Gains and Observations (1)

"Hey? Boss? Are you there? Ah, finally finished! Today was really... wow, interesting! I have to tell you all about it!"

That familiar, slightly tired but mostly excited "sound" came again in his mind; it was Kong Xiang. About two days had passed since their last contact. Lin Feng had just finished dealing with some documents and was about to rest when this "chatterbox" came online right on time.

"Okay, go ahead," Lin Feng replied, already somewhat used to his opening line. He walked to the window, looking at the quiet night outside, preparing to be a quiet listener.

"Hey boss, guess what I did today?" Kong Xiang's voice echoed in my mind, his speech quick and relaxed, with a hint of satisfaction and a desire to share after finishing a task. "Went to 'pick up goods' again. This time the location was amazing, in South Los Angeles, near Compton, behind an abandoned auto repair shop near the border between the Bloods and the Crips ' territories."

Lin Feng didn't speak, he just "listened". Compton, in United States popular culture, is almost synonymous with "gangs", "violence" and "poverty".

"The person who called the police was an elderly homeless woman who was collecting empty bottles that morning. She said she smelled a foul odor. When the police arrived, they cordoned off the area, took photos, and conducted a preliminary investigation. The deceased was a young Latino man, probably in his early twenties. He had been shot at least four times, in the chest and abdomen. Judging from the distribution of the wounds and the bloodstains on the ground, it was likely a close-quarters firefight in the latter half of the night. Several spent cartridge cases of different types were found at the scene, a mix of 9mm and.45 caliber bullets—a typical street brawl. He died instantly, lying next to the rusty chassis of a car. The blood had soaked up the oil stains on the ground, and the smell... a mixture of blood, engine oil, garbage, and... well, the uniquely sweet and pungent smell of death. Absolutely awful."

Kong Xiang described it in exceptional detail, his tone as calm as if he were introducing the ingredients of a dish, even with a hint of "professional analysis."

"The police were fairly efficient; they finished the crime scene investigation by noon. But the body is unclaimed—given that kind of identity, it's probably either a low-level henchman from some small gang, or just an unlucky guy who got caught in the crossfire. According to procedure, these kinds of 'unclaimed, violent crime-related, but no immediate investigative leads' bodies are kept in the forensic office for a while. If no family members come forward, or if the case makes no progress, they go through a 'special handling' process. My uncle's company specializes in these 'special handling' cases."

"And then you went?" Lin Feng asked.

"Yes, I got the call this afternoon. My cousin asked me to come along, saying it was to 'practice' and bring back the 'sample kits'. The driver was an older Mexican named Diego, who had worked for my cousin for many years. He was ruthless and didn't talk much, but he knew everything. We were driving that white Ford Transit van with a fake company logo on it—one of those inconspicuous ones you see everywhere."

Kong Xiang's description is vivid. "When we arrived, we could see from a distance that the police tape was still in place, but the police had already left, leaving only two uniformed officers in a car by the roadside, presumably to prevent anyone from tampering with the scene. We parked the car across the street. Diego got out and negotiated with the police, handing them documents and cigarettes. I waited in the car, watching through the window."

"What's that neighborhood like?" Lin Feng asked casually.

"Damaged. Really dilapidated," Kong Xiang replied immediately. "The streets are full of potholes, and the houses on both sides either have their windows boarded up or their walls covered in messy graffiti. A few idle young Black men are squatting on the street corner, wearing baggy hoodies, eyeing our 'outsider' car warily. The air smells of marijuana and the rancid stench of garbage piled up under the sun. Occasionally, a car drives by slowly, its windows tinted dark, obscuring the faces of the people inside. The whole neighborhood exudes an atmosphere of abandonment, yet also one of dangerous tension. Honestly, boss, it's much more real than that 'refined middle-class neighborhood' around our school."

"The police didn't give you any trouble?"

"No. Diego has the complete set of documents—the police station's 'Authorization for the Transfer and Disposal of Unclaimed Bodies,' the forensic office's 'Preliminary Examination Summary' (ruling out highly contagious diseases), and a copy of our company's 'qualifications.' There's nothing wrong with the process. Besides, the police are eager to get rid of this hot potato as soon as possible, to avoid taking up space in the morgue and increasing management costs. One of the police even complained to Diego that this is the third such incident in the area this month, all gang fights, with no beginning or end, making it impossible to investigate."

"And then you went to collect the body?"

"Hmm. The police pointed to the back of the repair shop, indicating that we should go in ourselves. They didn't even get out of the car. Diego took a folding stretcher, body bags, disinfectant spray, and the silver 'sampling box' I was carrying from the car. We crossed the police line and entered the abandoned repair shop. The yard was piled with scrap tires and rusted engine parts, and weeds grew out of the cracks in the concrete. The body was still there, covered with that cheap blue plastic sheet, the edges fluttering slightly in the wind."

"Are you scared?" Lin Feng asked again.

"To be honest, I was a little nervous crossing the police line and entering that kind of environment. It wasn't that I was afraid of the dead, but I was afraid of the living. Who knew if there were eyes watching us from the shadows? Who knew if those guys on the street corner thought we had money on us or something in our car? Diego, on the other hand, was very calm. He whispered to me, 'Don't look around, be quick, grab it and go.'"

"We walked over to the body. Diego lifted the plastic sheet. Wow, the scene... was much more gruesome than the photos. The body was already in rigor mortis, the posture was somewhat contorted, the face was the ashen white of a dead person, the eyes were half-open and lifeless. The blood at the wounds was black and congealed, attracting many flies. The smell was even stronger. Diego remained calm and started moving the body into the body bag with me. Diego mortis made it a bit heavy, and the posture was awkward, so it took some effort. I had to be careful not to touch any obvious wounds or possible evidence residue—although the police basically don't care after taking photos, we still had to be careful about the procedures."

"And then you took samples?"

"Yes. Put the body in a body bag, zip it up, and lift it onto a stretcher. Diego told me to start taking samples. I opened the silver box, which contained cryopreservation tubes, lancets, tissue sampling forceps, sterile swabs, and so on. I put on two layers of gloves, a mask, and a face shield. Following the procedure, I took venous blood (from the neck, which wasn't completely stiff yet), a small amount of tissue from the wound edges, and swabbed the mouth and nose. Each sample was labeled and placed next to a small liquid nitrogen tank in the box—not real liquid nitrogen, but a chemical ice pack to maintain a low temperature and prevent the samples from deteriorating in the short term. The sampling box was specially made, with a lock, and looked quite professional."

"Throughout the process, Diego stood guard nearby, his hand always behind his back—I knew he was carrying a gun. He vigilantly watched the perimeter wall and any gaps around the repair shop. I tried to be quick, but I had to be steady and not panic. I was thinking, these are all potential 'resources,' boss, who knows if we'll need them later? This person's blood and tissue samples could at least indicate whether he had used drugs before his death (by looking at the needle marks and preliminary toxicity screening), his health condition, and even, if we were lucky, the trace evidence left in the samples might point to the murder weapon or something at the scene. Of course, all of this would require analysis in a professional laboratory; we were only responsible for 'collecting' and 'transporting' the samples."

In Kong Xiang's tone, that detached sense of "objectifying" death and regarding it as a "resource" resurfaced.

"After taking the samples, we loaded the body bag onto the stretcher, took it out of the repair shop, and stuffed it into the back of the truck. The truck had been modified; it had refrigeration and ventilation, as well as clips to secure the stretcher. Diego secured the stretcher and closed the door. The whole process took less than twenty minutes. We returned to the driver's seat, Diego started the car. The few black men on the street corner were still watching us, but they didn't do anything. The police car drove away too."

"Once we left that neighborhood and got onto the main road, Diego relaxed a little and lit a cigarette. I sat in the passenger seat, watching the street scene rushing past the window, gradually becoming 'normal,' and felt a pang of emotion. Just a few blocks apart, it felt like two different worlds. One world was bathed in sunlight, where people strolled, drank coffee, and discussed stocks and sports; the other world was in the shadows, where for a little territory, a little drug deal, or some inexplicable reason, one could easily become a cold corpse lying in an abandoned auto repair shop, waiting to be stuffed into a body bag by someone like me."

Diego glanced at me and said in heavily accented English, "You get used to this after a while. Remember, if they die, it's their fate. We live, it's our job. Don't overthink it; if you do, you won't be able to keep up."

"I didn't say anything. Actually, I didn't feel that bad, I just felt... it was absurd, yet also very real. Is this perhaps the other side of the United States Dream? Or is it simply the excrement of the United States Dream?" Kong Xiang's voice carried a hint of sarcasm.

"And then? How do you process the samples?" Lin Feng asked.

"The samples were sent back to the company's 'processing point,' a place that looked like an ordinary warehouse. It had freezers, basic centrifuges, microscopes, and the like. My uncle would be there. He would sort the samples, relabel some, and store them in more specialized low-temperature freezers, waiting for 'clients' to pick them up—some were reputable universities or research institutes researching specific populations' physiological indicators or diseases; others... were more secretive, paying cash, leaving no information, only wanting specific types of samples. The remaining samples would undergo more 'thorough' processing to ensure no residue remained. The bodies themselves would be handled by a partner funeral home, going through the simplest cremation process; the ashes would either be scattered or stored, depending on the situation. All the documentation had to be complete, even if it was all fake, it had to look real."

Kong Xiang summarized, "In short, boss, today's trip was 'standard operation.' As expected, we obtained a 'fresh' example of street violence, witnessed the 'underclass ecosystem' of Los Angeles, and solidified our 'working friendship' with Diego. Most importantly, I think this lead might actually help you in the future. Think about it, how much shady information can you access through these gray channels? Corpses don't lie; they carry all the secrets of their lives—health, habits, social interactions, even the cause of death. And through those 'mystery clients' my uncle contacted, maybe we can even get to the deeper edges of the internet?"

After he finished speaking, he seemed to be waiting for Lin Feng's evaluation, with a hint of anticipation.

Lin Feng remained silent for a moment. Kong Xiang's description had indeed opened a window for him to glimpse the dark side of United States society, offering a unique perspective and authentic details. The value of this new assassin might not lie in his combat prowess or technical skills, but rather in his position and the bizarre and often murky gray areas he encountered. Such "resources" could indeed produce remarkable effects at certain times.

"Understood. Be careful, your safety is the top priority. These observations... can be used for daily information accumulation," Lin Feng finally replied. "Also, don't neglect your studies."

"Don't worry, boss! I'm shrewd! My studies are the public face, and my part-time job is the covert accumulation. I'll do both well! Well, you can rest now, I won't bother you anymore! If there's any more 'good stuff' tomorrow, I'll report back to you!" Kong Xiang ended the call with satisfaction, the feeling of "sharing completed" still seeming to linger through the connection.

Lin Feng disconnected the connection, and the room fell silent again. The city lights outside the window remained dim.

Across the ocean, that young student-turned-student was driving an inconspicuous truck, navigating the gap between glamour and depravity, calmly collecting the embers of death and regarding them as a kind of alternative "resource" leading to the future.

The complexity and absurdity of the world are presented to Lin Feng once again in such an unexpected way through the narration of a "talkative" person.

He let out a soft breath.

This Kong Xiang might truly be a "treasure trove," who knows?