Blood Debt

In the dead of night in Seattle, the air after the rain is crisp and piercing, carrying the salty smell unique to the harbor and the lingering sour odor of garbage from the city's corners.

Located on a relatively quiet street near the airport, neon signs cast hazy, cheap glows on the wet sidewalks. A few figures, their necks hunched and eyes darting around, stood sporadically in front of several strip clubs and dimly lit bars.

With a loud bang, the door of a bar called "Blue Parrot" was flung open, sending out a wave of heat mixed with cheap beer, tobacco, sweat, and cheap perfume. Five men in dark blue uniform jackets, their shirts open and faces flushed, emerged, supporting each other and cursing. They were CBP officials, the one in the lead being Dawson, the same man who had harassed Lin Feng and Lü Yi at customs and then stolen something.

Dawson was clearly drunk; his steps were unsteady, and he was carrying an empty bottle of bourbon whiskey, a smug and unrestrained smile on his face. His colleagues next to him were no better off, all with glazed eyes and hiccups.

"Hiccup... I said, Dawson, today... hiccup... you've got good luck, haven't you?" A bald colleague patted him on the shoulder, his tongue a little thick.

"Haha, of course!" Dawson shook his head smugly, casually tossing the empty bottle into a roadside trash can with a loud crash. He reached into his uniform pocket with his other hand, rummaged around for a bit, pulled something out, and waved it under the dim streetlights.

It was the mutton-fat white jade cicada-shaped paperweight that he had taken from Lin Feng's box. The warm, lustrous jade shimmered with a soft sheen in the dim light, standing out starkly against the rough surroundings.

"Look at this! This little thing!" Dawson's voice was filled with drunken excitement and boastfulness. "I'd bet my uniform this is worth at least this much!" He held up three fingers, thought for a moment, then added two more, mumbling, "Five hundred! No, at least eight hundred dollars! Those damn Asia, they're fucking rich! Bringing this fancy stuff around when they're out having fun..."

A colleague leaned closer to look, clicking his tongue in amazement, his eyes filled with envy. "Dawson, you're so lucky! How come you always seem to run into these 'easy targets' whenever it's your turn to be on duty?"

Dawson put the jade cicada back into his pocket, patted it, and a smile that mixed contempt and smugness appeared on his face:

"You don't understand, Bob. When dealing with these Asia, especially the ones who seem to have some money but don't want to cause trouble, you have to show some strength."

They're sheep at heart. As long as you stand up straight, look at them fiercely, and raise your voice, they'll immediately cower!

Not only will they let you turn their place upside down and take their things, but they'll also have to smile obsequiously, afraid you'll cause them trouble! Haha!

He burst into unrestrained laughter, the sound echoing through the empty street, laced with a nauseating sense of superiority. The others joined in the laughter, the air thick with the ugliness and stupidity fueled by alcohol.

For these grassroots customs officials, the salary is indeed not high, and they also have to deal with various bills and loans.

Being able to get slightly tipsy or even completely drunk at a bar, like today, is a luxurious indulgence in itself—the cheapest beer costs ten dollars, and if five people want to drink to their heart's content, two hundred dollars can easily be gone.

The "extra income" gained from petty theft is a crucial source for them to maintain this indulgence and fill their economic gaps. Risk? In their eyes, it's almost zero. Those travelers from the East, especially Chinese, tend to keep quiet and dare not make a fuss, making them the safest and most lucrative prey in their eyes.

"Let's go, let's go... to the next one! It's on me!" Dawson waved his hand generously, even though he probably didn't have enough money in his pocket for the next round of drinks, but the excitement brought on by the alcohol and his "harvest" made him feel good.

Just as they were staggering, preparing to cross the street and head towards another, dimmer bar on the other side, a figure emerged unhurriedly from the shadows at the street corner and blocked their path a few steps ahead under a streetlamp.

The man who arrived was an Asian man, about thirty-five or thirty-six years old, with a well-proportioned build. He was wearing a well-tailored, high-quality dark gray suit, a dark red tie, and his hair was neatly combed.

He wore a gentle, almost polite smile, his hands hanging naturally at his sides. He looked like an ordinary white-collar worker who had just finished overtime and was passing by, which seemed somewhat out of place on this street filled with drunks and cheap entertainment.

Dawson glanced at him, his eyes blurry with drunkenness. His vision, already clouded by alcohol and racial prejudice, instinctively filled him with disgust for the Asian face. He hiccuped, waved rudely, and yelled in heavily nasal English:

Hey! Get out of the way, you yellow-skinned Monkey! Don't block my way!

His companions also burst into laughter, glancing sideways at the tactless Asian man.

The Asian man in the suit maintained his smile without wavering, it even seemed more amiable. Instead of stepping aside, he took two steps forward, getting closer to Dawson and the others. He spoke in clear, fluent English with a distinct accent, his tone as if greeting an old friend:

"Sashibuli, Dawson. It's been... a long time."

Dawson paused, the alcohol sluggish his brain. He squinted, trying to make out the other person's face, but all Asian faces with standard smiles looked pretty much the same to him.

"Japan?" he muttered, then impatiently shook his head. "I don't fucking know you! Get the hell out of my way!"

The man in the suit took another small step forward, now at very close social distance. He was still smiling, shook his head, and spoke with just the right amount of regret and self-deprecation:

"Oh dear, it seems my old friend has a short memory. No wonder, look at you, doing so well, all dressed up in your uniform, so imposing." He glanced at Dawson's CBP jacket, then at his own sharp suit, and shrugged. "And look at me, after all these years, all I have left is... this 'knife'."

The moment he uttered the word "knife," his right hand naturally dropped downwards, and his wrist twitched almost imperceptibly.

"Whoosh--"

A cold, gleaming light, like the flick of a viper's tongue, silently slipped from his suit sleeve and landed precisely in his outstretched palm. It was a sleekly designed butterfly knife with a cold, matte finish.

With a light, almost lifelike twist of his fingers, the hilt of the knife clicked out before Dawson and his companions could fully focus their attention. The sharp blade flashed briefly in the streetlight.

The next second, the gentle smile was still on the man in the suit's face, but his arm had already turned into a blurry shadow!

"Pfft! Pfft!"

Two extremely faint, yet incredibly clear, muffled sounds of sharp blades slicing into flesh rang out almost simultaneously.

Dawson's drunken arrogance and confusion froze instantly. He opened his mouth wide, as if trying to make a sound, but only a gurgling sound escaped his throat. He felt a cold sensation on both sides of his neck, followed by a sharp, burning pain.

He instinctively raised his hand to touch his neck, only to see warm liquid spray out in a misty spray, appearing dark red in the dim light, splashing onto his own hands and face, as well as onto the horrified face of his companion beside him.

"FUCK!!!" Bob, the bald colleague next to him, was the first to react, letting out a heart-wrenching scream filled with fear and disbelief.

His eyes widened as he stared at the two gruesome, gushing wounds on Dawson's neck, watching Dawson fall straight backward like a log, crashing heavily onto the wet, cold sidewalk, his body still twitching unconsciously.

The other three were also completely terrified, their drunkenness instantly turning into a cold sweat that spread throughout their bodies. They stared blankly at the Asian man who had been so refined just a moment ago, but now held a blood-dripping butterfly knife and still wore a strange smile.

The man in the suit ignored Bob's screams and Dawson's fall. He didn't even glance down at his "masterpiece." He held the butterfly knife, tip down, a few drops of thick blood slowly gathering and dripping down the blade. Without pausing, he turned to Bob, who was closest to him and had just screamed the loudest.

Bob looked into the other man's cold, emotionless eyes, and an overwhelming sense of fear overwhelmed him. He screamed and turned to run, but the alcohol-numbed body and extreme panic distorted his movements, and he stumbled and nearly fell.

The man in the suit was much faster. He stepped forward, flicked his wrist, and the butterfly knife drew a cold arc, precisely grazing the inside of Bob's right wrist as he frantically tried to block.

"Ah--!" Bob let out a short scream, feeling a chill on his wrist, followed by the excruciating pain of his tendons being severed and a feeling of powerlessness. His entire hand drooped limply at his sides.

But that wasn't all. The blade flashed almost without pause, using the force of its rotation to slash upwards, so fast it was almost invisible to the naked eye!

"Sizzle--"

A sharp blade easily sliced open a deep, long gash on the side of Bob's neck, near the carotid artery. Blood gushed out like a burst water pipe!

Bob's screams abruptly stopped, replaced by a chilling "hoarse" sound as blood clots blocked his throat. He futilely clutched his neck with his intact hand, but blood continued to gush out from between his fingers. His legs gave way, and he staggered back a few steps, leaning against the metal sheeting of a bar's back door before slowly sliding to the ground. His eyes were wide open, his body convulsing violently, his life rapidly slipping away with the gushing blood.

The remaining two CBP officers were completely terrified. Screaming, they no longer cared about their companions and ran like headless flies. One stumbled towards the bar, while the other turned and rushed into the dark alley across the street.

The man in the suit didn't even glance at the dying Bob. He shifted his feet and, like a ghost, chased after the official who was running into the alley. His speed wasn't particularly fast, but his strides were long and his rhythm was steady, and he caught up with the man in just a few breaths.

Hearing the approaching footsteps behind him, the man was terrified. He ran while looking back, tears streaming down his face, and incoherently begging for mercy.

The man in the suit remained expressionless, and when he was less than two meters away from the other person, he suddenly thrust his arm forward!

"Thud!" The butterfly knife plunged deep into the man's lower back. The man let out a bloodcurdling scream, his forward momentum halted, and he doubled over in agony.

The man in the suit showed no mercy, pulling out his knife with a flick of his wrist, followed by two lightning-fast thrusts!

"Pfft! Pfft!"

One cut to the left chest, one cut to the heart.

The man's screams stopped abruptly. His body stiffened for a moment, then he collapsed limply to the ground, his limbs still twitching slightly.

At this moment, the last official who tried to run towards the bar was almost at the light at the back door. He could even see the figures moving inside. His will to survive gave him his last burst of strength.

The man in the suit stopped, glanced at the blood-stained butterfly knife in his hand, and then at the fleeing Back View. He didn't give chase. Instead, he flicked his wrist, shaking off most of the blood droplets from the blade, then pinched the tip, pulled his arm back, and hurled it forward!

The butterfly knife spun rapidly in the air, cutting through the damp air with a soft whistling sound.

"Pfft!"

It struck the last official precisely in the left side of his back, the blade almost completely embedded.

The man let out a muffled groan, staggered forward a few more steps, and finally collapsed face down onto the wet, dirty sidewalk. His body twitched twice and then remained still.

The man in the suit then strode forward, walking unhurriedly. His gleaming leather shoes clicked softly as they stepped over the blood and grime on the ground, the sound particularly clear and cold in the deathly silent street.

He walked to the prone corpse, lifted his foot, and stepped on its back, grinding it down hard. Then he bent down, grabbed the corpse's hair with his left hand, and pulled the face, contorted with fear and pain, upwards. With his right hand, he gripped the exposed hilt of the knife and pulled it out forcefully.

With a soft "pop," the blade, dripping with even more blood, was pulled out.

Without the slightest hesitation, he gripped the butterfly knife and slashed horizontally across the exposed, still slightly trembling neck.

"Laugh--"

Blood splattered again. The corpse twitched one last time, then remained completely still.

The man in the suit released his grip, letting the head droop limply. He straightened up, took a clean white handkerchief from his suit pocket, and began to slowly wipe the bloodstains from the butterfly knife.

From the tip to the handle, every inch was meticulously wiped clean, the movements unhurried, as if what had just been accomplished was not a bloody slaughter, but the end of a trivial social engagement.

After wiping it clean, he looked at the blood-stained handkerchief, then at the gleaming butterfly knife. He then walked a few steps to a foul-smelling trash can, opened the lid, and casually tossed the handkerchief and butterfly knife inside.

"Clang." The lid slammed shut.

He straightened the slightly disheveled collar and cuffs of his suit, and his gentle, harmless smile returned to his face, as if he were simply discarding an old item he no longer needed.

Then, he turned around, put his hands in his suit pockets, and like any ordinary night owl, walked steadily into a darker, narrower alley, his figure quickly swallowed by the heavy shadows.

All that remained were four corpses lying in pools of blood in different positions under the streetlights, and the suffocating stench of blood in the air.

In the distance, the faint sound of police sirens could be heard, rapidly approaching in this direction.

In the darkness of Seattle, yet another corner is soaked in blood. And the chain of revenge has only just begun to turn.