Inside the bar.
The manager was pulled over to the one-way glass by his staff.
Trembling with fear, they pointed at the young man on the dance floor.
"Manager, do something. Look..."
A group of waiters reported the troublemaker to the manager, looking utterly miserable.
On the dance floor, beneath the flashing lights, a young man danced with both hands raised, having the time of his life.
He poured liquor over his head and slicked his hair back.
At first glance, his hair was black on one side and white on the other, both tacky and trendy.
To the music, he kept twisting his six-pack waist, both tacky and provocative.
His flashy dancing drew the attention of quite a few beautiful women, but none dared approach him.
Because he was holding a Shotgun in his raised hands.
"What's going on?"
The manager frowned. "What are the Security Guards at the door doing? No weapons allowed-that's the rule. Where the hell did they go?"
"They're dead."
The doorman's mouth twitched.
Remembering the group's bloody, violent methods, he shuddered involuntarily.
The manager had weathered his share of storms, too, and calmly looked down at the first floor.
There were many unfamiliar men, and he could tell at a glance that they weren't here to have fun.
Every one of them was huge, with muscles that nearly burst through their clothes.
Each looked fiercer than the last. They clearly weren't here to pick up women.
These men weren't dancing. Instead, they were taping things up in various corners.
"What are they doing?"
Curious, the manager leaned closer to see what they were up to.
Once they saw clearly, everyone's hair stood on end.
"Are they... taping up explosives?"
Looking at the square packages taped to the walls, the manager sucked in a cold