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

Explore different genres of urban fiction; there's bound to be one that suits your taste.

Lyon followed Jamal, stepping on the uneven cement road, and entered the mosque.

The outer walls of the mosque were covered with unknown vines, and at the base of the walls were piles of cardboard boxes and garbage bags soaked by the rain.

Several Black children in worn-out hoodies were chasing and playing nearby. When they saw Lyon approaching, they immediately stopped and stared at him with wary eyes.

Jamal navigated the corridor with practiced ease, leading them to an office at the back of the building. He raised his hand to knock, but suddenly stopped, putting a finger to his lips to signal them to be quiet.

A suppressed sob came from inside the door, mixed with English spoken in a heavy Middle Eastern accent.

"Imam Hassan, I swear... I swear to Allah, I really had no choice! Those American soldiers forced me to do it!"

An aged voice came from under the door, trembling noticeably.

"When they were in Kabul, they said that if I didn't act as their translator and take the Bible and be baptized before their pastor, they would kill me and my family as terrorists!"

Lyon stopped and took a deep breath of the musty air through his mask.

He turned his head and exchanged a glance with Alex.

Alex shrugged, indicating that this is common in underprivileged minority communities.

In the United States, such "collaborators" who have served as translators or informants for the military are as numerous as hairs on a cow.

They abandoned their homeland, and even, in order to please their masters, pretended or genuinely converted to Christianity, happily believing that they could integrate into the so-called free world of America.

But the reality is often that when they arrive in the United States, they find that their Middle Eastern faces and indistinct accents mean they can only sit in the last row in white-dominated churches.

They could not be accepted by white Christians who claimed to be pure Anglo-Saxon descendants, nor could they find decent jobs. In the end, they could only shrink into slums, crammed together with their former compatriots.

Now, the old man is old.

For these people with deep religious imprints, the older they get, the deeper their fear of death and destiny becomes.

"Shut up, Abdullah."

A dignified but somewhat weary voice interrupted the old man's lament.

This is Hassan Imam.

"You don't need to swear to me. God is all-knowing. Do you think you can deceive Him?"

Hassan's voice contained little emotion, only a chilling calm.

"You say you were forced, but when you were in that white church in Texas, leading communion and eating pork with them, were you also forced?"

"I...I was..." The old man stammered, as if he wanted to explain but couldn't find the right words.

"You have betrayed your faith, Abdullah. You coveted worldly green cards and US dollars. In the doctrine, this is one of the most unforgivable sins."

"Do you really think that coming back now and shedding a couple of tears will buy you a ticket to Heaven?"

Hassan's tone became stern.

"You're scared now because the pastor in that white neighborhood told you that their church's cemetery plots are reserved only for true white believers, and they won't even give you a corner?"

"Are you afraid of being thrown into the city hall's crematorium after you die, so you're running back to the mosque and saying you're still a Muslim?"

Outside the door, Jamal lowered his voice and quickly explained in a volume only the three of them could hear:

"This old man has pancreatic cancer and only has a few months left to live. I've been seeing him around here quite often lately."

"According to Muslim custom, the dead must be buried in the ground within a short period of time and absolutely cannot be cremated. He is now afraid that he will have nowhere to rest after death and that his soul will not find peace."

The conversation inside the door continued.

"Imam, I was wrong! I really know I was wrong!"

"Please, I keep dreaming about hellfire lately, I can't just die like this..."

"If I die, those infidels will burn me!"

The old man had clearly broken down; Lyon could even hear the dull thud of his knees hitting the wooden floor.

"I am willing to repent, and I will pray five times a day! Please help me plead with Allah and let me return to the community!"

"Do you think repentance is just lip service?"

Hassan's voice echoed in the empty prayer room.

"Betraying the Uma (community), your soul will be poured with molten iron in Hell after death. Your skin will be burned, then new skin will grow, and then it will be burned again, endlessly."

This was not Hassan deliberately intimidating; the Quran's judgment on traitors is just like that.

For a dying believer, such a religiously endorsed curse is more terrifying than a gunshot from a gang.

The old man burst into a violent cough, accompanied by desperate sobs.

"But God is the Most Gracious and the Most Merciful."

"The doctrine also includes a means of atonement. You've amassed quite a bit of ill-gotten wealth by following those Americans all these years, haven't you?"

Hassan's speech slowed down, and he enunciated each word clearly.

"There are dozens of orphans and widows outside the mosque who can't even afford dinner. They are the compatriots you once abandoned."

"Take all the sinful money from your bank account and donate it all as Zakat. Use that money to buy flour and mutton to feed the children."

"As for whether God will ultimately forgive you, allow your body to be buried in the cemetery of believers, or spare you from being burned by the flames in Hell, that depends on your sincerity..."

Hassan didn't even promise the old man that the money would definitely buy salvation, but the old man fell for it anyway.

"I...I'll donate it all! I'll bring the checks over tomorrow!" the old man shouted.

"That's not a donation to me, it's a donation to Allah."

"Now, go, Abdullah. Cleanse your soul under the gaze of Allah."

The sound of the old man getting up from the floor came from inside the room, accompanied by a few muttered words of profuse thanks.

A series of slow, dragging footsteps approached the door.

Jamal immediately took a half step back, and Lyon and Alex also moved aside to make way for the doorway.

The half-open wooden door was pulled open completely, and a thin, hunched old Arab man walked out.

His face was covered in tears and snot, his eyes were cloudy and filled with fear. He ignored the three people outside the door and went straight to the faucet in the corner.

Jamal watched the old man's retreating figure, pursed his lips, then turned around and knocked heavily twice on the open wooden door.

"Come in." Hassan Imam's slightly weary voice came from inside the door.

Jamal pushed open the door and went in first. Alex followed closely behind, while Leon brought up the rear, closing the door behind him.

The office was dimly lit, and the air was filled with the smell of old paper and a faint aroma of myrrh.

In the center of the room stood a peeling desk, its surface piled high with various bills, relief lists, and several well-worn scriptures. Against the wall stood several cardboard boxes filled with old clothes and canned food.

Imam Hassan was sitting in a high-backed chair behind the table. He was a man in his fifties, wearing a traditional grey Arab robe and a white brimless cap.

His beard was neatly trimmed, and most of it was already gray. He wasn't particularly tall, but his back was very straight. What was most striking about him were his eyes, which were deep, tired, yet possessed a sharpness that seemed to have been scrutinizing people's hearts for many years.

Hassan's taut jawline relaxed slightly when he saw Jamal enter. He was relatively tolerant of this young man who, despite frequently smoking marijuana, occasionally attended church.

But when his gaze passed over Jamal and landed on Alex behind him, and especially on Leon walking at the back, his two gray eyebrows immediately furrowed together.

Lyon is nearly 1.9 meters tall, and the bulging muscles under his windbreaker exude explosive power.

He was also wearing a black protective mask and a baseball cap pulled low, completely covering his face.

The most deadly thing was his exposed steel-gray eyes. They didn't contain the disorientation of a white man from the lower class who had taken drugs, nor the panic of someone who had stumbled into a slum. Instead, they held a restrained yet penetrating calm.

His physique, his attire, and the undisguised aggression honed from his street-smart past made Hassan's nerves instantly tense.

If it were a white homeless man, he would even be willing to give him a bowl of hot soup and talk to him about the glory of God.

But it was clear that the white man in front of them was not a homeless person.

In a place like Seattle's West Side, if a strong white man, completely covered up, walks into a mosque, there are usually only two possibilities.

They were either plainclothes police officers ready to draw their guns at any moment, or far-right terrorists whose minds were filled with white supremacy and who were ready to throw homemade Molotov cocktails into prayer rooms.

Hassan's hand silently reached under the table, where a pistol for self-defense was usually hidden.

"Jamal," Hassan's voice deepened, his gaze fixed on Leon, "this is a place of prayer and confession. Whom did you bring in?"

"Relax, old man Hassan."

Jamal quickly raised his hands in a reassuring gesture.

"These two are my friends, Alex and Ray Fang. They're here to discuss sponsorship; they want to set up a mutton soup stall to feed the hungry children outside."

Upon hearing the words "bring food," Hassan stopped reaching under the table, but the wariness in his eyes did not diminish.

Seeing this, Alex immediately stepped forward and squeezed into the line of sight between Leon and Hassan.

"Imam, this is our first official meeting. However, I have been here two or three times before, usually at night."

Alex rubbed his hands together and forced a smile.

"At the end of last month and the week before last, I came here twice to donate cash, $500 each time. I don't know if you remember."

"I remember once you were handing out old blankets to some Black children."

Hassan squinted and stared at Alex's Asian face with its heavy dark circles for a while.

Fragments of memory began to piece together. He did remember a tall, slightly overweight young Asian man who would drive by in a beat-up truck several times late at night, drop off a few hundred-dollar bills, and then hurry away.

Hassan's tense shoulders relaxed a little.

"I remember now. God is great."

Hassan nodded and spoke in a solemn tone.

"You are a generous young man. The widows who received the flour will pray for you. You are a blessed and virtuous person."

"Jamal said you want to set up a stall outside? I'd be happy to."

"However, before we can reach an understanding, I have to ask a question according to the rules."

Hassan looked into Alex's eyes. "What do you believe in? Buddhism? Or those ancient Taoist deities from the East?"

"Uh...neither."

Alex paused for a moment, then casually spread his hands. "I'm an atheist. I just feel sorry for those kids who are starving."

Hassan frowned slightly upon hearing this answer, but he quickly sorted out his own logic.

For a traditional religious leader who has been immersed in the Quran and Islamic doctrines for many years, the concept of "atheism" in the true sense simply does not exist in his mind.

In his view, everyone must believe in something, otherwise society will collapse.

"I understand," Hassan said in a venerable tone.

"You Easterners have your own traditions. I've seen you burning yellow paper at intersections in Chinatown, and I've also seen you offering food to your deceased ancestors."

"Although I cannot understand which deity you are praying to, God is forgiving. You have used your wealth to help the poor in the community, and this good deed deserves the respect of the Ummah (community)."

Alex opened his mouth, wanting to explain that burning paper money and atheism were completely different things, but then thought better of it. Discussing materialism with a religious leader on someone else's turf was a waste of breath; it would be best if the other party could figure things out on his own.

"I plan to set up a food cart in front of the mosque every Wednesday and weekend to give out free mutton soup and wraps."

Alex got straight to the point, "I'll provide the funding, you provide the venue. If you'd like, I can register the food truck under the mosque's name."

Hassan was clearly very interested in the offer. There were too many homeless and poor people in the western district, and the meager zakat from the mosque was simply not enough to go around.

But he didn't agree immediately. Instead, he looked past Alex and stared intently at Leon, who was standing at the very back.

I accept your kindness.

Hassan looked at Lyon, his tone turning cold and hostile once again.

"But what's up with this white man?"

"I must make this clear: the area in front of the mosque is for believers."

"I don't want any infidels, especially Christians, to be here under the guise of distributing food, handing out Christian leaflets, or trying to tell Muslim children about the God who was nailed to the cross."

The temperature in the room seemed to drop in that instant.

Hassan tapped his fingers on the table, his tone firm: "I do not welcome crusaders who come to preach wearing the mask of charity."

Jamal rubbed his hands awkwardly, while Alex swallowed hard and turned to look at Lyon.

Lyon stood there, listening to Hassan's territorial warning, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly beneath his mask.

Rather than feeling angry, he only felt a sense of absurdity and helplessness.

He, with a pure Eastern soul at heart, is now being regarded by a Muslim religious leader as a fanatical Christian preparing to carry out cultural invasion.

This is completely nonsensical.

Lyon sighed softly, took a small step forward, and looked directly into Hassan's eyes.

"I'm the same as him."

Lyon's voice sounded somewhat muffled after being filtered through the mask.

"I don't preach, and I'm not religious. I'm an atheist like Alex. I have no interest in that wooden sculpture of a cross in the white church."

The office fell into a deathly silence the moment those words were spoken.

Hassan Imam's eyes widened suddenly, and his body, which had been leaning back in his chair, stiffened. He stared at Lyon as if he were looking at a three-headed alien.

A white man? An atheist?

He can understand the "atheism" of Easterners because it is a cultural difference.

But he simply couldn't understand how a white man of typical Germanic or Irish descent, raised in America, a land full of churches where even banknotes say "In God We Trust," could so calmly declare himself an atheist.

These guys should have been baptized in a church from birth!

Hassan took a deep breath, his brow furrowed, and his mind began to race as he tried to explain this incomprehensible phenomenon with his own religious logic.

"You...are you disappointed with the church?"

Hassan asked tentatively, his hostility largely gone, replaced by a complex mix of sympathy and disbelief.

"Are you an agnostic? Or one of those lost souls who were swindled out of their fortunes by greedy priests and thus abandoned their faith?"

Hassan became more and more convinced that his deductions were reasonable.

He had seen plenty of hypocrisy and corruption in those white churches. A white man, heartbroken by his pastor, angrily declared himself an atheist and came to the Muslim community to do charity work. Logically, this was a perfect closed loop.

Holy crap!

Jamal, who was standing to the side, suddenly gasped and slapped his thigh.

No wonder this guy has a name like Ray Fong! No wonder he wears a mask even in broad daylight!

The chemical burns must be fake. He was just a heartbroken man who was ostracized by the white church and was completely disillusioned. He came to the mosque to do charity work in order to find true faith!

Jamal's eyes immediately filled with sympathy and respect as he looked at Lyon.

"No wonder you were so bundled up in broad daylight!"

"Hey bro, did you smash up some white pastor's car and are you hiding from the cops now? Don't worry, once you're with Old Man Hassan, nobody's going to bother you!"

Leon stood there, listening to the two people's wildly imaginative reasoning, his facial muscles under his mask twitching uncontrollably a couple of times.

He really wanted to rip off his mask, pull out his Glock from his waist, slam his badge on the broken table, and tell these imaginative guys that he was just an ordinary West Precinct cop who took bribes and carried out bombings.

But Leon held back, because the two of them seemed to find the idea quite appealing. For the sake of that continuous stream of Eastern talent, he had no choice but to swallow his anger.

"Think what you want."

Lyon coldly tossed out a sentence, tugged at the collar of his windbreaker, and looked reclusive, refusing to communicate.

In this scene where values ​​were shattered, Alex was the only one who remained the most composed.

He didn't even raise an eyebrow.

Alex stood there, looking at the shocked Hassan and the bewildered Jamal, and couldn't help but find it amusing.

Ha ha.

He was already used to Lyon's absurd style of discussing domestic medical insurance with him while killing people.

Judging from the current situation, it's clear that I'm not lacking in experience. Even to these native Americans, Leon would definitely look like a pure alien.

Moreover, Lyon is now hiding his identity as a police officer and doesn't need to worry about any political repercussions. If he were to go along with Hassan and say that he does have religious beliefs, that would be truly bizarre.

"Imam, that's just my friend's personality; he doesn't talk much."

Alex eventually stepped in to smooth things over, forcibly steer the conversation back on track.

"In short, we'll provide the money and set up the stall. We'll just distribute the mutton soup and wraps."

"The rest, including maintaining order and sourcing ingredients, will depend on your prestige in the community."