A Visit

Night fell over the city. Brilliant lights blazed like torches, illuminating the bustling steel forest. Though it was already two in the morning, the crowded downtown district, packed with high-rises and flowing crowds, was still alive with song, dance, neon lights, and revelry.

The slums, where the homeless and the lower class gathered, presented an entirely different scene. Dilapidated old apartment buildings, hippies and Black people wandering the streets—if one ventured deeper inside, one could also see provocatively dressed streetwalkers striking seductive poses, along with gangs clustered in groups of three or five. Drugs and crime filled this place; it was a dark land beyond the reach of the law.

"Which one of you is Rasul?"

Wearing a leather jacket, Sean arrived in the slums and entered an old apartment building that had clearly seen its share of years. The instant he pushed open the door and stepped into the room, he frowned. The place was filled with all kinds of unpleasant smells—cigarettes, beer, and marijuana blended into a strange stench that made him nauseous.

Noisy sounds echoed through the room. Everyone was occupied with their own business—doing drugs, sleeping, playing video games—and seemed not to notice that someone had entered. Sean had no choice but to raise his voice and ask again.

"I'm Rasul. Can't you see my lovely breasts?"

A heavily made-up woman in revealing clothes stood up. Looking at the young boy who had entered the room, she bent forward slightly in a teasing pose.

Sean glanced at her, then at her heavily painted face, showing not the slightest interest. "I'd like to ask Mr. Rasul a few questions."

"Ask me questions? You trying to find out what street your mother works on? Or did you get lost and can't find your way home? Hahaha!"

Amid the laughter, a Black man with dreadlocks stood up. He looked at Sean as though he were a student, his eyes clearly full of ill will.

"Oh, so you're Rasul." Sean narrowed his eyes. "I only wanted to ask about Frank D'Amico, but now you'll have to pay a small price for your inappropriate remarks."

The young boy's words sparked another wave of laughter in the room. The fierce-looking Black men rose to their feet one after another, like wolves eyeing a lamb that had wandered into their pack.

"This isn't school, kid. No teachers or parents are coming to save you!"

Rasul grabbed a dagger from the table and brandished it menacingly. He was eagerly looking forward to seeing the little brat piss himself in fear.

"One, two, three, four... Hmm. Excluding the lady dressed like a streetwalker, that makes six people." Sean counted the people in the room. "I don't actually like using violence."

Before he had finished speaking, an impatient Black man charged at him, apparently unable to wait to teach Sean a lesson. The young boy stepped back half a pace, then twisted the man's arm with even greater speed. White bone pierced through the skin, and blood sprayed out, splattering across the floor and sofa.

Ignoring the agonized screams, Sean strolled about as though taking a leisurely walk, casually knocking every opponent who rushed at him to the ground. In less than half a minute, aside from the revealingly dressed woman whose face was filled with fear and disbelief, only Rasul remained standing. The Black man, who had been so arrogant moments ago, clutched his dagger with trembling hands, his legs shaking uncontrollably as if he might wet himself at any moment.

"I only wanted to ask you a few questions. Why did you have to make things so complicated?"

Sean slowly approached Rasul. The man backed away step by step until he reached the corner. His ever-growing fear finally drove him to roar as he swung the dagger at the young boy!

Crack.

A crisp sound rang out. Rasul's arm snapped like a chopstick. The devil-like young boy held the dagger he had snatched from Rasul's hand and smiled. "I told you, you'd have to pay a small price for your inappropriate remarks."

Without even blinking, Sean drove the dagger into Rasul's thigh. "Now it's time for a quiz with prizes. I ask, you answer. If your answers satisfy me, I wouldn't mind calling an ambulance for you before I leave."

A few minutes later, Sean got the information he wanted and left directly through the fire escape outside the window. Yet from the rooftop of a building several hundred meters away, someone had watched everything that had just happened through a sniper scope.

"Dad, someone got there before us and took care of those guys," said the little girl in a purple wig excitedly.

Damon, the fully armed former police officer, wore a grave expression. Could someone else, like him, have set their sights on that damned bastard Frank D'Amico?

"Let's follow him and see what he's planning." The middle-aged man, carrying a Barrett heavy sniper rifle on his back, followed after Sean with his daughter.

"Fuck! Do you know what time it is?!"

Frank D'Amico roared angrily into the phone. No one would be in a good mood after being dragged out of bed at two or three in the morning.

"Frank, something terrible happened. Rasul was arrested by the police!"

Frank's trusted subordinate reported what had happened that night. Several of their dens had been raided, and the police station was now packed with drug dealers—all core members of Frank's gang.

"You mean nearly all my men have been arrested? And we lost a huge shipment too? Have I become the easiest target on the West Coast?!"

Frank roared. He had never been provoked like this before. As one of the West Coast's foremost Drug Lords, even the police chief had to show him some respect.

"Tell me who that bastard is! I want his head on my desk by tomorrow morning!"

Frank smashed the bedside phone in one blow. The gangster Drug Lord was consumed by rage. If this sort of thing kept happening, who would still do business with him? Losing his smuggling channels would be a fatal blow!

Without the massive profits from the drug trade, how was he supposed to support all those men beneath him? Being a gang boss sounded impressive, but in truth, it was all held together by profit. Otherwise, why would so many people be willing to risk their lives for him?

"You'd better pray I don't catch you, bastard! Otherwise, I'll make you regret ever being born!"

Frank, still in his pajamas, poured himself a glass of whiskey from the liquor cabinet. As he looked out at the dazzling nightscape beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, his anger and panic gradually subsided. It was just some little rat hiding in the shadows, no real threat to him. All he had to do was put out a high-priced bounty, and someone would soon come to claim it with the bastard's head in hand.

Having weathered countless storms, Frank drained his glass in one gulp, a scornful smile appearing in his eyes. Plenty of people had wanted to kill him over the years, but in the end, they had all been encased in concrete and thrown into the river to feed the fish!

Bang! Bang! Bang!

A rapid burst of gunfire jolted Frank from his thoughts. He picked up the phone on his desk. "Can't I have one quiet night?"

"I'm afraid not, Mr. Frank D'Amico. I told you I would come pay you a personal visit."

A young man's voice came from the other end of the line, carrying a faint smile. "Don't worry. We'll meet very soon."

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