You're a US police officer, what are you thinking about going back to the East for?

The article, titled "You're a beautiful police officer, why are you always thinking about going back to the East?", is full of classic quotes and invites readers to find resonance.

"Waaaaah—waaaah—"

Just as Lyon and his men had subdued the group of well-dressed high-end individuals at the second-floor gambling den, the mournful sound of police sirens outside the window finally grew louder and resounded along the entire 12th Avenue. Judging from the noise, at least four or five patrol cars had arrived.

This is the backup Lyon just called for with bulldozers.

However, this time it wasn't the familiar good-natured Danfoss who came. This is 12th Street, which belongs to a different patrol area, which is why Leon didn't bring Danfoss along earlier.

"Harrison, the job's in your hands now. Don't let these fat sheep run wild, and don't let them collude with each other, especially that idiot who took a picture of me with his phone. Keep an eye on him."

"Don't worry, boss. If anyone dares to move, I'll set their bones."

Lyon gave a brief explanation, then waved to the bulldozer and another burly crew member.

"Let's put this fat pig on the shelf and go."

The two men immediately stepped forward, one on each side, supporting the bruised and swollen-faced, groaning fat boy Z, and followed Leon down the stairs.

The dance floor on the first floor was now mostly empty.

The savvy ordinary customers had already taken advantage of the chaos and disappeared, leaving behind scattered high heels, overturned bottles, and hairpieces dropped by who knows who.

What remained were only a dozen or twenty addicts who were so high that their minds had completely gone blank.

Even after the music stopped and the police arrived, these people continued to sway their bodies to the rhythm in their heads, their eyes unfocused, drooling, and some even grinning at the air, completely unaware that they were about to be handcuffed.

Near the bar at the edge of the dance floor, there were seven or eight men dressed in matching black suits.

This included the foreman, who was wearing a flashy suit and had just been arguing with the low-level thugs downstairs.

They didn't run away.

It wasn't because they were particularly loyal or bold.

As mid-level cadres who have benefited from gang-related activities, their faces are already on the police station's gang list; they may run away, but they can't hide.

Moreover, if they run away when the police checkpoints and abandon the boss's cousin, then once this matter is over, their careers in the underworld will be over.

When the big bosses come down and settle scores, chopping them up and feeding them to the dogs will be the least of their worries; they'll resort to all sorts of twisted family discipline.

So they had no choice but to stay here, even if it was difficult.

But they didn't dare to go up.

And so, this awkward scene unfolded.

Leon, with his men, dragged the fat boy Z, who was beaten so badly his own mother wouldn't recognize him, and swaggered down the stairs.

The manager and the remaining thugs stood stiffly at the edge of the dance floor, their faces even paler than the powdered faces from before, their eyes darting around, not daring to meet Leon's gaze.

Fatty Z was being supported, his face swollen like a pig's head, and one of his eyes was so closed that only a slit remained.

He strained to tilt his head, staring intently at the foreman with the only eye he could still see.

Although he didn't say anything, the meaning in his eyes was very clear:

"What are you looking at?! Attack! Help me! What have I been feeding you guys for?!"

His lips twitched twice, as if he wanted to curse or order them to do it.

But just as he was about to make a sound, Leon, who was walking in front, suddenly stopped, turned his head, and gave him a cold glance.

Fatty Z shuddered, the fear of being trampled underfoot and crushed instantly flooding his mind.

He was afraid that Lyon would use this as an excuse to beat him up again in the hall in front of everyone, so he swallowed the swear words that were about to come out and let out a painful sob.

The foreman, who was being watched by the boss, was extremely embarrassed.

Looking at Fatty Z's miserable state, his Adam's apple bobbed, but he ultimately turned his head to the side with utmost reluctance, pretending to look at the neon sign on the wall, as if a flower had suddenly sprouted there.

The remaining thugs followed suit, some looking down at their shoes, some turning to look at the wall, and others pretending to wipe the wine stains on the bar, as if they wanted to bury their heads in their crotches.

No one dared to look Fatty Z in the eye, let alone try to snatch him away.

"Oh."

Lyon watched this scene and let out a short, mocking laugh.

He ignored the bunch of cowards and led his men straight out of the nightclub.

Outside the door, the street was brightly lit by police lights.

Four or five patrol cars were parked haphazardly on the roadside, and more than a dozen uniformed police officers had already set up a cordon and were dispersing the crowd of onlookers.

When a police sergeant who was directing the scene saw Lyon and his men dragging out the fat man covered in blood, he was stunned for a moment.

Although he had been notified before he arrived that the ACU was handling a case here and needed his help with the cleanup.

But it was also the first time he had ever seen firsthand how these legendary mad dogs from ACU actually worked.