it with the portrait on the license.

Brian confirmed that the sleeping man on the bed was indeed his target—Andreas.

By the flashlight's beam.

Brian realized that Andreas had not even taken off his clothes or shoes. The police had probably seen how drunk he was and, without even questioning him, let him find somewhere to sleep it off.

The arrangement seemed rather sloppy.

But in this country, being a police officer was just a job.

No one wanted to go looking for trouble.

Having confirmed his identity.

Brian did not hesitate. He stepped forward, ready to fulfill Andreas's wife's obsession.

Just then.

Cough, cough—

A large amount of vomit surged from Andreas's mouth.

The vomit not only woke Andreas, but also carried out the stuff that had been blocking his mouth.

Andreas seemed not to have realized what was happening. He tried to sit up, only to discover that his hands and feet were bound.

Instinctively, he tried to cry out.

A sharp Phillips screwdriver slid into his wide-open mouth and pressed against Andreas's throat.

Brian's exposed eyes were fierce.

His whole body pressed down on Andreas as he growled, "If you want to die, make a sound!"

There was still a great deal of alcohol in Andreas's system, and he was already too weak to exert much force. Finding himself tied up with a weapon pressed against his throat, how could he dare resist? He hurriedly whimpered to show that he would not fight back.

Brian had originally intended to do it immediately.

He had not expected Andreas to wake up at just that moment.

Perfect. He could use this chance to test how the obsession worked.

With that thought.

Brian slowly withdrew the screwdriver, waved the flashlight, and shone it directly into Andreas's eyes. Only after forcing him to squeeze his eyes shut did he ask in a low voice, "Why did you kill your wife and your female neighbor?"

"What?"

Andreas, his eyes tightly shut against the glaring light, suddenly opened them in panic. He stammered as he tried to deny it, "I-I didn't—mm?"

He seemed to think of something. The panic on his face gradually faded and was replaced by calm. "Sorry, I don't know what you're talking about. But I have to tell you that no matter who you are, you are violating my personal safety. This is illegal!"

Watching his reaction.

Brian frowned.

Was this guy not afraid of death?

Seeing Brian remain silent.

Andreas became even more certain of his guess and tried to fish for information.

"I may not like my wife, but I would never kill her, much less hurt that poor single mother. If you suspect me, Detective.

Please produce evidence. Otherwise, release me."

Brian understood.

So Andreas had taken him for some rule-breaking detective trying to intimidate him into talking.

That made sense.

The case had only just been reported, yet someone had come to the little inn to arrest him and question him about it.

Anyone even slightly smart.

Would assume some police officer who did not play by the rules had taken action.

Mockery flickered in Brian's eyes.

Unfortunately, he was not.

Didn't want to talk, huh?

Then fucking don't!

The next moment.

A sharp screwdriver viciously and precisely pierced through Andreas's throat at the carotid artery.

Andreas's eyes widened as he tried to release the final scream of his life.

But the gushing blood from his ruptured carotid artery drowned out his voice, leaving him able to make only hoarse, desperate gurgles.

Brian did not linger.

Pressing the bedsheet against the wound, he pulled out the screwdriver, wiped away the blood, shut the door, and turned to leave.

Behind him.

Under the pressure within Andreas's body, a massive amount of blood sprayed from the wound, slowly staining the white blanket covering it red.

Good night.