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

4:30 a.m.

Alex, his legs feeling like lead, used his key to open the security door of the shared apartment near the University of Washington.

The moment the door was pushed open a crack, a strong, almost overwhelming smell of cheap marijuana, mixed with the sour smell of pizza that had been sitting out for days, hit him right in the face.

Alex sneezed twice from the stench and casually hung his raincoat, which was covered in rainwater and mud, on the hook behind the door.

Only one dim pink ambient light was on in the living room.

Alex changed into slippers, yawned, and glanced at the sofa in the living room.

Jamal, the black guy who used to grow mushrooms, is now sitting cross-legged on the carpet, shirtless.

On the coffee table in front of him were several transparent plastic culture boxes, inside which grew clusters of mushrooms with grayish-brown caps.

He was holding a pair of medical tweezers, carefully manipulating the mycelium.

On the sofa, a young white man wearing a Gucci hoodie was sprawled out.

This is Alex's third roommate, Brandon. A rich kid whose family owns several wineries in California.

Brandon rarely stayed in his dorm; he relied entirely on his wealth to party every night at the fraternity villa off-campus.

He originally had a face that could audition for a leading role in a teen movie in Hollywood, but now, due to long-term use of marijuana and all-night parties, his eye sockets are sunken, his cheekbones are prominent, and his dark circles are even heavier than those of Alex, who stays up all night collecting corpses. He stares blankly at the mushroom in front of the black guy.

"My God, can you see it breathing?"

Brandon stared blankly at the culture box on the coffee table, still clutching a half-eaten leaf in his hand.

"Jamal, the batch of Golden Teachers (a type of highly hallucinogenic serocepin mushroom) you planted has definitely mutated."

"I just took a small bite and it felt like President Trump in Washington was doing a striptease for me."

"That's because you got the dosage wrong, bro."

Jamal didn't even raise his head; his dark eyes held a mixture of dazedness and fervor.

"The concentration of psilocybin in this batch of hallucinogenic mushrooms is three times that of those on the market. I modified the culture medium and added some special nutrient solution that I stole from a biology lab."

"Eating just two grams will allow you to discuss the ultimate truths of the universe with aliens in the Milky Way; you just grabbed at least a handful."

Alex walked to the refrigerator, took out a can of iced cola, and pried open the tab with one hand.

With a soft "hiss," carbon dioxide bubbles surged.

"Oh, our forensic assistant has gone off duty."

Hearing the voice, Brandon turned his head with difficulty and waved to Alex as slowly as a sloth. "Did you bring any midnight snacks? I feel my stomach acid digesting my intestines."

"If you don't mind the formaldehyde smell on my hands, I can make you some noodles."

Alex replied listlessly.

Jamal and Brandon were already used to Alex's late-night work schedule.

In their eyes, being a corpse collector was a lucrative job, and Alex, a medical student with a good relationship with his mentor, was perfectly normal to be called away in the middle of the night to dismember people.

"Is the body fresh tonight? Do you know any... the kind that can suddenly sit up on the autopsy table and ask you for pizza?"

"If you're interested, I'll bring back a skull next time so you can use it as an ashtray."

Alex took a big gulp of cola, the cold liquid flowing down his throat into his stomach, dispelling some of his fatigue.

Brandon shivered, shrank deeper into the sofa, and continued to stare blankly at the mushrooms.

"Ignore him. This idiot has been flying around synthesized leaves for three days straight. His brain is probably about as thick as the mycelium of this plate of psilocybin mushrooms now."

Jamal didn't look up, carefully using tweezers to manipulate the few small mushrooms in the culture box.

"Look at this quality! This is a golden teacher I grew using the latest formula of nutrient soil."

Jamal proudly showed off his botanical talent to Alex.

If this kid had gone into serious agricultural research, he would definitely be a promising talent, but he just happened to put all his talent into how to mass-produce contraband on his dormitory balcony.

"Keep it for yourself."

Alex pulled over a folding chair and sat down opposite Jamal at the coffee table, watching him fiddling with the tweezers.

"Jamal, I have a serious question for you."

Alex put down his Coke can, wiped his mouth, and asked, "How's the situation at that mosque on 10th Street in the West End, the one presided over by Imam Hassan?"

Jamal stopped what he was doing, looked up, and seemed somewhat surprised.

As a devout but secular Muslim, Jamal grows forbidden mushrooms in his dormitory every day, but he still occasionally goes to the mosque to pray on Fridays.

"Old Man Hassan? He's still the same as always, dirt poor."

Jamal put down the tweezers, picked up the marijuana cigarette next to him, and took a drag.

"That neighborhood is full of unemployed immigrants and single mothers."

"Hassan is a stubborn old man. While other imams are using religion as an excuse to invest in real estate or buy luxury cars, he spends all the Zakat (religious donations from Muslims) he receives on food and secondhand clothes for the poor children in the neighborhood."

Alex nodded; this was largely consistent with what he knew.

In the two years since he came to Seattle, he has made some dirty money by working as a body collector. Because he couldn't bear to see the horrific tragedies of the underprivileged, he would often donate several hundred dollars.

But he never donated to those well-dressed white churches, because those pastors would usually turn the money into cigars and haute couture suits for their own pockets.

Hassan's mosque, based on his long-term observation, was one of the very few places where money was truly spent on the poor.

"I made a windfall these past few days, earning some extra money."

Alex leaned back in his chair. "I'm planning to set up a stall outside Papa Hassan's mosque with some of the money. I'll get a used food truck and distribute free mutton soup every Wednesday and weekend."

Upon hearing this, Brandon let out a strange laugh on the sofa and sat up as if he had risen from the dead.

"Dude, did you inhale too much formaldehyde during the autopsy and damage your brain?"

Brandon pointed at Alex.

"You, a forensic assistant who spends the middle of the night searching through dead people's pockets, actually want to become Mother Teresa?"

"With this money, can't you take me to Vegas for a blast? You could even hire ten top-tier strippers to accompany you in a champagne bath!"

"Get out of here, you white pig."

Alex insulted him without any politeness, but Brandon wasn't angry. He just chuckled twice and went back to lying there like a corpse.

Jamal didn't laugh. He took a deep drag of his cigarette and looked at Alex through the swirling smoke.

"You want to use Hassan's territory for charity?"

Although Jamal's mind was numbed by drugs, his logic remained clear. "What are you after? You pay the money, but the mosque gets the reputation. You're just throwing money away."

"What do you know? This is called investing."

Alex crossed his hands on his knees and spoke bluntly, "I donated money and did my work, so of course I have to get something in return."

"I don't like doing good deeds anonymously. I donated money to charity in front of the mosque to help him expand his influence among the poor in the western district. Old Man Hassan owes me a debt of gratitude."

"Those low-class thugs, homeless people, and single mothers who drank my mutton soup, they need to know who I am."

Alex stared at Jamal. "What I need are connections. If I ever run into trouble, or if I need to find out something..."

"I hope that the Black brothers and Middle Eastern immigrants who have eaten my lamb will be willing to give me a heads-up, or help me take a knife in a critical moment."

"..."

"Sigh... Besides, it also helps those single mothers with children avoid going hungry for a few meals. Consider it accumulating some good karma for me, since I'm always rubbing salt in the wound. A win-win situation, understand?"

Jamal was stunned for a long time after hearing this. He exhaled a puff of smoke, then raised the tweezers in his hand and gave Alex a thumbs up.

"God will bless your pragmatism, brother."

Jamal grinned. "I know Hassan well. I'll take you to see him tomorrow."

"As long as you're genuinely giving food to the poor, he'd absolutely be willing to give you the best open space in front of the mosque, and he'd warn those small gangs in the West District that anyone who dares to touch your food truck is going against the entire Muslim community in the neighborhood."

Alex breathed a sigh of relief, picked up the iced cola on the table, and gestured to Jamal.

"Thanks, lunch tomorrow is on me."

……

It was a little after 10 a.m. the next day.

Alex's black refrigerated van was once again driving through the muddy streets of Seattle, heading towards the mosque on 10th Street in the West Side.

Jamal sat in the passenger seat, chewing a piece of gum. He turned his head and looked the man in the back seat up and down with a suspicious gaze.

The man was wearing a dark gray windbreaker without any markings, a black baseball cap pulled low over his head, and a black medical mask covering his face completely, revealing only a pair of deep, steel-gray eyes.

He sat in the old leather seat in the back row, his arms crossed. Although he didn't say a word, the cold and hard aura he exuded made the already cramped carriage feel even more suffocating.

Jamal felt uneasy under that gaze and finally couldn't take it anymore. He shifted his position, nudged Alex who was driving with his elbow, and lowered his voice.

Alex's hand on the steering wheel jerked violently, and the truck swerved slightly in an S-shape on the road.

"Uh...he...he's a...white friend of mine."

Alex stammered as he spoke, not daring to glance at the rearview mirror.

"He's also...he's involved in charity work. He heard I was going to set up a stall outside the mosque, and he offered to sponsor some of the funds, and also...he came to check out the location."

Jamal raised an eyebrow, his gaze sweeping once more over the man in the back row who looked like an ice sculpture.

"Then why is he wearing a mask? The car may smell a bit bad, but surely he doesn't have to be afraid to show his face?"

"That's because...because he has a scar on his face!"

Alex's mind raced, and he immediately raised the volume.

"Yes, severe chemical burns! When I was a firefighter... no, when I was working at a chemical plant, I was burned extensively by chemical reagents."

"He wore a mask so as not to frighten the children who came to collect welfare!"

"You know, kids raised by single mothers are very vulnerable! And he's allergic to UV rays, so he's always wrapped up tightly."

Jamal gave a half-believing "Oh," his gaze sweeping over the edge of Lyon's mask.

"He really is an unlucky good guy," Jamal muttered. "What's his name?"

"His name is..."

Alex's mind completely went blank at that moment.

He had actually planned to run the mutton soup stall by himself last night, but this morning, Lyon, that devil incarnate, suddenly called him and said he wanted to get involved in his charity business.

Lyon's exact words on the phone were: "We need to find people among the homeless. Since you're giving out free food, it will inevitably attract a large number of homeless people."

Although Leon was hesitant because it was a phone call and didn't spell things out clearly, speaking somewhat incoherently, Alex understood after a moment's thought.

He was shocked, but Leon's idea seemed perfectly reasonable, so he didn't refuse. However, he hadn't thought about going over the words with Leon beforehand. Now, facing Jamal's questioning, he was covered in cold sweat.

"His name is... his name is..."

After hesitating for a while, a radiant image with distinctly Eastern characteristics suddenly flashed through Alex's mind, and he blurted out, "His name is Ray! Ray Fong!"

A deathly silence fell over the carriage.

Jamal blinked, slowly chewing on the somewhat strangely pronounced name.

"Ray Fong? That name sounds a bit... impressive but not really impressive."

Jamal nodded seriously. "It sounds like an old-fashioned name with a story, kind of like those veterans who retired from the Vietnam War."

Lyon, sitting in the back, twitched violently at the corner of his mouth, hidden under his mask, the moment he heard the name.

He turned his head and looked at Alex with the kind of look one would give someone who is mentally challenged.

Lyon was about to step in and try to salvage the situation by saying something like "John" or "Mike," but Alex blurted it out first.

You're some middleman in Seattle who collects corpses, and you're giving me a pseudonym like "a paragon of Eastern altruism"? Why don't you just call me a living bodhisattva?

However, Jamal, an African American who is obsessed with smoking marijuana and mushrooms and whose brain is practically floating, obviously doesn't understand Chinese, so he didn't feel any sense of incongruity with the name.

"Alright, Mr. Ray Fang."

Jamal shrugged, completely letting his guard down. He turned around, extended a fist towards Leon in the back row, making a common greeting gesture among Black men.

"Respect, Ray. God bless your burned face for the sake of those single mothers who go hungry."

Lyon stared at the black fist being offered to him and remained silent for two seconds.

Finally, he could only curse under his breath, then extend his right hand, gloved in black, and bump fists with Jamal.

"Thanks."

Lyon lowered his voice, making it sound muffled due to the "chemical burns," and said, "May God bless Seattle."

"Cool." Jamal withdrew his hand and leaned back into the passenger seat, satisfied.

"puff……"

When Alex heard "God bless Seattle" from the front, he almost burst out laughing, but he managed to hold it back, his whole shoulder shaking.

The truck turned right at a dilapidated intersection, and ahead, the streets began to line with numerous brick houses with peeling paint and roller shutters covered in graffiti.

"That's the old building with the green dome in front of us."

Jamal pointed to a mosque with somewhat blackened exterior walls not far away, "Old Man Hassan should be inside right now. Let's drive straight there."

Lyon leaned back in his seat, looking out through the muddy car window at both sides of the street.

The environment here was even worse than he had imagined. Dyed tents and dirty sleeping bags were scattered haphazardly on the sidewalk, and the air was thick with the stench of urine and rotting garbage.

But that's exactly what he wanted.

In fact, Lyon's decision to intervene in Alex's charity this morning was entirely well-considered.

Last night, after taking a shower at the luxury apartment that Raymond had approved for him, he kept thinking about what to do next.

With Trey dead, the Bloods West Side is finished, Sterling has secured his political leverage, and he has also successfully sent two former American engineers to the East.

However, his plan to establish a stable talent pool is still incomplete, as he lacks a reliable way to reach a large number of homeless people.

Alex's charity stall, which he plans to use to distribute free food at the entrance of the West End Mosque, is practically a perfect "offline homeless talent search center."

As long as there is hot soup and wraps, hungry homeless people will gather around.

All he needs to do is put on a mask, stand behind the stall, scan everyone who comes to collect food with his eyes, and chat briefly. He can then sift out real gold from this pile of garbage discarded by American society.

The truck stopped in front of a mosque with mottled exterior walls and some peeling paint on its dome.

Jamal pushed open the car door and jumped out, then turned back and waved to Alex: "Take your checkbooks and come with me."

Alex pulled out the car key, wiped the cold sweat from his forehead, and turned to look at Leon in the back seat.

"Sir... no, Mr. Fang, please." Alex lowered his voice and gestured for him to proceed.

"Let's go see that old man Hassan."

Lyon opened the car door and stepped out through the puddles on the road.

He tugged at the collar of his down jacket, glanced at the Middle Eastern immigrants and black children watching them warily around the mosque, and strode off to catch up with Jamal.