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

Temple Street, Hong Kong Island.

A teahouse hidden deep in an alley, with a private room on the third floor.

The curtains were drawn tightly shut, not letting in a single ray of light.

Only one chandelier was lit in the room, casting a dim yellow light on the round mahogany table.

Snake King Can sat at the head of the table, wearing a dark silk robe and with his hair neatly combed, but his face was very ugly.

His eyes were sunken, his lips were dry, and he had bluish stubble on his chin, making him look quite haggard.

There was a cup of tea in front of me, but I didn't touch it.

There were thirty people sitting inside.

In the front row sat six or seven strong men, each with a different face, but all with the same eyes—cold, like a river in winter, its surface frozen, revealing nothing beneath.

In the back rows, the remaining twenty or so people sat, some smoking, some holding tea, and some leaning back in their chairs with their eyes closed, resting.

The room was filled with smoke, a mixture of the smells of smoke, sweat, and tea, making it hard to open one's eyes.

Ah Ji stood at the door, bent over, glancing at the door every now and then, like a hunting dog with its ears perked up.

Snake King Can leaned forward slightly and placed his hands on the table.

His gaze slowly swept across the faces of those strong, muscular men, examining each one as if he were scrutinizing a row of livestock awaiting slaughter.

He spoke, his voice hoarse: "You all come from the south, and I won't hide it from you. I've invited you here today because I have a favor to ask of you."

He paused, his gaze settling on the face of the person at the front.

The man was in his thirties, strong and muscular, wearing a faded camouflage T-shirt that revealed two arms covered in scars.

His head was shaved clean, gleaming oily under the light.

His face was expressionless, but his eyes were bright, and when he looked at people, it was like a wolf staring at its prey.

His name is Amin. He is a retired special forces soldier from Nanyue. He has fought in battles and killed people.

He ran away and spent a few years in Southeast Asia, taking on all sorts of jobs.

Snake King Can looked at him and said, "Brother Ming, I heard that everyone from your Nanyue Special Forces is a master."

Ah Ming leaned back in his chair, his legs propped up on the table, the soles of his boots facing Snake King Can, the mud from his boots smearing on the snow-white tablecloth, but he didn't care.

With a smirk revealing teeth stained black by betel nut, he said, "Brother Can, just say what you want to say."

Snake King Can swallowed hard, leaned forward, and lowered his voice: "Kill someone. A Northman. The boss of the Golden Princess in Yau Ma Tei."

Amin put his legs off the table and sat up straight.

Those wolf-like eyes stared at Snake King Can for a few seconds. The smile on his lips remained, but the light in his eyes changed, turning several degrees colder: "Where's the money?"

Snake King Can picked up a black leather suitcase from beside his feet, placed it on the table, and opened it.

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

Amin's eyebrow twitched, just once.

The men next to him also glanced at the suitcase. Some had their eyes light up, some had their lips curl up, and some still had no expression on their faces, but their eyes were fixed on the suitcase, like flies that had smelled blood.

Snake King Can pushed the suitcase over: "This is the deposit. There will be more after the deal is done."

Amin looked down at the suitcase, reached out and picked up a wad of banknotes, flipped through them in his hand, and then put them back.

He didn't say anything, but simply closed the suitcase, picked it up, and tucked it under his arm. The men behind him also stood up.

The lean man in black had a mole on his face and a slight limp, but it wasn't noticeable unless you looked closely.

The seven or eight people stood up from their chairs; some had cigarettes in their mouths, some held teacups, and some put out their cigarettes.

Footsteps were hurried, and chair legs scraped against the floor, making a grating creaking sound.

They reached the doorway, and Ah Ming stopped, turning back to glance at Snake King Can.

His wolf-like eyes were expressionless, and his voice, though not loud, was sharp as nails: "Brother Can, wait for news."

The door opened, then closed again.

The footsteps faded into the distance in the hallway, growing fainter and fainter until they disappeared completely.

The room fell silent, leaving only the twenty-odd people at the back.

They didn't leave; they remained in their original seats, some with cigarettes in their mouths, some with tea in their hands, and some leaning back in their chairs with their eyes closed, resting.

They came from elsewhere—they were all veterans of the battlefield, sharpshooters, ruthless, and willing to do anything for money.

Snake King Can's gaze swept across their faces, he took a check out of his pocket, placed it on the table, and pushed it towards them: "This is yours. There will be more after the matter is done."

The man at the front stood up. He was in his fifties, short and stout, wearing a flashy shirt and a thick gold chain around his neck.

His name is Feng Cha.

He looked down at the check, reached out, picked it up, folded it, and put it in his pocket.

Then he raised his head, looked at Snake King Can, and smiled, revealing a set of gold-plated teeth: "Brother Can, don't worry. Northerner won't live for many more days."

The twenty-odd people behind him also stood up and filed out.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway, like the beating of drums, growing fainter and fainter. The door closed behind me.

Only Snake King Can and Ah Ji remained in the room.

Snake King Can leaned back in his chair, let out a long breath, and closed his eyes.

Thirty men, from the Nanyue Special Forces, all tough guys who had come from the battlefield.

Even if the North Koreans are good fighters, can they beat thirty people?

He opened his eyes, picked up the now-cold tea, and drank it all in one gulp.

The bitterness spread on his tongue, and he slowly swallowed it, putting down the teacup.

The corners of his mouth turned up.

Ah-Ji stood at the door, hesitated for a moment, then walked over and lowered his voice: "Brother Can, are those thirty people enough?"

Snake King Can looked at him: "What? Are you scared?"

Ah-Ji swallowed hard, his voice dry: "It's not that I'm scared. I mean, that Northerner—"

Snake King Can raised his hand to interrupt him.

He stood up, straightened his collar, and said in a low voice, but every word was like a nail: "Yankees are human too. Humans die."

In Tsim Sha Tsui, at the end of the corridor on the eighth floor of that upscale hotel, is a suite.

The curtains were drawn tightly shut, not letting in a single ray of light.

Only one floor lamp was lit in the room, casting a dim yellow light over the large sofa.

A cup of black tea sat on the coffee table; it had cooled, and a fine layer of water droplets condensed on the inside of the cup.

Ms. Jensen leaned back on the sofa, wearing a moon-white silk robe, her blonde hair draped over her shoulders, and her face without makeup.

Those grey-blue eyes shone brightly in the dim light as they looked at the newly delivered report on the coffee table. There was a knock on the door.

"Come in."

The door opened, and Amin walked in, wearing a black T-shirt, looking strong and muscular, with a cigarette between his fingers.

He walked up to Ms. Jensen, stopped, put the cigarette in his mouth, and looked down at her.

Ms. Jensen looked up at him, her voice calm: "Have you found the person?"

Amin took the cigarette out of his mouth and flicked off the ash: "Thirty. From the Nanyue Special Forces. All top-notch."

Ms. Jensen nodded, took an envelope from her handbag, placed it on the table, and pushed it towards the table.

Ah Min glanced down—a thick wad of Hong Kong dollars, brand new.

He picked up the envelope and put it in his pocket.

Turned around and left.

The door closed behind me.

Ms. Jensen leaned back on the sofa, picked up the now-cold cup of black tea, and took a sip.

There was no expression in those grey-blue eyes.

At the Golden Princess nightclub, the time before dawn is the darkest time of day.

Most of the neon lights were off, and the whole street was dark, with only a few lonely streetlights swaying with a dim yellow light in the night wind.

There was no one on the street, except for the occasional cacophony of wild cats in the distance, one call after another, sharp and piercing, like a baby crying.

Under the streetlights at the alley entrance, several figures emerged from the darkness, lined up, and squatted against the wall.

Amin squatted at the front, wearing a black T-shirt, holding a submachine gun in his hand. The gun was black and gleamed dimly under the streetlights.

Behind him crouched twenty-nine people, some tall, some short, some fat, some thin, but all of them had the same bright eyes—a brightness that wasn't from excitement, but from the light that only comes after killing, cold and icy, like the winter moon.

They crouched in the darkness, like a pack of wolves waiting for their prey to come to them.

Amin took a cigarette out of his pocket, put it in his mouth, and lit it with a "ding" of the lighter. The flame flickered and lit the cigarette.

He took a deep breath, the smoke swirling in his lungs before exhaling through his nostrils.

He held the cigarette between his fingers, looked up at the now-extinguished neon sign of the Golden Princess, and a slow smile crept onto his lips as he drew a pistol from his waist.