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

Four o'clock in the morning is the darkest time of day.

Most of the neon lights on Temple Street 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 heat in the distance, one shrill cry after another, like the wailing of a baby.

The wall lamp at the entrance of Princess Jin was still lit, its orange light casting a small patch of light on the iron-gray roller shutter door, illuminating the pry mark on the door—it was left by someone who tried to sneak in through the front door last time. The lock was changed later, but the mark was still there, like a scabbed wound.

Under the streetlights at the alley entrance, several figures emerged from the darkness.

There wasn't a single unnecessary movement; he moved like a shadow along the wall, his footsteps so light they were almost inaudible.

They squatted down, lined up in a row, and leaned their bodies against the cold wall.

Amin crouched on the far left, wearing a black T-shirt, holding an MP5 submachine gun in his hand. The gun was jet black and gleamed dimly under the streetlight.

He pressed his ear against the wall and listened for a few seconds—it was very quiet inside the Golden Princess, with only the low hum of the ventilation fan, like the breathing of some huge creature in its slumber.

The twenty-nine men behind him were also squatting down. Some were tall, some were short, some were fat, and some were thin. Some were holding submachine guns, some were holding handguns, and some were holding knives.

Everyone's faces were covered in black greasepaint, making their features indistinguishable under the streetlights, except for their eyes—a light that wasn't of excitement, but the kind of light that only comes after killing, cold and icy, like the winter moon.

They fought, killed, and shed blood.

They'll take any job, as long as the money is right. There's no job they won't take.

A veteran of the Nanyue Special Forces, he spent more than a decade in the underworld after retiring, from Southeast Asia to the Middle East, from Africa to South America, what kind of scenes hasn't he seen?

At this moment, they crouched in the narrow alley of Temple Street, like a pack of wolves waiting for their prey to come to them.

The cigarette butt at the corner of his mouth glowed in the darkness, like a lonely firefly.

Amin, with a cigarette dangling from his mouth, took it out and flicked off the ash. The ash fell onto the cement floor, breaking into several pieces like withered leaves.

He put the cigarette back in his mouth, pulled a pistol from his waist, and screwed on the silencer.

His fingers were short, thick, and strong, with calluses all over his knuckles—the result of years of holding a gun.

He looked up at the now-extinguished neon sign of Golden Princess. The three characters "Golden Princess" were just a gray outline in the night, like the skeleton of a skull.

The corners of his mouth slowly turned up, but the smile was short, like a knife flashing under the light.

"action."

The two words were uttered, but the sound was stuck in his throat, like a pebble thrown into a deep well, muffled and dull.

Twenty-nine people moved at the same time.

At the alley entrance, at the alley end, and in the direction of the back door of Princess Jin—they dispersed from different directions, like a drop of ink falling into water, instantly merging into the darkness.

Some people are running, their footsteps as light as a cat's; some are climbing, their fingers digging into the cracks in the wall, their bodies clinging to the surface like geckos; some are picking locks, their wires inserted into the keyholes, and with just a couple of twists, the locks are open.

Their teamwork was so seamless it was chilling.

Amin squatted at the alley entrance, threw his cigarette butt on the ground, and stomped it out.

The spark smoldered on the sole of the shoe and went out.

He picked up the MP5 submachine gun, rested the butt on his shoulder, and pressed his eyes against the sights.

The center of the crosshairs is aligned with the wall lamp at the entrance of Princess Jin.

Several moths fluttered around the wall lamp, their wings shimmering in the light.

The short, stubby finger rested lightly on the trigger, like on a lover's waist, tender yet deadly—but it didn't pull.

He is waiting.

Wait for the people inside to wake up, wait for the people inside to discover, wait for the people inside to rush out.

Then the gun in his hand will explode, bullets will rain down like a storm, turning the iron door into a sieve and the people behind it into mincemeat.

In the Golden Princess.

In the lobby on the first floor, all the lights were off, except for an emergency light in the corner, its pale light illuminating the mess on the floor.

The sofa was overturned, the coffee table was crooked, and shards of broken glass were scattered all over the floor—the traces left during the day's business hours had not yet been cleaned up.

The air was thick with the smell of alcohol and cheap perfume, mixed with the odor of leather and cleaning agents, making one's chest feel tight.

Tie Tou was sleeping on a sofa near the door, his thick, fleshy body filling the sofa completely. His feet were resting on the armrests, and the soles of his big boots were facing outwards, leaving brown marks from the mud on the leather.

He held the submachine gun to his chest, the sling wrapped around his wrist.

The snoring was deafening, like thunder.

The boy with the gap in his teeth was sleeping on the floor behind the bar, covered with a military overcoat.

The scar on his face was particularly conspicuous in the stark white light of the emergency lamp, looking like a centipede crawling on his face.

He had a military pack under his head, which was stuffed with magazines and grenades.

The loach isn't on the first floor.

No one knows where he sleeps—maybe in a corner on the second floor, maybe in the corridor on the third floor, maybe in the storage room under the stairs.

He never lets anyone know his whereabouts.

The brother on night duty stood at the door, leaning against the wall, his eyes pressed against the peephole.

It was very dark outside. The light from the streetlights shrank into a small orange dot in the cat's eyes, like a wide-open eye.

He stared at the small dot for a few seconds, then looked away and glanced at the other end of the corridor.

The door at the end of the corridor was closed, but a sliver of light shone through the crack—that was the stairwell leading to the second floor.

everything is normal.

He looked away and pressed his eyes back against the cat's eyes.

This time he saw it—a thin, white piece of paper was slipped through the crack in the door, like a blade.

His pupils suddenly contracted.

Card knife.

An old-fashioned lock-picking method involves inserting a piece of cardboard or plastic through the crack in the door to jam the latch, then gently pushing the door open.

His hand rested on the gun at his waist, his mouth opened as if to shout—the gun went off.

It wasn't from outside the door, it was from inside.

Bang bang bang bang bang—gunshots exploded in the confined space, ten times louder than firecrackers, bouncing back and forth between the walls, making the glass buzz.

Iron Head sprang up from the sofa, a submachine gun already in his hand. Before his eyes were fully open, his body reacted—he rolled off the sofa, lay face down on the floor, and pointed the gun at the direction from which the shot had been fired.

The man with the gap-toothed man stood up from behind the bar, a knife already in his hand, his eyes shining like two lamps.

The loach emerged from the storage room under the stairs, like a snake squeezing out of a crack in the ground, and silently slid to the corner.

The iron gate was kicked open.

Several figures rushed in through the door—leading the way was Amin, carrying an MP5 submachine gun, its muzzle spitting fire, bullets raining down, sending sofa cotton flying, coffee table wood chips flying, wall lamps shattering, and glass shards scattering everywhere.

The entire hall was plunged into darkness.