The Bar's "Magic Show"

San Francisco Bayview District.

The "Snake Den" bar, true to its name, is hidden deep within this dilapidated neighborhood at night. Two of the neon tubes forming a snake-like sign are broken, flickering in the darkness like a dying venomous snake flicking its tongue. Two young black men in loose hoodies and baseball caps stand at the entrance, idly scrolling through their phones, occasionally glancing warily at both ends of the street. They are henchmen of the "South District Black Snakes," responsible for lookout and intercepting unwanted customers.

Inside the bar, the lighting was dim and ambiguous, filled with the smells of cheap whiskey, beer, and marijuana. An old jukebox blared loud rap music, making the floor tremble slightly. A dozen or so shabby booths and tables were scattered around, with about twenty customers—mostly gang members and their female companions, and a few ordinary people who had wandered in by mistake but would soon realize they shouldn't have been there.

Business tonight wasn't great, but it wasn't bad either.

Behind the bar, a burly, bald black man with a thick beard was casually wiping a whiskey glass with a dirty rag. He was "Big Snake"—the leader of the "South District Black Snakes," the true local tyrant of this neighborhood. He wore a black leather vest, revealing two thick, tattooed arms, and his waist was bulging, clearly indicating that he was carrying something.

He wasn't in a good mood.

In the afternoon, he heard that Deshawn and Malik had gotten into trouble at the basketball court. He didn't know the specifics, only that some strangers had gone there, and then all of Deshawn's henchmen were dead, and Deshawn and Malik had disappeared without a trace. He sent people to inquire, but there had been no response yet.

This made him feel a little uneasy. But as a seasoned veteran who had been in this neighborhood for over a decade, he didn't take it too seriously. Maybe it was another gang causing trouble, or maybe that kid Deshawn had messed with someone he shouldn't have. These kinds of things happened every now and then in this area. He'd deal with whatever came his way.

He put down the cleaned glass, picked up a bottle of bourbon, poured himself a glass, and was about to bring it to his lips—

The bar door was pushed open.

It wasn't "pushed" away, but "gently pushed" away. There was no violent impact, no arrogant shouting, just a very calm entrance, as if an ordinary guest had walked in.

But the two lookouts at the door didn't come in.

The Big Snake frowned slightly and turned its gaze toward the doorway.

Six men in black suits walked in.

They were dressed in well-tailored black suits, white shirts, black ties, and polished shoes. In a bar filled with ripped jeans, baggy hoodies, and gold chains, their attire seemed out of place, like actors who had wandered onto the wrong set.

But their gazes sent a chill down the Big Snake's spine.

He had seen that look before. It was the look of someone who had truly seen blood.

Six men dressed in black filed in and stood in the center of the bar, forming a loose arc facing the bar counter. They did not draw their guns or shout; they simply stood there quietly, their gazes calmly sweeping over everyone in the bar.

The music was still playing in the bar, but people's conversations had involuntarily quieted down. All eyes were on the six uninvited guests.

The leader was a white man who looked to be in his early thirties, with a rugged face and a sharply defined jawline. He glanced around the bar, then spoke, his voice steady yet strangely penetrating, drowning out the loud music:

Good evening, everyone.

His voice wasn't loud, but almost everyone in the bar heard him. The music was still playing, but everyone's attention was completely drawn to him.

"We're only looking for people from the ' South District Black Snakes '," he continued, his tone as calm as stating a fact. "Irrelevant friends, please leave now. We don't want to harm anyone."

silence.

A brief, suffocating silence fell over the bar.

Then, as if a switch had been flipped, the ordinary customers who were sitting in the booths—a few white office workers in plaid shirts, a couple who looked like college students, and a middle-aged Latino man drinking alone—all stood up, not even having finished their drinks, and hurried past the man in black, heading towards the door with their heads down.

In less than a minute, all the "unrelated people" in the bar had left.

Only about a dozen members of the "South District Black Snakes" gang and their female companions remained. Some had already stood up, their hands reaching for their waists or lapels; some remained seated, but their eyes had become fierce and wary; and a few others seemed somewhat at a loss, their gazes shifting back and forth between the Big Snake and the man in black.

The Big Snake put down his glass and slowly walked out from behind the bar. He was half a head taller than most people, and his imposing figure cast a menacing shadow in the dim light. He stopped about three meters away from the leader of the men in black, crossed his arms, and looked down at him.

"Who are you people?" His voice was deep and hoarse, with a heavy street accent. "Do you know where you are? How dare you cause trouble here?"

The leader of the men in black, K, looked at him without any change in expression. He simply replied calmly, "Our boss's surname is Lin. He asked us to pass on a message to the leader of ' South District Black Snakes '."

"Lin?" The Big Snake frowned, searching its memory to make sure it didn't know any powerful figures with the surname Lin. "Which Lin? Never heard of him. Who does your boss think he is? You want me to see him? Tell him to come here himself!"

His tone was arrogant, carrying the arrogance and confidence typical of a local bully. In his view, although these men in black looked intimidating, there were only six of them. On the other hand, he had more than a dozen men, all ruthless characters who had made their way up from the streets. He didn't think he would lose if a fight broke out.

K ignored his provocation, simply turning his head slightly and whispering to the man in black behind him, "Clear the area."

The words had barely left his mouth--

The five men in black behind him moved simultaneously!

Instead of drawing their guns or charging at the gang members, they swiftly and professionally dispersed, taking up key shooting positions within the bar—the side of the bar, the corners, and the stairwell. Then, they retrieved several palm-sized, round objects from their suit linings and attached them to the walls, ceiling, and floor.

It is a directional blasting device.

The Big Snake's expression finally changed.

"Damn it! They're going to blow this place up! Stop them!" he roared, reaching for his pistol at his waist!

However, it was too late.

"Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!"

Several muffled explosions rang out almost simultaneously!

It wasn't an explosion, but a muffled thud confined to a certain area, produced by the detonation of a directional explosive device. Several holes were blasted in the walls, the plasterboard on the ceiling shattered and fell, and shallow craters were blasted into the ground. Smoke and dust filled the air, and debris flew everywhere!

The gang members were so frightened by the sudden explosion that they quickly lay down or sought cover, creating chaos.

When the smoke cleared up a bit, they realized that the purpose of the explosive devices was not to destroy the entire bar, but to create several new "entrances and exits"—holes in the walls led to the abandoned shop next door, holes in the ceiling led to the attic, and shallow pits in the ground, though small, were enough to destroy the bunker.

More importantly, these explosions masked another sound—

That was the sound of a sniper rifle.

"Puff!"

The gang member at the front suddenly jerked his head back like a smashed watermelon, spraying red and white matter onto the wall behind him! He didn't even have time to scream before his body went limp and he collapsed.

"Pfft! Pfft!"

Two more muffled, silenced gunshots rang out. Two more gang members standing near the bar fell to the ground, blood splattering from their chests.

"A sniper!!" Finally, someone reacted, letting out a terrified scream, "A sniper outside!!"

The bar erupted into even greater chaos! Gang members scrambled for cover, some hiding behind overturned tables, others huddled under the bar counter, and some even lay on the floor, trembling. Their street experience and ferocity, the very things they relied on for survival, proved utterly powerless in the face of this completely unequal, precise attack from the shadows.

The Big Snake also hid behind a load-bearing pillar, his face ashen and cold sweat beading on his forehead. He drew his silver Desert Eagle from his waist, gripped it tightly, but didn't know where to fire. He had no idea where the sniper was hiding!

And just then, K made a move.

He didn't seek cover, nor did he avoid the sniper's line of fire. He simply stood there, slowly raising his right hand.

He extended his index and middle fingers, put them together, and made a "gun" gesture.

They aimed at the gang member hiding behind the bar, only half of his head showing.

Then, he parted his lips slightly and softly called out:

"Snap."

"Puff!"

The gang member's head exploded! Blood and brains splattered onto the liquor cabinet above the bar, staining the entire row of whiskey bottles red!

K's finger moved slowly, pointing to another gang member hiding behind an overturned table.

"Snap."

"Puff!"

Another head exploded!

K's fingers continued to move, as if conducting a silent symphony. He kept making soft "pop, pop, pop" sounds, and with each sound, a gang member was accurately hit by a bullet that seemed to come from nowhere and fell to the ground dead.

Some tried to rush out of their cover and shoot at K, but were spotted by a sniper as soon as they showed half their bodies. Others tried to escape through the back door, only to find it had been locked from the outside. Some knelt on the ground, raising their hands in surrender, but the bullets did not stop for them.

Less than two minutes.

Inside the bar, apart from K and the five men in black, there wasn't a single gang member standing.

A dozen or so corpses lay scattered among pools of blood and broken glass. The air was thick with the stench of gunpowder, blood, and a nauseating, deathly atmosphere.

The Big Snake is still alive.

He huddled behind the support pillar, trembling, barely able to hold his Desert Eagle. He'd been shot in the thigh—a result of a sniper's "warning" when he tried to peek out to fire. Blood trickled down his trouser leg, pooling on the floor.

He knew he was finished.

He dropped the Desert Eagle, put his hands behind his head, and slowly, tremblingly, walked out from behind the supporting pillar.

"I surrender... I surrender..." His voice was hoarse, trembling with despair, "Don't kill me... Whatever you want to know... I'll tell you..."

K looked at him and slowly lowered the hand that was gesturing as a gun.

He walked up to the Big Snake, looking down at this once-powerful local tyrant. Now, he was nothing more than a stray dog, shot in the leg, trembling, and pale as a ghost.

K didn't answer him. He simply pulled a satellite phone out of his pocket and dialed a number.

After the call connected, he only said four words:

"Boss, it's clean."

Then he hung up the phone and put the satellite phone back in his pocket.

He turned away, no longer glancing at the Big Snake, and ordered the man in black beside him, "Take care of it. Take the ' Big Snake ' away. The boss wants to see him."

"Yes."

Two men in black stepped forward, dragged the limp, ashen-faced Big Snake to its feet, and headed towards the back door of the bar.

K stood amidst the corpses and bloodstains, surveying the bar that had just witnessed the "magic show." His face remained expressionless.

Then, he walked out of the bar.

Behind them, only deathly silence and an overwhelming stench of blood remained.

Across the street, behind a second-floor window, a sniper dressed in black camouflage slowly lowered his HK417 sniper rifle from the windowsill, a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

He opened the small infrared radar display on the side of the rifle, confirmed that there were no living heat sources in the bar, and then began to skillfully disassemble the rifle and put it into the gun case at his feet.

Tonight's performance has come to a successful close.