Conspiracy

In an ordinarily furnished room, a delicate-looking man stood by the window, slightly drawing back the curtains to look outside.

Outside lay a bustling snack street. It was close to the crowds; if necessary, jumping out the window would make for an excellent escape route—or a place to seize hostages for leverage.

He glanced at several suspicious people who had lingered on the street for half an hour without leaving, then pulled a black pistol from his waist and carefully checked it over.

Ever since he had contacted the people behind the Viper Gang last night and failed to obtain any useful clues—only to find them starting to probe into his whereabouts—his sharp instincts had immediately told him something was wrong. He had decisively fled.

And judging by the single-line contact phone that had not rung all night, the Viper Gang was probably finished.

Don't let me find out who did this... The man licked his lips, a fierce glint flashing in his triangular eyes.

Those in the underworld, especially those involved with drugs, were never timid or afraid of trouble.

Someone had destroyed his operation. If he did not retaliate, he would never sleep peacefully again for the rest of his life.

But preserving himself was the priority right now. The people outside had caught his attention.

He chambered a round, put on a black overcoat, a fedora, and a pair of dark sunglasses. Just as he was about to leave, footsteps sounded outside the door.

Knock, knock.

Someone knocked on the door.

Viper instantly aimed his pistol at the door and backed toward the window, asking tensely,

"Who is it?"

There was no reply from outside, but a note was slipped through the gap beneath the door.

As the clearly audible footsteps gradually faded away, Viper cautiously approached,