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

The basement of an abandoned pet hospital in Seattle's South Side.

The air here was murky, a mixture of medical alcohol, dried blood, and a thick, pungent marijuana smoke.

An old surgical light overhead emitted a faint hissing sound.

Trey lay on a metal-framed bed covered with a disposable sterile mat, his eyelids feeling as heavy as lead.

He struggled to open his eyes, his vision blurred for a while before he could gradually make out the mottled walls and rusty medical equipment cabinets around him.

Consciousness began to slowly return.

Memories of last night flashed through his mind like a revolving lantern:

The policeman who stormed into the safe house, Marcus whose chest was crushed, and the excruciating pain of smashing his forehead with a landscape stone and stabbing a switchblade into his shoulder muscles to perform the scene...

When Darrell and his men arrived, he was already in a semi-conscious state due to blood loss and excruciating pain. He only remembered being hurriedly lifted into a car and then being jostled all the way to this shady clinic.

"hiss……"

Just as Trey tried to move, a tearing pain shot through his left shoulder, causing him to gasp in shock.

"You're awake? You're lucky to be alive. Don't move around, kid."

The speaker was an elderly white man, Dr. Henderson, a former Marine Corps field medic.

He was now wearing a white coat stained with a few drops of old blood, a stethoscope around his neck, chewing gum, his eyes cold and professional. He held a pair of scissors in his hand and unceremoniously cut open the blood-soaked gauze on Trey's shoulder, glancing at the stitched wound.

"He had seven stitches in his forehead and suffered a mild concussion. His left deltoid muscle was cut open, just two centimeters away from piercing the subclavian artery, but he looks okay now and has already received a tetanus shot."

Henderson turned to look at a dark figure sitting in the corner and casually reported to his superior:

"He won't die, but it's best not to use knives or guns on this arm for at least two weeks."

In the corner, the burly black man with a scar on his face was Darrell, who had led the rescue team late last night.

Darrell looked to be in extremely poor condition at this point.

The concrete ground beneath his feet was littered with cigarette butts. Seemingly feeling that ordinary cigarettes couldn't quell his anxiety, he was now puffing away on a large marijuana cigarette.

Thick smoke swirled in the halo of the operating lights, and Darrell's eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and anxiety.

"Okay. Thanks, doctor."

Darrell removed the marijuana from his mouth, casually extinguished it on the metal cabinet next to him, his voice hoarse:

"Henderson, go outside and have a smoke, and close the door behind you. I have something private to discuss with him."

Dr. Henderson shrugged, completely ignoring Darrell's menacing appearance.

As a former Marine Corps field medic, Henderson has seen it all.

In the Middle East, he even forcibly stuffed the intestines of a seriously wounded soldier back into his abdomen and sewed them up.

In his eyes, the stabbing and gunfights among Seattle street gangs were as trivial as kindergarten children fighting.

Moreover, in the southern district, no gang dares to provoke a skilled black-market doctor.

After all, you're bound to get hurt eventually, and nobody can guarantee that they won't end up like a dead dog on his operating table one day after being shot.

Offending a quack doctor is tantamount to cutting off your own escape route.

"Okay, you two talk. Just don't splatter blood on my sterile pad."

Henderson tossed the blood-stained scissors into the stainless steel tray, took off his gloves, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, and strolled out of the basement, closing the heavy, soundproof iron door behind him.

"Click".

Once the door closed, only Trey and Darrell remained in the basement.

Darrell didn't waste any words, went straight to the bedside, looked down at Trey, and got straight to the point:

"Trey, do you want to be the new boss of the Blood Gang's West Division?"

"What?!"

Trey was so shocked by those words that his mind went blank, and he even temporarily forgot the pain in his shoulder.

He stared wide-eyed in horror at the burly man with the scarred face before him.

What happened?

Could this street commander, so loyal to Marcus, actually be an informant planted by the Sinaloa Cartel in Mexico?!

We're all colleagues?!

If that's the case, then the Mexicans are overreaching!

"Cough...cough cough...what nonsense are you talking about..." Trey coughed violently twice, aggravating his wound and breaking out in a cold sweat from the pain.

But Darrell's next words immediately dispelled Trey's absurd guess.

"I'm not crazy. The boss is dead, and completely dead."

Darrell braced himself on the edges of the bed on either side of Trey's body, gritted his teeth, and said in a low voice:

"I was late in taking my men to the safe house; that's a failure in my duties."

"And you are the only survivor."

He stared at the stitched wound on Trey's forehead and the bandaged shoulder, his tone harsh:

"I saw what happened. The killer came in through the back door. You were hiding in the backyard, and while you were covering for the boss, someone smashed your head and stabbed your shoulder. You were knocked unconscious and barely survived."

Trey swallowed hard and nodded obediently, secretly relieved that his self-harm last night had been convincing enough.

"But Trey, use your brain and think about it!"

Darrell straightened up, his eyes turning extremely dangerous:

"This is just what I've seen. Once the news of the boss's death gets out, those bastards who've been eyeing this position won't think that way."

Darrell paced anxiously around the bedside, beginning to analyze the current situation:

"The boss has no brothers left. That idiot Darlis was just killed by that cop in the industrial area last month. He also doesn't have an adult son, so he has no blood relative who can rightfully take over the gang's business and territory."

"Those dozen or so low-level bosses who manage different neighborhoods and pay hefty monthly fees, aren't they all ruthless wolves that devour people without spitting out the bones?"

"To climb to the top, they will absolutely fight tooth and nail right away."

"Then, in their struggle for the leadership and territory, who will be the first person they target for elimination?!"

Trey swallowed hard, a chill running down his spine.

"It's...it's us."

"That's right! It's us!"

Darrell growled, his eyes red:

"They'll say it's because of my poor security, Darrell, they'll even say I colluded with outsiders to kill the boss! And you!"

Darrell pointed to the bandage on Trey's shoulder:

"As the only survivor, they will definitely label you a coward who deserted in the face of battle, or a traitor who betrayed the boss!"

"They'll tie you to the back of a car and drag you to your death, using both of our heads as a sacrifice to prove the legitimacy of their succession! And while they're at it, they'll divide up my neighborhood and my men."

Trey broke out in a cold sweat.

"so……"

Trey looked at Darrell. "What are you planning to do?"

"From last night until now, I have had the boss's body put into a sleeping bag and hidden away, and the scene has been cleaned up thoroughly."

"The news of the boss's death has been suppressed. Apart from the dozen or so brothers who followed me into the house last night, no one in the gang knows yet."

Darrell leaned closer to Trey, his eyes gleaming with ambition:

"In the past few hours, I have contacted three street bosses who are on good terms with me and who have also received favors from the boss using encrypted phones."

"They are willing to stand with me and support your rise to power."

Darrell patted Trey's uninjured right arm, his tone solemn:

"You've been with the boss for so many years, managing the dark web and the flow of funds."

"Now you're another 'loyal' survivor who was seriously injured while protecting the boss."

"Only by pushing you up can we legitimately shut others up and secure our position as the leader from being taken away by outsiders."

"If anyone dares to object, we will join forces."