Hell's Kitchen.
Jerry drove a black SUV slowly through the chaotic streets with Yang Bo riding beside him. A dark silhouette was faintly visible in the sky, following above the car.
The car was barely moving faster than a jog, and gunshots occasionally rang out from the alleys. Yang Bo took a gentle, deep breath and remarked, "Jerry, it's just as they say. The air in the United States really is sweet, full of the scent of freedom..."
Jerry said nothing. Although there was nothing wrong with Yang Bo's words on the surface, he couldn't shake the feeling that his tone was dripping with sarcasm.
Just then, a somewhat battered motorcycle caught up from behind, its engine roaring. The Black man riding it pulled alongside the driver's window and immediately slammed on the brakes, leaving a long black skid mark on the road.
"Hey! Hand over your money!"
"Don't move!"
One man drew a pistol and pointed it at Jerry's head, while the other jumped off the motorcycle, ran to the passenger side, and aimed his gun at Yang Bo's head.
"Hey, if you don't want a hole in your head, hurry up and hand over the money!"
As the Black man spoke, he kept glancing around, his body constantly fidgeting without stopping for a moment.
"Ah..."
"That's Hell's Kitchen for you!"
Before Yang Bo could finish his remark, Bor's "brawny" figure dropped straight out of the sky and slammed into the Black man on the motorcycle. Taking advantage of the other man's momentary distraction outside the window, Yang Bo reached out, grabbed his gun arm, and wrenched it hard.
There was a crack.
"Aah..."
As a scream of pain rang out, Yang Bo caught the falling pistol and tossed it onto the back seat.
At least twenty or thirty