Courtyard House: First, kill the hypocrites, leave none alive.

In Tsim Sha Tsui, the corridors of that upscale hotel were covered with thick carpets, and the wall lamps emitted a dim yellow light, illuminating the gilded decorative lines on the walls.

Snake King Can took two steps toward the elevator while carrying his briefcase, then suddenly stopped.

He looked down at the bulging briefcase in his arms—the payment and the goods were both there. The foreign woman told him to go back and wait for news, but what news?

What if the North Americans swallow up the rest of his territory?

He turned around, walked back to the door, raised his hand, and knocked on the door again.

The door opened. Ms. Jensen was still standing in the doorway, her grey-blue eyes slightly lowered, looking him up and down as if she were examining a defective product that had been returned.

"Is there anything else?"

Snake King Can bent over, a wide grin spreading across his face, his eyes crinkling at the corners. His ingratiating smile looked somewhat eerie in the dim light of the corridor: "Ms. Jensen, I...can I come in and talk?"

Ms. Jensen looked at him, remained silent for a moment, and then stepped aside.

Snake King Can strode in, his briefcase tucked under his arm, his steps hurried and rapid, like a mouse being chased.

The floor lamp in the living room was still on, the half-read English novel on the coffee table was still open, and the black tea next to it had gone completely cold, with a layer of fine water droplets condensing on the cup.

Ms. Jensen walked back to the sofa and sat down, crossing her legs. The hem of her bathrobe slipped open, revealing a section of her fair calves.

She pulled a pack of cigarettes from under the coffee table, took one out, put it in her mouth, and then pulled out a silver lighter from the same spot. With a "ding," she lit the cigarette, the flame flickered, and the cigarette butt was lit.

She took a drag and slowly exhaled, the smoke rising in the dim light like a thin veil, enveloping her expressionless face.

She didn't look at Snake King Can; her gaze fell on the oil painting on the opposite wall.

The painting depicted a European countryside, its colors so intense they seemed artificial, and its gold frame gleamed gaudyly under the light.

She watched for a while, held the cigarette between her fingers, and finally turned her gaze to Snake King Can's face.

"Speak."

Snake King Can leaned halfway up the sofa, placed his briefcase on his knees, and pressed his hands on it, his five fingers clenched tightly, his knuckles turning white.

He swallowed hard, making a gurgling sound as if he had swallowed a piece of burning coal.

"Ms. Jensen, I... I've thought about it, and I still feel I shouldn't take this money."

His voice was hoarse, as if it were being forced out from deep in his throat, "The goods haven't been sold, the money hasn't been made, I... I can't take Mr. Hank's money."

Ms. Jensen put a cigarette in her mouth, reached under the coffee table, took out a black leather suitcase, placed it on the coffee table, and opened it.

Inside were neatly arranged banknotes, Hong Kong dollars, stacked in brand new stacks, gleaming dimly under the light.

The suitcase's velvet lining was deep red, contrasting beautifully with the blue-green banknotes, making it look like a box of neatly stacked chocolates.

Snake King Can's eyes widened, and the reflection of those banknotes appeared in his pupils.

He had seen money before, but never money this beautiful—the banknotes looked alive under the light, each one glowing and beckoning to him.

Ms. Jensen closed the suitcase and pushed it over.

"This is the money Mr. Hank gave you."

Snake King Can froze. He stared at the black leather suitcase, then at Ms. Jensen, his mouth agape, his throat constricted, only able to utter hoarse, breathy sounds. After a moment, he finally found his voice, terribly hoarse: "Mr. Hank... gave this to me?"

His voice trembled, not from fear, but from excitement—an excitement that seeped from the very marrow of his bones, an excitement that could not be suppressed.

The banknotes exploded in his mind, each one like a firework, crackling and burning, making him feel hot all over.

Ms. Jensen stubbed out the cigarette in the ashtray; the cigarette butt flattened, and the last wisp of smoke dissipated.

She leaned back on the sofa, tapping her fingers lightly on her knees. Her grey-blue eyes lowered as she looked at Snake King Can. Her voice was soft, but every word was clear: "This is Mr. Hank's intention."

Snake King Can's eyes reddened, not from sadness, but from gratitude—a gratitude that welled up from the depths of his being and could not be suppressed.

He placed his briefcase on the coffee table, picked up the leather suitcase with both hands, and held it in his arms. The suitcase was heavy, pressing against his chest like a red-hot iron, making him tremble all over.

"Thank you, Mr. Hank!"

His voice trembled violently, his lips quivered, but his mouth was twisted into a grimace, and his face was contorted with rage. "Thank you, Mr. Hank!"

Ms. Jensen looked at him, her gray-blue eyes still expressionless.

She picked up the cigarette pack from the coffee table, took out a cigarette, put it in her mouth, and lit it with a "ding" of the lighter.

She took a drag, and smoke spilled from the corner of her mouth, blurring her expressionless face.

"Remember this."

She spoke softly, the smoke from her cigarette swirling gently as she enunciated, "As long as the Yankees live, you won't have a good day. Mr. Hank wants you to kill him."

Snake King Can's smile froze on his face.

He held the suitcase, motionless like a statue whose pause button had been pressed.

His eyeballs rolled around in their sockets, then around again, and the whites of his eyes were covered with blood vessels, like a fine spider web.

He looked at Ms. Jensen, his lips slowly drooping, his fat sagring like a piece of melting butter.

Ms. Jensen held the cigarette between her fingers and flicked off the ash.

The cigarette ash fell into the ashtray, breaking into several pieces, like a few withered leaves.

She looked at Snake King Can, her voice as calm as if she were having a casual conversation: "Scared?"

Snake King Can swallowed hard, lowered his head, and dared not look her in the eye.

His hands were trembling as he held the suitcase, which quivered slightly in his arms, making a soft sound, like a small animal trapped in a cage shivering.

The Northerner—that man, the ruthless Northerner who kills without blinking an eye, no one on the entire island of Hong Kong is not afraid of him.

Lei Luo was afraid of him, Yan Tong was afraid of him, and the leaders of those gangs were also afraid of him.

Even Snake King Can was terrified of him, terrified to death.

But he couldn't say he was afraid.

He looked up at Ms. Jensen and forced a smile.

That smile was uglier than a cry; his features were squeezed together, like a crumpled piece of paper.

"I'm not afraid. Why would I be afraid of him?"

Ms. Jensen looked at him, and the corners of her mouth slowly turned up.

The smile was brief, like a knife flashing under the light.

She stubbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, leaned back on the sofa, and tapped her fingers twice on her knees.

"What are you afraid of? You can hire a few hitmen; money is no problem. Mr. Hank is willing to support you."

She stubbed out her cigarette, stood up, walked to the window, turned her back to Snake King Can, and drew back the curtains.

Victoria Harbour was pitch black in the early morning, with only a few scattered lights on cargo ships in the distance, like a few lonely eyes.

The sea surface gleamed with a dark light in the night, like a piece of black silk spread out. When the wind blew, the surface of the silk wrinkled and rippled.

Snake King Can, clutching his suitcase, watched her retreating figure. His hands stopped trembling, his heartbeat slowed, and the tremor subsided, settling back into his chest.

He swallowed hard, his voice squeezed out from his throat, hoarse and low, with a desperate, resolute edge.

"Okay, I'll do as Mr. Hank says. I'll go back and find the assassin now."

Ms. Jensen turned to look at him, and something flashed in her gray-blue eyes—perhaps satisfaction, perhaps something else, it was hard to tell.

"Go."