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

In the dead of night, Seattle was once again drenched in freezing rain.

A black refrigerated van with severely worn shock absorbers bumped along the flooded Fourth Avenue. The muffled roar of a refrigeration compressor could be faintly heard from the rear of the van.

Lyon sat in the passenger seat, looking at the blurry street scene outside the window. The car wasn't heated, and cold, damp air seeped in through the gaps in the poorly sealed windows.

Alex gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his eyes fixed on the rain being constantly slashed away by the windshield wipers.

Today is Sarah's burial day, and they are on their way to the underground funeral home in O'Connor to pay the funeral expenses.

"Did you bring the money?"

Lyon broke the silence in the carriage, which was filled only with the sound of the engine, and turned to look at the fat man who was driving.

"I brought it."

Alex nodded, his voice sounding somewhat weak.

"They're all old banknotes with non-consecutive serial numbers. Back home... in the East, just as agreed before, the first batch of funds for the operation has been transferred through underground channels."

Lyon nodded, not delving into the topic further. This beat-up car could leak air at any moment, so it was best to leave some things unsaid.

The carriage fell into a slightly oppressive silence once again.

The windshield wipers made a dry, rubbery screeching sound as they rubbed against the windshield.

After crossing a traffic light, Lyon and Alex spoke almost simultaneously.

"You last night..."

"I plan to..."

Both of them stopped. Alex coughed lightly, gesturing for Leon to speak first.

"You were cleaning up the club last night. How much did the medical school and the pharmaceutical company pay you for those thirty-odd corpses?" Leon asked casually, leaning back in his chair.

Alex clicked his tongue, seemingly making a mental calculation.

"It's about thirty thousand US dollars."

"These gangsters usually do drugs, and they're young and strong, so their physical condition isn't bad. Their organs and bone slices are in high demand in those private labs."

Lyon raised an eyebrow: "Making over 30,000 in one night, that's outrageous."

"It's a huge profit, but it's too much money to handle."

Alex sighed, turned the steering wheel, and avoided a deep pothole in the road.

"So what I was about to say was..."

"I plan to use this money to rent a cheap shop or get a food truck to do some charity work."

Leon was silent for a few seconds, then turned to look at Alex's face, which was covered in dark circles.

"You're too kind-hearted. In this place, kindness is the least valuable thing."

"I know, but don't say anything about me."

Alex scratched his hair in frustration.

"Didn't you also set up a truckload of cooked food downstairs and distribute it to those poor people on Halloween night?"

"I was thinking, if a policeman like you can do this, maybe I can do something too."

Alex had no idea that the high-level relief supplies Lyon distributed that night were forcibly taken by shoving a gun into Reverend Anderson's mouth; he would probably have been even more shocked if he had known.

"Every day, we're collecting corpses from the bottom of society; each one is more tragic than the last."

Alex's voice lowered, filled with deep helplessness.

"Especially those single mothers who were evicted from their homes, sleeping in cardboard boxes with their infant babies who were only a few months old."

"Sigh, I really can't stand the look in those little kids' eyes when they're starving."

He sighed heavily: "I can't change this messed-up society. This $30,000 will probably not even make a ripple."

"But if I can give them some hot soup and wraps, at least I'll have fewer images of dismembered corpses in my mind when I go to sleep at night."

Lyon looked out at the rainy night through the windshield and sighed.

"You've done your best."

The carriage fell silent again, with only the sound of tires rolling over the puddles.

As they approached the block where the funeral home was located, Lyon turned his head, his expression becoming slightly serious.

"There's nothing wrong with doing charity. It's your money, and how you spend it is your own business."

Lyon said, word by word, "But you better remember this."

Alex instinctively sat up straight.

"Charity is a bottomless pit; no amount of money can ever be enough. Just do your best."

"Therefore, not a single penny of the money from the East should be used for these things."

"That's operational funding, used for dirty work, paving roads, and buying intelligence, like today's use to complete my deal with the intelligence provider."

"The liberation of Americans is their own business; it's not our place to use our homeland's resources to clean up their mess. Do you understand?"

Alex paused for a moment, then immediately nodded.

"I know what I'm doing."

He answered seriously, "That's why I said I used the money I earned last night from the dead to open the stall, and I will absolutely not touch the special funds."

Seeing his nervous expression, Lyon's expression softened slightly.

"If you encounter any trouble in the future, or if the shop is harassed by gangs, you can contact me privately if you are in a hurry."

Upon hearing this, Alex suddenly choked on the breath he had just inhaled, bursting into a violent cough.

The gruesome images of the corpses shot in the head in the second-floor corridor last night flashed through his mind.

The gruesome images of the corpses shot in the head in the second-floor corridor last night flashed through his mind.

He stared wide-eyed at Lyon, his first thought being: Does this guy mean that if anyone dares to cause trouble at my charity stall, he'll just take his men over and shoot them all?

But then Alex shook his head, banishing the crazy idea from his mind.

No, no, this guy is a policeman, after all. He probably meant that he could use his connections in the police force to help me intimidate the street thugs.

Alex caught his breath and forced a smile: "Okay, with you saying that, I feel more at ease."

The black refrigerated truck eventually stopped in front of the iron gate in the back alley of O'Connor Funeral Home.

The rain intensified, pounding against the car roof with a dull thud.

Leon pushed open the car door and stepped into a puddle. Cold wind mixed with rainwater rushed into his collar, and he tightened the zipper of his jacket.

Alex jumped down from the other side, carrying a heavy black canvas bag.

O'Connor was already standing under the eaves of the back door waiting for them.

The Irish man, in his seventies, was still wearing his impeccably tailored black three-piece suit, with a gleaming silver cross hanging on his chest.

Alex stepped forward and handed him the canvas bag.

"This is the funeral expense, Mr. O'Connor."

"The embalming, the coffin, and the cost of the burial plot are all included." Alex's voice sounded somewhat muffled in the rain.

O'Connor took the canvas bag but didn't check its contents in front of him. He simply squeezed it gently with his age-spotted hands and nodded.

"The body has been prepared; it is clean and dignified."

The old man's voice was a little hoarse.

"The cemetery is on the edge of the Anglican cemetery in the suburbs; it's quiet there. Let's go there now."

Half an hour later, the two cars stopped in an open area outside the cemetery.

There were no neatly trimmed lawns here, only muddy yellow earth soaked by rain.

The grave has been dug, and the soil is piled up to the side, emitting a cold, fishy smell.

There were only five people on site: Lyon, Alex, O'Connor, and two workers wearing hooded raincoats.

The two workers were hired by O'Connor. They stood silently at opposite ends of the tomb, their raincoats hoods pulled low, almost obscuring most of their faces.

Holding shovels, they stood with their backs to Leon and the others, like two lifeless wooden stakes.

In this underground world, looking less and asking less are the basic rules for survival.

A solid black oak coffin, devoid of elaborate carvings, sits beside the tomb, its lid not yet nailed shut.

Leon walked to the coffin and looked down inside.

Sarah lay quietly inside.

O'Connor's skills were truly top-notch; the girl's pale face was meticulously made up, concealing the emaciated and ashen appearance brought on by prolonged illness, making her look as if she were asleep.

She was wearing a clean white dress.

Alex stood beside Leon, looking at the girl in the coffin, and sighed deeply.

"In his early twenties, he developed cystic fibrosis."

Alex shook his head. "The incidence of this disease is not low among white people."

"Terminal illness." Leon stared at the girl's calm face, his tone indifferent.

"It's definitely a terminal illness."

Alex scratched his messy hair.

"But if we were in our hometown, with medical insurance covering it, we definitely wouldn't have deteriorated to the point of heart and lung failure at this age."

"With continued treatment, he should be able to live a normal life at his age, and living to forty or even longer is not a problem."

"But here, her brother is a veteran who can't even find a decent job and can't afford the exorbitant prices of commercial medical insurance."

"This girl could only have her lungs rot away in that dilapidated sanatorium so early, and eventually suffocate to death."

Leon stood at the edge of the coffin without saying a word, and pulled a plastic bag from the large pocket of his jacket.

Inside was a teddy bear with worn edges, several old novels with curled corners, and a cell phone.

These are all of Sarah's belongings left behind at the nursing home.

He untied the sealed bag, placed the teddy bear between Sarah's clasped hands, and then gently placed the novel and phone beside her.

Then, Leon's fingers rummaged in his pocket and pulled out a metal dog tag stained with dried blood.

That's the dog tag of the dark web assassin "Ghost".

At that time, in the ruins of the unfinished building, the ghost's lower body was completely crushed by several tons of precast concrete slabs.

Later, when the patrol officers went to clean up the area, the remains, a mixture of flesh and concrete, had probably already been shoveled into the garbage truck as construction waste or some unknown debris. It was impossible to piece together a complete body.

Leon gripped the cold metal plaque, engraved with Ghost's service number.

He bent down and slipped the dog tag into the pocket of Sarah's dress.

O'Connor stepped forward.

He didn't use an umbrella, letting the rain soak his silver hair.

He took out a small black booklet with gold trim. Although he was not a certified priest, at that moment, he was the only pastor in this muddy place.

"Dust to dust, ashes to ashes."

The old man's voice echoed in the empty cemetery.

"Lord, please accept this soul suffering from illness."

"She never enjoyed much sunshine in this world. May she be free from the pain of suffocation and the coldness of medical equipment in your kingdom."

O'Connor closed the booklet and made the sign of the cross on his chest.

Amen.

"Amen," Alex whispered.

O'Connor turned around and gestured with his chin toward the two statue-like workers.

The two men immediately turned around, without saying a word, walked forward, and picked up the hammer and nails next to them.

With a few dull thuds, the lid of the oak coffin was nailed shut.

Then, the coffin was slowly lowered into the tomb.

Wielding shovels, they began shoveling the heavy, wet soil into the grave.

The dirt hit the coffin lid with a dull "thump-thump" sound.

O'Connor looked at Lyon. "What should be engraved on the tombstone?"

"..."

"No tombstone is needed."

Lyon watched as the tomb was gradually filled in.

"What the living can't remember, the dead need even less."