Blood Splattered Three Feet

Lin Feng looked at Philip's smug face and suddenly laughed.

The smile was faint and indifferent, as if watching a clown finish his final performance. There was no anger, no fear, not even contempt—just the natural reaction of an audience member witnessing a farcical scene on stage.

He didn't speak.

Some words don't need to be spoken. Some signals can be conveyed with just a smile.

He lightly pushed off the ground with his foot, sliding back half a meter along with his chair. A short, low scraping sound came from the chair legs against the marble floor, lifting him out of the dining table area.

Almost at the same moment, a waiter carrying a tray suddenly changed direction.

No one noticed where he came from. In a restaurant of this caliber, waiters were like part of the background—they existed, but no one paid them any special attention. This waiter looked to be in his late twenties, with a white face, lean but not thin build, wearing a standard black vest and white shirt, the sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm, revealing his well-defined forearms. A neatly folded white napkin was draped over his arm, and he carried a silver tray, looking no different from any other well-trained waiter in the restaurant.

He was supposed to head to the next table. But as he passed behind Philip, his steps naturally veered off course, as if he were going around to refill another guest's water.

Philip heard footsteps behind him.

He turned around instinctively.

He saw a smiling white face and a pair of emotionless eyes.

Before Philip's brain could process the danger signal implied in the image, the waiter's hand had already moved.

The hand released the silver tray. The tray, along with an empty wine glass on it, fell onto the carpet with a dull thud, perfectly masked by the surrounding noise.

At the same time, the waiter's left hand, fingers spread wide like an iron clamp, precisely and forcefully grabbed Philip's meticulously styled blond curls. He yanked them sharply backward—not downward, but backward. The force was so great that Philip's cervical spine made a cracking sound as it could not bear the strain.

Philip winced in pain, his mouth involuntarily opening to let out a short gasp. But his head was forced back, his entire neck exposed to the air, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, like a frog turned over, revealing its softest, most vulnerable part.

The waiter's right hand moved.

He didn't know when the steak knife had appeared in his hand. Perhaps he caught it the moment it slipped from the tray, or perhaps he had it hidden in his sleeve from the beginning. It was an ordinary steak knife, its serrated blade gleaming coldly under the warm yellow light, nothing special about it—except for the mission it was about to complete.

Without the slightest hesitation.

There was no extra aiming.

The blade precisely pierced Philip's right carotid artery, at the intersection of about two fingers below the angle of the mandible and three fingers above the clavicle. A location familiar to anyone who has studied basic anatomy, but the waiter's decisiveness and precision clearly went far beyond the realm of "basic knowledge."

The blade sank in with almost no resistance.

Fresh blood gushed out.

It wasn't flowing, it was gushing. With each heartbeat, dark red blood gushed from the wound, tracing short, breathtaking arcs in the air. Some splattered onto the pristine white tablecloth, spreading into a shocking patch of dark red; some dripped onto the dark floor, pooling into a small, ever-expanding pool of blood; and some sprayed onto Philip's expensive custom-made suit, slowly trickling down the fabric.

Philip's eyes widened, his pupils contracting sharply in that instant, like two glass beads pierced by a needle. His lips moved, emitting a "hoarse" sound—the sound of air leaking from his severed trachea, no longer language, no longer a cry, but just a pure, physiological vibration of airflow. He wanted to say something, perhaps to beg for mercy, perhaps to curse, but his vocal cords had failed him, and all words had turned into a string of meaningless, terrifying breaths.

He instinctively raised his hands to cover his neck, but his arms only went halfway before losing strength and falling limply to his sides.

The waiter did not stop.

His left hand still gripped Philip's hair firmly, preventing him from slipping. His right hand took the white napkin draped over his left arm and, with an almost elegant gesture, wrapped it around Philip's neck.

That's not stopping the bleeding.

That was to prevent large-scale blood splattering into the surrounding environment.

The white napkin was quickly soaked with blood, turning a deep red. But it worked—most of the blood was absorbed by the napkin, preventing it from splattering further. The waiter even carefully adjusted the angle of the napkin to ensure it was wrapped tightly.

They're incredibly professional.

It was only then that the two bodyguards standing not far behind Philip realized what was happening.

They had been standing about five meters away at an empty table, maintaining a professional alertness, their eyes scanning the restaurant. But when the attack occurred, their brains experienced a brief but fatal delay—because in their minds, the threat couldn't possibly come from a waiter. This cognitive bias gave the waiter enough time to carry out the first round of killings, and by the time they finally realized what had happened, their employer was already lying in a pool of blood.

The two men rushed toward the waiter simultaneously. One of them had already reached for his waist, where a concealed Glock pistol was tucked. His movements were swift and disciplined; his fingers had already touched the cold grip of the gun.

But someone was faster than him.

After tying the napkin around Philip's neck, the waiter didn't even look up at the two approaching bodyguards. His right hand casually grabbed the unopened bottle of red wine from the ice bucket on the table—a fine vintage Bordeaux, its dark green bottle gleaming dimly under the light, with fine droplets of water still clinging to its surface.

He gripped the bottle, without a running start or gathering strength, simply using the twisting power of his waist and abdomen to swing the bottle in a wide arc and smash it into the left temple of the bodyguard leading the charge.

The sound of the bottle shattering was both crisp and dull.

The thick glass bottle shattered into pieces upon impact, the deep red liquor and bright red blood mingling and splattering in all directions. Shards of glass embedded themselves in the skin, shimmering under the light. The bodyguard didn't even utter a groan; his eyes rolled back, and his body fell straight to the ground like a felled log, his head hitting the marble floor with a sickening thud.

The second bodyguard had already rushed within three steps, his hand finally touching the gun handle, and he had even pulled it halfway out of its holster.

But the waiter didn't give him a chance to complete the action.

He gripped the broken bottle in his hand—its edges jagged, sharp glass shards jagged like canine teeth, stained with the first bodyguard's blood—and with a swift twist of his waist and abdomen, he shoved the broken bottle into the second bodyguard's throat.

The shards of glass pierced the skin, muscles, trachea, and major blood vessels in the neck. The sound that occurred at that moment is hard to describe—not cutting, not tearing, but more like a moist, muffled piercing sound.

The second bodyguard froze. He instinctively raised his hands to cover his neck, but the sharp shards of glass were already deeply embedded in his tissues, and with each breath and swallow, they were driven deeper. Blood gushed from between his fingers, trickling down his arms and dripping onto the carpet with a soft pattering sound.

He staggered back two steps, his back slamming against the wall, then slowly slid down, leaving a rough trail of blood on the wall. His eyes were wide open, his gaze unfocused, his lips moving silently, as if trying to utter his last words, but no sound came out.

The waiter didn't stop to admire his masterpiece.

He turned around and stepped on the back of the first bodyguard—the bodyguard wasn't dead yet, just knocked unconscious, and was now lying on the ground, groaning incoherently, his body twitching unconsciously. The waiter bent down, grabbed his hair with his left hand, and lifted his head off the ground, exposing his neck.

Then, with the broken half of the bottle in his hand, he cleanly and decisively slit his throat.

The movements are concise, efficient, and without any unnecessary frills.

One fatal blow.

From the moment Philip's throat was slit to the fall of the last bodyguard, no more than fifteen seconds elapsed.

The entire restaurant fell into a deathly silence.

It was an extremely brief, suffocating silence, as if the whole world had been put on pause. Everyone froze for a moment, their brains refusing to process what was happening before their eyes—three corpses, a waiter holding a broken bottle, and blood and shards of glass scattered everywhere.

Then, screams erupted.

Screams erupted from every corner of the restaurant, rising and falling like a flock of startled birds taking flight simultaneously. Women covered their mouths, men stood up and overturned tables and chairs, some pulled out their phones and frantically dialed 911, while others ran towards the exit without a care in the world. The sounds of shattering dishes, falling tables and chairs, and terrified cries mingled together, plunging the entire restaurant into utter chaos.

After completing all of this, the waiter did something that surprised everyone.

He did not run away.

He released the half-broken, blood-stained bottle from his hand, letting it fall onto the carpet with a dull thud. He straightened up and looked around at the chaotic scene—the terrified faces, the Back View scattering in all directions, the overturned tables and chairs, and the dishes strewn all over the floor.

Then he pulled out an empty chair next to him—the same chair Philip had just sat in, with traces of blood still on its surface—and sat down.

He leaned back in his chair, his legs crossed naturally, as if he had just finished a day's work and could finally sit down and rest.

He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. It was a crumpled pack of Marlboro Red, clearly having been in his pocket for a long time; the edges of the pack were worn white. He took one out, put it in his mouth, and then pulled out a cheap plastic lighter, lighting it with a snap.

He took a deep breath.

The smoke filled his lungs, lingered for two seconds, and then he exhaled slowly and contentedly. The milky white smoke rose gently under the warm yellow light, drifting past the three still-warm corpses, past the scattered glass shards and bloodstains, past the terrified faces, and ascending towards the magnificent crystal chandelier on the ceiling.

He stared at the chandelier, his eyes empty and calm, as if what had just happened was nothing more than an ordinary service in his career.

Lin Feng sat not far away, watching this scene, a faint smile never fading from his lips.

He picked up the half-extinguished cigar on the table, struck a match again, lit it, and took a puff.

The smoke mingled and swirled in the air between the two men before dissipating.

Outside the restaurant, sirens blared, growing louder as they approached, tearing through the Seattle night sky.