Humiliation at Gunpoint

The air at the parking lot entrance seemed to freeze completely after that crisp "crack" of bone breaking and the muffled thud that followed. Only the tattooed, burly man lying on the ground, curled up like a shrimp, groaning in pain, and the faint, indistinct announcements from the distant terminal building, filtered through the glass curtain wall.

Deathly silence. A chillingly silent deathly silence.

The rage and ferocity on the faces of the seven Wild Dog Gang members vanished instantly, like embers doused with ice water, leaving only pale ashes and wisps of unbelievable horror rising from them. They looked at their leader, lying on the ground, completely incapacitated, then at the Asian youth (Lü Yi) who seemed to have casually swatted a mosquito, now flicking his wrist with an expressionless face. Finally, their gazes involuntarily turned to the group of men in black suits who had half-surrounded them.

The men in black suits remained silent. Eight men, eight submachine guns, their muzzles steady without a tremor, gleaming coldly in the pale light of the airport parking lot. Their gazes, through their sunglasses (or directly at the Wild Dog Gang), were fixed on them, devoid of anger or threat, only a professional indifference towards potential threats. It was a calm that sent chills down one's spine more than any direct intent to kill.

The tattooed, burly man— the Wild Dog Gang's petty leader, Delong —convulsed on the ground several times, finally managing to catch his breath from the excruciating pain that had nearly made him faint. The broken finger and the heavy blow to his groin still made his vision blur, each breath accompanied by a burning pain and a trembling of humiliation. But he was, after all, a man who had risen through the ranks on the edge of a knife; his inherent ferocity and the pride of a leader made him endure the dizziness and agony, using his intact hand to desperately brace himself against the cold, damp ground, slowly and laboriously raising his head.

His face was contorted with pain and rage, veins bulging on his forehead, and cold sweat mixed with dust covered his face, making him look utterly disheveled. But in his bloodshot eyes burned an almost insane resentment and a ferocious light like that of a wild beast driven to the brink of despair. He stared intently at Lin Feng, who stood a few steps away, subtly protected by Lü Yi and K—in his eyes, the young Asian man who had remained silent and whose expression was eerily calm was the real mastermind.

"Fuck... fuck your mother..." Delong squeezed out a hoarse curse through clenched teeth, his voice distorted by pain. With his intact left hand, he trembled and very slowly lifted the hem of his dirty football jacket.

This movement caused all the surrounding "Blood Spear" mercenaries to subtly adjust the angle of their guns, their muscles tensing even more.

Delong's hand moved towards his lower back.

Then, he suddenly drew a gun.

Glock 19 pistol that looked somewhat old, with its blued barrel worn through. In his large hands, the 9mm pistol seemed a little small, but the dark muzzle still exuded a deadly threat.

He didn't point at Lü Yi, who had kicked him down, nor at K, who was blocking his way. Instead, he walked right past them and pointed his gun at Lin Feng, who was being protected by the two men and whose expression had remained unchanged throughout!

"Don't fucking move!" Delong roared, his voice shrill and distorted with pain and agitation. He half-knelt on the ground, barely holding the gun up with his left hand. His arm trembled slightly from exhaustion and pain, but the muzzle was locked firmly in Lin Feng's direction. "Tell your men... to put their guns down! Do you hear me! Put them down!"

He roared fiercely, trying to salvage the situation with his last weapon and remaining ferocity, at least to regain some bargaining power and save face for himself and his men—if such a thing still existed.

Almost the instant Delong raised his gun, Lü Yi's pupils contracted sharply. His body reacted almost instinctively, taking a step to the side and completely blocking Lin Feng, forming the first human barrier with his own body. His muscles tensed, his eyes sharp as knives, staring intently at Delong's trembling gun barrel and the finger on the trigger, as if ready to pounce at any moment.

K's movements were equally swift, but he didn't completely conceal himself. Instead, he stood sideways in front of Lin Feng, a position that provided some cover while maintaining a field of vision and angle for observation and reaction. His right hand remained hanging at his side, but those who knew him well knew what was hidden there.

Lin Feng remained calm. He didn't even flinch despite the gun being pointed at him. His gaze swept indifferently over Delong's face, contorted with pain and madness, and then over the pistol pointed at him, without a ripple in his eyes. It was as if what was pointed at him wasn't a weapon capable of taking a life, but a meaningless withered branch.

Delong's threats and orders went unanswered, like a stone thrown into the sea. Lü Yi and K remained unmoved, even displaying an indifferent "go ahead and try shooting" attitude. The eight "Blood Spear" mercenaries around them were equally unmoved. Their gun-holding postures remained unchanged, the muzzles still steadily pointed at their respective targets—the seven members of the Wild Dog Gang. It was as if Delong had pulled out a toy, not a pistol.

Not only that.

In the midst of this suffocating stalemate, a series of faint but synchronized metallic scraping sounds rang out almost simultaneously from eight directions.

"Click." "Click."...

Eight men in black suits simultaneously flicked the safety switch on their MP5 submachine guns with their thumbs. The crisp, cold sound was particularly jarring in the deathly silent parking lot entrance. Immediately afterward, there was an even softer, but more chilling, "whoosh"—eight tactical gloved hands steadily pulled back the bolts, pushing the first gleaming yellow bullet into the chamber, completing the final firing preparation.

Eight dark, massive submachine gun muzzles, much larger than pistol muzzles, were like eight cold, deadly eyes, locking onto the vital points of every Wild Dog Gang member present. No words were needed; this synchronized movement itself was the clearest, coldest declaration: if you dare move, the next second will see seven (or eight) more corpses riddled with bullets.

Delong's hand, holding the gun, trembled even more violently. Not from pain, but from cold. A chill ran up his spine, penetrating to the very marrow. The sweat that had just been forced up his forehead by anger and pain had now turned into a cold, sticky substance.

He glanced at the flimsy pistol in his hand, then at the eight submachine guns around him, each poised to unleash a storm of metal. He had no doubt that if his finger dared to pull the trigger, even with the slightest muscle twitch, these eight silent slayers would open fire without hesitation. His little Glock was a joke in the face of their barrage. He, along with his seven terrified henchmen behind him, would be reduced to a bloody mess in a fraction of a second.

Shoot? That's suicide. Don't shoot? Are you just going to back down? Get kicked over and have your fingers broken in public by an Asian kid, then have a bunch of guys who seem to appear out of nowhere, well-equipped like special forces, point guns at your head?

Immense humiliation and even greater fear gripped Delong's heart like two giant hands, making it almost impossible for him to breathe. The ferocity on his face gradually faded, replaced by a pale, struggling expression on the verge of collapse.

Time ticked by, each second feeling like an eternity. Delong's arm, holding the gun, began to ache, and cold sweat streamed down his face and neck, soaking his collar. He could feel the gazes from his men behind him, a mixture of fear and a barely perceptible... expectation? Or perhaps, the look of watching how he would get out of this mess. He knew that no matter what, he had lost all face today. Now, his only concern was how to save his own life.

Finally, after a suffocating silence of more than ten seconds, Delong let out a desperate gasp, like a broken bellows. The last bit of ferocious glint in his eyes went out, leaving only a deathly gray.

His intact left hand, fingers loosened one by one.

Clang.

The Glock 19 pistol fell to the concrete ground in front of him with a crisp, lonely sound, and bounced once.

Delong felt as if the last ounce of strength had been drained from his body, and he collapsed completely, not from pain, but from a utter mental breakdown. He struggled to lift his head, looking at Lin Feng, who was shielded behind Lü Yi and K, then at the black suits around him, their gun barrels still motionless. With his last ounce of strength, he raised his hands in a gesture of complete surrender, his voice dry and hoarse, trembling with barely concealed pleading:

"Listen... listen, man... This... this was just a joke, okay? A misunderstanding!"

He swallowed hard, forcing out a smile that looked more like a grimace, his eyes darting around.

"We can... we can just walk away, huh? No hard feelings? Yeah? (How about we just let it go like this, huh? No hard feelings?)"

At the parking lot entrance, only his humble, pleading voice echoed, along with the cold glint of the pistol on the ground.