Taoist priest goes to America

The Rolls-Royce drove across the Queens Bridge, through Manhattan, and turned into Brooklyn from the Williamsburg Bridge.

The fuel gauge on the dashboard showed more than half full, enough to drive for a few more hours. But Ang Lee didn't want to drive anymore. The car was an Ides Rolls-Royce, white and very conspicuous; any camera that captured it could easily locate it by its license plate.

He drove into an industrial area deep in Brooklyn.

It was past 1 a.m., and there was no one here, not even a homeless person.

The streets were lined with abandoned warehouses and rusty iron gates. Half of the streetlights were broken, and the other half were flickering, emitting a buzzing electrical sound like flies buzzing in your ear.

He parked the car next to a windowless red brick wall, turned off the engine, but didn't turn off the lights. The headlights shone on the wall, illuminating the bright red graffiti spray-painted on it—"Serial killer."

Ang Lee got out of the car, walked to the front of the car, squatted down, and touched the seat inside the car door with his hand.

The seats were made of genuine leather, smooth and black. He used his fingernails to dig into the seam at the edge of the seat, and with a forceful tug, a palm-sized piece of leather was torn off.

The back of the genuine leather was covered with a thin layer of sponge, which felt soft to the touch. He stood up, walked to the back of the car, and found the fuel tank door.

He reached out and grabbed the edge of the fuel tank door, pulled hard, and the door popped open. Inside was a black plastic fuel tank cap.

Ang Lee unscrewed the fuel tank cap, rolled up the piece of genuine leather in his hand, took out the lighter from the pocket of his Taoist robe, lit it, and the flame flickered in the night wind before settling down.

He held the flame close to the edge of the leather roll. The leather was charred and emitted a pungent smell. The flame climbed up the edge of the leather and grew bigger and bigger.

Ang Lee stuffed the burning leather roll into the fuel tank opening. The leather roll blocked the opening, and flames hissed out from the gaps.

He turned and walked towards the other end of the street. His pace was neither fast nor slow, and the hem of his Taoist robe fluttered in the night breeze.

There was a loud "boom" behind Ang Lee; the car had exploded.

The shockwave pushed Li An from behind, causing him to lean forward slightly before regaining his balance.

His shadow was illuminated by the firelight behind him, long and cast onto the asphalt road ahead.

He didn't turn around. The firelight behind him turned from orange to red, and thick smoke rose up, obscuring the streetlights.

The air was filled with the smell of gasoline and burnt rubber, and only half of the sky was illuminated in orange-red.

Ang Lee turned into a small alley, the firelight behind him blocked by buildings.

He walked through several streets, through a residential area, and came to a street with a bus stop.

The bus stop sign reads "B15," and the route map points to Manhattan and Brooklyn. There are no seats on the platform, only an iron pole with a plastic board hanging on it.

A worn-out notice was pasted on the plastic board, which read "Service hours for this line: 24 hours".

Ang Lee stood beside the platform and pulled his phone from his sleeve pocket. He had booked a nearby motel while driving his Rolls-Royce. It was called the "Northland Motel," with a 4.3-star rating.

The bus arrived, an old-fashioned bus with a green body, the paint peeling off in large quantities to reveal the gray primer underneath.

There was a yellow "OUT OF SERVICE" sign on the windshield, but the driver had flipped it to the "B15" side. The door opened with a hissing sound.

Ang Lee got into the car. There weren't many people in the car, but the atmosphere was off.

He couldn't quite put his finger on what was wrong, but the moment he stepped into the carriage, the feeling washed over him, like he had entered another world.

The lights in the carriage were incandescent, but the light was yellowish, making everyone's faces look like wax figures.

The seats were made of dark blue plastic, and some were cracked, exposing the foam underneath. The floor was black rubber, covered with countless scratches and dried muddy footprints.

There were only seven or eight passengers, scattered throughout the carriage. Near the front door sat a white man in his forties, wearing a gray trench coat, with messy hair, holding a paper bag in his arms, the contents of which were unknown.

His eyes remained fixed on the view outside the window, unmoving.

Next to him sat a Black woman with her hair braided into thin braids, each braid ending in a colorful bead. She was looking down, pricking her finger with a needle, picking something out of her nail. Her movements were slow and focused.

In the middle of the carriage sat an elderly white man wearing a plaid shirt, the buttons fastened incorrectly, the collar uneven.

He leaned back in his chair, his mouth slightly open, already asleep, as if he were sawing wood.

Next to him sat a young Asian woman wearing headphones, a tablet on her lap playing a Korean drama. Her eyes were red; she had just been crying.

Further back, near the back door, stood a tall, thin Black man wearing a fluorescent green safety vest and a hard hat, looking like he had just finished get off work at a construction site. He was clutching a bottle of beer wrapped in a paper bag, taking sips now and then and smacking his lips.

There was no conversation in the carriage, only the low hum of the engine, the screeching of tires over the asphalt, and the old man's snoring.

No one paid any attention to Ang Lee, who had just gotten on the bus.

They were each immersed in their own world, like a group of wax figures that had been frozen in time and placed in the carriage.

Ang Lee dropped two coins into the coin box, which made a "clink, clink" sound that was particularly loud in the quiet carriage.

The driver didn't look up and continued driving. The driver was an obese Black woman with her hair wrapped in a floral cloth. She held the steering wheel with her left hand and was eating a cookie with her right.

Her eyes were fixed on the road ahead, her face expressionless.

Ang Lee walked to the back of the carriage and sat down by the window. The seat was warm, as if someone had just sat there.

He looked out the window at the street. The bus was heading south along Flatbusch Avenue, passing one intersection after another. Streetlights swept past the window, casting patches of orange-yellow light on his face before disappearing.

The buildings on both sides of the street got lower and lower, from five or six stories to two or three stories, and from brick houses to wooden houses.

Some of the people sitting on the steps in front of the houses were homeless, sitting there in a daze, as if waiting for someone. Their eyes were empty as they watched the bus drive by.

Looking at the night view outside the car window, Ang Lee wondered what to do next.

Isches ran away, and the real Mr. Rabbitface ran away. He escaped through the secret passage and left before them. He may have already informed his men and was arranging for someone to come and find Ang Lee.

Ischneider knew far too much about Ang Lee; he knew not only Ang Lee's face but also his name.

Ishes will not let Ang Lee go, not only out of hatred but also out of fear.

Ang Lee killed his brother and blew up his villa. As long as Ang Lee lives, Ischse will always have a thorn in his side, and he will do everything in his power to remove it.

The bus stopped at an intersection during a red light that had been running for over fifty seconds.

Through the car window, Ang Lee saw a brightly lit shop across the street. It was a general store, with several bags of potato chips and bottles of cola displayed in the window. The shop sign was in Spanish, which he couldn't understand.

A thin, black cat was squatting at the shop entrance, licking its paws.

Suddenly, the black cat, which was licking its paws, arched its back, its fur standing on end, and howled loudly at the bus.