A Bird Startled by the Mere Twang of a Bow!

San Francisco, deep within Chinatown.

This is an unremarkable old apartment building, its exterior walls mottled, its iron fire escape staircase rusted, blending seamlessly with the surrounding herbal medicine shops, roast meat shops, and general stores with signs in traditional Chinese characters. On the street below, several elderly people are playing chess under the streetlights, the occasional crisp sound of chess pieces hitting the board and the occasional murmur of arguments in Cantonese drifting through the air. Everything seems so ordinary and peaceful, as if it has nothing to do with the massacre and fire that occurred in the Pacifica District just hours earlier.

But at this moment, in a room on the fourth floor of this apartment building, with its windows tightly covered by thick curtains, the atmosphere contrasted sharply with the tranquility outside.

The leader of the "South District Black Snakes"—a man nicknamed "Big Snake"—paced back and forth in the cramped living room like a wild beast trapped in a cage. He was burly, bald, with a gold earring in his left ear, and a lifelike black snake tattoo coiled around his neck, its forked tongue extending to his left jawline. He was always surrounded by a retinue of at least four or five henchmen, speaking in a booming voice, and exuding the arrogance and confidence characteristic of a street tyrant.

But at this moment, his domineering aura had completely vanished.

He was wearing an ordinary gray sweatshirt and a baseball cap pulled low over his head, obscuring most of his face. He was clutching an encrypted satellite phone tightly in his hand, the veins on the back of his hand bulging slightly from the force. On the coffee table was an open travel bag stuffed with bundles of cash, several passports, and a Glock 17 pistol loaded with bullets.

He received the message two hours ago.

His stronghold in the Pacifica District, the Spain -style villa he bought for $400,000 in cash, was raided. Viper —his most trusted henchman, a brother who had followed him for nearly ten years—along with three of his men, were all killed. Their bodies have not yet been found because the villa had been burned to the ground. When the fire department arrived, they only had time to control the fire and prevent it from spreading to neighboring houses.

Big Snake's first reaction was disbelief. Viper was one of his most cautious and capable men, and the stronghold's location was well-hidden; no more than five people knew about it. How could it be taken down so easily?

But his second reaction was fear.

Because he knew very well that being able to pinpoint the location of a stronghold so precisely in such a short time, and to carry out the killing and dismantling of evidence in such a professional and efficient manner—this was not something an ordinary gang could do. This was not a street brawl, not a conflict of interest; this was the operation of an organized, professional, and ruthless force.

He immediately realized: someone wanted to harm him. And they were serious.

He didn't return to his main house, contact any of his men, or even visit his usual hideouts in the Bayview District. Like a wild beast sensing danger, he immediately hid in this backup safe house known only to himself. The apartment was rented in the name of a long-deceased distant relative, the rent paid in cash, and there were no documents linking it to him. The room was stocked with enough food, water, and ammunition for two weeks—his last resort.

He sat on the sofa, staring at the water stains on the wall, his breathing heavy. He needed to figure out who was targeting him. Was it the Fuqing Gang? Or the Mexico drug cartel expanding north from Los Angeles? Or... that Asian man who had recently risen to prominence in Seattle?

He dared not think any further.

He picked up the satellite phone, hesitated for a few seconds, and then dialed a number he thought he would never need.

The phone rang three times before being answered.

"Hello." A deep, steady middle-aged male voice came from the other end. There were no greetings, no extra words, just a simple "Hello," but the composure and control of a superior person contained in it made Big Snake's tense nerves involuntarily relax a little.

"Chief Blake," Big Snake lowered his voice, his tone carrying a rare hint of anxiety and unease, "It's me, Big Snake."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Then the voice came again, still calm, but seemingly more serious than before. "I know it's you. This number... I remember telling you not to use it to contact me unless absolutely necessary."

"I know, Chief. But this time it's truly a last resort." Big Snake licked his dry lips, speaking quickly. "My hideout was raided. Viper is dead. Four brothers, all gone. The house was burned down too. The methods were professional, not something an ordinary gang could do. I suspect... someone is targeting me."

There was silence again on the other end of the phone. This time, the silence lasted even longer. Big Snake could hear soft breathing coming from the receiver, and the faint sound of a police radio in the distance— Blake should still be in the precinct office.

"Are you sure it's Viper? They're all dead?" Blake finally spoke, his tone still calm, but the Big Snake could sense that he was taking the news seriously.

"Confirmed. I have someone who saw the fire with their own eyes; the fire department has already gone. I can't get through to Viper on the phone, and I can't get through to the other brothers either." Big Snake's voice trembled slightly. "Chief, I need your help. Help me find out who's targeting me."

Blake didn't answer immediately. The sound of papers turning over came from the other end of the line, as if he were reviewing some documents. After about half a minute, he slowly spoke, "There hasn't been much activity in San Francisco lately. The Federal Bureau of Investigation hasn't made any unusual moves either. If it's an outside force, I need time to investigate."

"I can't wait much longer, Chief," the Big Snake said urgently. "I'm hiding in a safe place now, but I can't stay hidden forever. I need to know who's behind this so I can figure out how to fight back."

"Counterattack?" Blake's voice carried a hint of disapproval. "You don't even know who your opponent is. What kind of counterattack are you talking about? Your most capable men are all dead. Are you trying to get yourself killed by showing your face now?"

The Big Snake was choked. He knew Blake was right, but the thought of hiding like a turtle and doing nothing made him feel an unprecedented sense of frustration and powerlessness.

Blake seemed to sense his resentment, and his tone softened, carrying a reassuring tone. "Listen to me. You hide first, don't show your face, and don't contact any of your men. During this time, your men should not make any moves, so as not to give the other side more opportunities."

"Then how long should I hide?" the Big Snake pressed.

"Wait for my news." Blake's tone left no room for argument. "I'll use the police resources to help you find out who's targeting you. San Francisco is my territory, and no matter who it is, I'll find them. But that will take time, and it will require your cooperation. In the meantime, you better behave yourself and don't cause me any trouble, understand?"

The Big Snake fell silent. He knew this was the best option at the moment. He took a deep breath, suppressing his resentment and anger, and whispered, "... Understood. Chief, I await your news."

"Okay. Keep this number accessible, I'll contact you." Blake said, then hung up without waiting for a response from the Big Snake.

Hearing the busy tone from the receiver, the Big Snake slowly put down the satellite phone. He leaned back on the sofa, looked up at the dusty chandelier on the ceiling, and exhaled a long breath.

Chief Blake's attitude reassured him somewhat. After all, Blake had been his protector for many years and a crucial pillar in his ability to establish himself in San Francisco. With Blake pulling strings within the police department, he should be able to weather this storm.

But the unease in his heart lingered.

He stood up, walked to the window, lifted a corner of the curtain, and cautiously looked down at the street. The streetlights were dim, the street was empty, and the old men who used to play chess had already packed up and gone home. Everything seemed normal.

But he always felt that something was watching him from the darkness.

He drew the curtains, sat back down on the sofa, picked up the Glock 17, ejected the magazine to check the bullets, then reinserted it, cocked the gun, and placed it on the edge of the coffee table within easy reach.

Then, he leaned back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and tried to force himself to rest for a while.

But he couldn't sleep.

Outside the window, the San Francisco night remained deep.

But he knew that the night was far from over.