When Peeing, You Instinctively Aim at the Little Black Dot in the Urinal

Why could he tell at a glance that he was an assassin rather than a SWAT officer on a mission? The reason was simple: in this age of judging by appearances, looks said it all.

The four construction workers all looked vicious, their faces full of flesh, with expressions that seemed to say, "Try looking at me again." They might as well have had the words "bad guy" written across their faces.

They looked exactly like the bastards in TV dramas who never survived past the two-minute mark.

That was not good news for Russell. He was currently their companion, and if they could not survive two minutes, then his own situation was very dangerous too.

"System, where is this? What exactly is my identity? And what is the mission?"

Russell silently called out in his heart, but the system seemed to have gone offline. It did not make a peep.

The system would not answer, and there was nothing Russell could do. He could only adapt to the situation. In fact, he had been mentally prepared for this. In the first two mission worlds, the system had not told him where he was at the beginning either.

The only difference was that the first two mission worlds had been obvious at a glance. He could guess where he was without the system's prompt.

But now...

Russell looked at the middle-aged man in the photo marked with a red X. His features were distinct: a high nose bridge, deep-set eyes, a broad forehead, and a Big Slick. He had a typical Western face.

The black-and-white photograph could not provide many clues. Other than suggesting that the target had the aura of an underworld boss, it revealed nothing.

Russell looked through the scope. In an office one floor lower in the building opposite, the target, Big Slick, was clearly visible. He was the only person in the offices across three floors, making him easy to spot.

Big Slick was highly alert. Perhaps it was a habit, or perhaps he had sensed something. He kept his body hidden behind the side of an office cabinet, making him very difficult to snipe.

Russell lightly shifted the barrel, and an Indian woman appeared in the scope. The red bindi on her forehead was so conspicuous that Russell could not help but place the crosshairs over it.

It was like the insignia on Japanese army helmets during the War of Resistance—a perfect sniper's bullseye that anyone would instinctively aim at. Just like how men, when peeing, could never resist flicking a shot at a tiny stain amid a field of white porcelain.

According to a United Nations Statistics Bureau census, 250% of men had done it, even if some of them split their stream and used a Shotgun!

Bang!

With a gunshot, the woman in the scope was instantly killed. The bullet entered through her forehead, and her skull burst like an overinflated balloon... splattering across the entire screen.

"Cool!"

"Nice work!"

"Boss, right in the bullseye. You're incredible."

Russell quietly sucked in a breath and lowered the sniper rifle. His stomach churned, and the cruel conversation of the four men made his skin crawl. He became even more certain that his current identity was definitely no saint. The woman who had been headshot was not the target. She had been killed to force Big Slick out from behind the office cabinet.

"The target's out! Take him down!"

Just as planned, Big Slick shoved open the office door and fled into the corridor. At that moment, it was as if he had activated a cheat code. Four guns fired in succession, yet not a single bullet hit him.

Russell found that perfectly normal. The crack shots in movies who never missed were all fake. Training an excellent sniper might not cost as much as training a pilot, but it was not far off. And these four men beside him did not look like excellent snipers at all. Against a moving target, they would have had better odds spraying full-auto and hoping for the best.

"Shit, he got away."

"That guy ran so damn fast. I only saw a shadow, then he was gone in a flash."

"Hey, Russell, why didn't you shoot?" Amid the complaints, Bearded Man, the team leader, questioned him. He was the one who had just blown the woman's head off.

Bearded Man wore a Level 3 Helmet from PUBG, something that looked like a welder's helmet but was actually a titanium-alloy helmet designed for special forces.

Russell did not answer. He could not find a reason to shoot. He did not even know Big Slick's identity. Besides, even if he had fired, he could not have hit him under those circumstances.

Bearded Man's question gave Russell a useful piece of information. In this world, he was still using his real name. Whether or not he had replaced someone with the same name, at least he was not an undocumented nobody.

"Russell, I'm asking you a question. Answer me. Why didn't you shoot?" Bearded Man asked again, his tone clearly displeased this time.

Russell remained motionless, maintaining his previous posture. Staring through the scope, he suddenly said, "Wait, he's back!!"

"Who!?"

"Our target. He's running down the corridor, and he's moving fast... really fast." Russell lifted his head in astonishment and looked toward the building opposite.

He had finally escaped, only to come back on his own? Was he tired of living and coming back to die?

Hearing this, Bearded Man instinctively turned around. The other three did the same, and then they witnessed a scene they would never forget. Big Slick sprinted down the corridor, charged straight into the office, smashed through the reinforced glass, and flew through the air as though he had nitrous boosters strapped to his ass.

Russell stared blankly. The distance between the two buildings was at least thirty meters. Big Slick had no wings. Trying to accelerate across that distance with nothing but a human body was basically suicide by jumping, unless he had a Lykan HyperSport.

The next second, Russell's face was slapped by reality. So were Newton, Galileo, Einstein, and the rest. Their coffin lids had been pried open yet again.

Newton calmly lay back down, pulled his coffin lid shut, and indicated that he was already used to it. Next time, do not disturb him over something so trivial.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Big Slick screamed like a pig in midair as he crossed an impossible distance. Before his momentum stopped, he drew two pistols in succession. One was a Beretta 92F; the other was an old-fashioned flintlock pistol over thirty centimeters long. The Beretta 92F fired twice in rapid succession, killing two assassins and sending them to meet God.

The projectile fired by the flintlock was even more outrageous. Bearded Man was hiding behind a concrete pillar at what should have been a perfectly safe angle, yet he still died, killed from the most impossible side angle. Russell was right beside him, and he swore on Bearded Man's brains scattered across the floor that the projectile had curved.

The Level 3 Helmet did not bring Bearded Man any luck. If it had been a 9mm bullet from the Beretta 92F, he might have barely survived, but the flintlock's projectile was immensely powerful and punched straight through the helmet.

Big Slick then fell into the second floor below. His pig-like screams abruptly stopped. He had fired only three shots, blown off three heads, and done it all while moving through the air at high speed. His marksmanship was simply unreal.

Only Russell, staring in stunned disbelief, and the last assassin, who was equally stunned, remained on the rooftop. The man wore Goggles, so Russell would call him Goggles.

"Curving bullets... this world..." Russell had roughly guessed what world he was in. When he came back to his senses, a cold sweat broke out over him. He hurriedly crouched with the sniper rifle, his back against the concrete railing around the rooftop.

When Big Slick opened fire, everyone had stood there dumbstruck from beginning to end, so much so that none of them had even pulled a trigger. Russell had not either. In other words, he had brushed shoulders with Death and survived on a two-in-five chance.

To prove that I'm a failure, I'll be posting a "Failure Diary" entry every day from now on, also known as "Chicken Soup for the Failed Writer's Soul"!

Failure Diary

You only have a few tens of thousands of words right now, so it's normal that nobody is reading. Once you have more words, you'll discover that nobody is still reading.