Monday, September 25th.
After training in the afternoon, the young men met privately again. They had gone out twice in the past few days at midnight without incident, and their sense of complacency completely overwhelmed their respect for the team rules.
At 10 p. m., Pierce, Artest, Billups, Türkoğlu, and Redd walked into Buzz Club again.
The nightclub was packed with people, and the deafening bass music made your heart pound. The air was thick with the smells of cheap perfume, alcohol, and strange tobacco.
As Billups entered, his brow furrowed. At the bar, someone was frantically chugging drinks, while in the corner, several black men who looked like gang members were eyeing their surroundings with hostile gazes.
He recalled Lin Qi's words, "What they see is a money tree, a source of bragging rights."
" Chris Paul, something's not right here. The air's awful," Billups said loudly, leaning closer to Pierce.
"Don't be so tense, Chauncey Billups," Pierce said, engrossed in the music. "Let's sit for a bit, have some drinks, and then we'll leave."
Artest had already seamlessly blended into the environment and mingled with several acquaintances. Türkoğlu and Redd, sitting in the booth, looked uneasy.
At 12:30 a. m., Billups finally could no longer bear the suffocating sense of oppression.
" Chris Paul, I'm leaving. My gut feeling tells me this isn't a good place to stay." Billups stood up.
"Okay, see you at the training facility tomorrow morning." Pierce said without turning his head.
Billups pushed open the heavy door of the nightclub and breathed in the chilly early autumn air of Boston, he secretly vowed to himself: I will never set foot in this godforsaken place again in my life.
1 a. m., by the bar.
Pierce, holding a wine glass, was chatting animatedly with a tall, beautiful girl. The 22-year-old had just won the championship; he was humorous, confident, and wealthy, and the girl was laughing so hard she was doubled over.
But this pleasant moment was abruptly interrupted by a harsh shout.
"What the hell are you doing?" A burly, alcohol-reeking black man pushed through the crowd, glaring menacingly at Pierce. "This is my sister!"
"Hey, man, relax." Pierce raised his hands to indicate he meant no harm. "We're just chatting."
"Chatting? You fucking want to sleep with her, don't you?" The burly man was clearly dead drunk, his eyes bloodshot. "Who the hell do you think you are? Stay away from her!"
As he spoke, the burly man reached out and shoved Pierce hard.
Pierce was shoved back a step, bumping into the bar. His smile vanished, and the street smarts of a young Black player surfaced. "Man, I don't want trouble, but you better not touch me again."
"I touched you, so what?!" The burly man shoved him hard again.
Pierce was furious and didn't hesitate to retaliate.
In that instant, the burly man's seven or eight accomplices surrounded him.
Artest was nearby and saw Pierce surrounded, so he immediately rushed over.
The conflict erupted completely in less than three seconds.
Suddenly, the burly man grabbed a glass bottle from the bar and smashed it down on Pierce's head without warning!
"Bang!"
The dull shattering sound remained clear amidst the cacophony of music. The thick glass bottle shattered on Pierce's head, shards flying everywhere, and blood instantly streamed down his forehead and into his eyes.
But when faced with extreme emergencies, the human body can unleash terrifying potential. The deafening roar drowned out everything, and the surge of adrenaline instantly took over Pierce's nerves.
He felt no pain at all; instead, he roared like an enraged beast and fiercely fought back against the other's fist.
Artest was completely bloodthirsty, his heavy punches raining down on the charging thugs.
But there were too many of them. More fatally, in the midst of the chaotic, dimly lit shoving, someone quietly pulled out a folding military knife.
Pierce was exchanging punches wildly with the burly man when suddenly he felt his cheek and the side of his neck being swung around several times. Immediately afterwards, he felt dull impacts to his chest, back, and ribs.
He thought it was just a muffled punch from one of the other side's accomplices.
He felt no pain, no sensation at all. Fueled by a surge of adrenaline, Pierce even found the "fists" to be soft and weak. He gritted his teeth and continued to swing his arms in retaliation, even knocking one person to the ground.
Artest was also fighting fiercely on the other side, taking down two people in a row, completely unaware that his forearm and back had been slashed several times by the blade.
"Knives! They have knives!!!"
Türkoğlu's terrified scream finally pierced through the noise of the crowd.
Artest jerked his head around, only then noticing the glint of light on the ground. He glanced down at his arm; blood was rapidly soaking through his jacket.
" Chris Paul! Watch out!" Artest yelled, turning around.
The moment he saw Pierce clearly, his heart felt as if it were being gripped tightly by a cold, large hand, and he couldn't even breathe.
Pierce remained standing, even in a fighting stance. But his pure white T-shirt had now turned a shocking dark red.
Large amounts of blood were gushing out of his neck, chest, and abdomen like a fountain. But he was completely unaware of it and was still trying to throw punches.
"No!!!"
Artest let out a shrill roar as he lunged at the assailant, who was still holding a bloodstained folding knife, and slammed him to the floor with his immense weight and strength.
"You fucking dare stab him! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!" Artest completely lost his mind, his fists pounding wildly at the face of the man beneath him with destructive force. One punch, two punches, three punches... until the man's face was smashed into a bloody mess and he completely lost consciousness.
The nightclub's security personnel finally rushed over with batons and forcibly dispersed the remaining rioters.
As the danger passed, the adrenaline that had been surging through Pierce's body began to recede rapidly.
An unprecedented and extremely eerie chill instantly spread throughout his body. Pierce suddenly felt as if there was a huge hole in his lungs, and no matter how hard he tried to inhale, he couldn't get any oxygen.
The excruciating pain, the tearing pain, finally surged forth like a tidal wave.
Pierce lowered his head, staring blankly at his chest, riddled with holes and gushing blood.
"I... I was stabbed..."
Pierce's legs instantly lost all strength. With a "thud," the two-meter-tall, incredibly strong young man fell straight back onto the dirty floor, which was covered in broken glass and spilled liquor. Blood quickly spread beneath him.
" Chris Paul! Chris Paul!" Artest scrambled over, clutching Pierce's largest chest wound with both hands, but blood still oozed out through his fingers.
Pierce's gaze began to unfocus violently, and his pupils gradually lost focus.
" Ron... I'm so cold..." His voice was so weak it was almost inaudible, and a terrible gurgling sound came from his chest, the sound of blood rushing back into his trachea.
In the corner, Redd slumped to the ground, his whole body trembling uncontrollably. A spasm in his stomach caused him to gag. Türkoğlu's hand holding the phone shook like a leaf, and he pressed the buttons several times before finally getting through to Rasheed.
Artest's face was covered in blood and tears. He stared blankly at his brother, who was slowly dying in his arms. With his blood-stained hands, he pulled out his phone and instinctively dialed Lin Qi's number.
The call went through.
"Lin... Lin..." The once ferocious thug on the court was now crying like a distraught child, his voice completely distorted, " Chris Paul... Chris Paul is dead... he was stabbed to death..."