The world shrank to the cold, dark eye of the suppressor, its threaded muzzle now a tangible point of ice against Zhang Kai's sweating forehead. Five, six hundred centimeters? It felt like less than a hair's breadth. The slightest tremor in the finger resting on the trigger, a movement of mere millimeters, and Zhang Kai knew his story would end in this dusty, urea-scented warehouse. His mind, sharpened by years of navigating the fringes of the law, performed a frantic calculus. Would he dare? In this so-called civilized society, under the rule of law?
The answer, transmitted not in words but through the absolute, glacial calm in Michael's eyes, was a resounding, terrifying yes. This was not the performative anger of a rival enforcer, nor the desperate bluster of a cornered debtor. It was something Zhang Kai had never encountered: a serene, unblinking readiness to erase a problem. Permanently. It was the look of a man who had already crossed a line Zhang Kai only ever pretended to approach. The killing intent was palpable, a chilling aura that sucked the air from the room.
Therefore, Zhang Kai—"Little Knife," a man who had built a reputation on calculated intimidation—surrendered. Completely, utterly. The decision was instantaneous, bypassing pride and strategy, dictated by a base, overwhelming instinct to survive.
Thwump.
His knees hit the concrete floor with a jarring impact that rattled his teeth. The sound triggered a chain reaction. A series of similar, softer thudsand scrapes echoed as his men, without a single uttered command, followed suit, dropping into a ragged, kneeling line. Their synchronization was almost impressive, a testament to their shared, primal understanding of the situation.
"Brother! Michael!" Zhang Kai's voice emerged as a high-pitched warble, stripped of all its usual gruff authority. "A mistake! A huge misunderstanding! Please, don't be impulsive! We can talk! Everything can be discussed!"
The gun didn't waver. Michael's voice, when it came, was low, devoid of emotion, and carried perfectly in the tense silence. "Who sent you? What did they want you to do?"
The questions were simple. The unspoken consequence of a wrong answer hung in the air, thicker than the smell of chemicals.
"It was that bastard Ah-Dong! The loan shark on Third Ring Road!" The words tumbled out of Zhang Kai in a desperate torrent. "He just wanted us to... to invite you for a talk! To ask where you got the nice things! Where you kept the rest! That's all! Just a friendly chat!"
He watched Michael's face, searching for a crack in the composure. The man's brow furrowed slightly, as if processing a mildly interesting piece of information. A flicker of hope sparked in Zhang Kai's chest.
Then he saw it. The subtle tightening of Michael's jaw. The almost imperceptible bunching of muscle in the forearm holding the gun. To Zhang Kai's hyper-aligned senses, it was as clear as a shouted death sentence. He's going to do it. He's decided.
"WE CAN BE USEFUL!" Zhang Kai shrieked, the sound unnaturally loud in the cavernous space. "Don't shoot! We won't say a word! We can be useful to you! We'll pay! We'll do anything! Anything!"
Tears of pure terror welled in his eyes. In that moment, he wasn't a tough guy. He was a man facing the void, and he found he profoundly disliked the view. He felt a bizarre pang of nostalgia for their last encounter on the mountain. The shoe. The stinging, humiliating slap. It had hurt, but it hadn't carried this final, terminal coldness.
Michael watched the performance, his mind racing. The initial, adrenalized impulse to eliminate the threat had receded the moment "Ah-Dong" was named. This was simple, manageable greed, not a deeper conspiracy. He wouldn't kill them, but the lesson had to be unforgettable.
As Zhang Kai babbled, Michael felt a wave of disdain. Money?What use were their grubby, extorted bills against the wealth of a world? But the offer of utility… that was different.
He took two slow, deliberate steps forward, pressing the cold, threaded end of the suppressor deeper into the damp skin of Zhang Kai's forehead. The man flinched as if branded.
"You have one minute," Michael said, his voice dropping to a whisper that was more terrifying than a shout. "Give me one reason. One good reason you're more valuable to me breathing than not."
Zhang Kai's mind, fueled by survival adrenaline, fired like a machine gun. "Trouble! We can handle trouble! Small stuff, annoying stuff! In this city, my name… it opens some doors, closes others! We can make sure… inconveniences… don't reach you!" The words were a plea wrapped in a promise.
Inconveniences.The image of the sobbing Boss Lady and her smashed operation flashed in Michael's mind. A slow, predatory smile touched his lips internally.
Sensing a shift, a crack in the deadly resolve, Zhang Kai doubled down. "And! And we heard… you buy things! Lots of things! We can do that! We know the markets, the wholesalers! We can get you better prices, better quality! No one will cheat you!" He was throwing every potential advantage onto the scales of his own life. "Like the diesel! The diesel you just bought! We know that seller! His fuel is black oil, processed from waste plastic and rubber in a backyard still! It's garbage! We know where to get the real stuff! Or… or how to make the black oil properly, cheaper!"
Michael's internal smile widened. Plastic and rubber into diesel?The concept wasn't just useful; it was a spark. A factory. Sweetwater Gulch's first real factory. A solution delivered by terrified, kneeling thugs. The irony was delicious.
Half an hour later, a thoroughly drenched and trembling Zhang Kai led his subdued crew out of the logistics park. Their faces were pale masks of shock and profound bewilderment.
The shock was partly residual terror. But the greater part of their confusion stemmed from the series of utterly bizarre commands issued by the man with the silenced pistol, who was now, apparently, their new employer.
First, a chillingly delivered proverb about temples and running monks, implying their families and known haunts were now considered collateral.
Second, and most surreal, was their collective, instantaneous career change. As of today, they were no longer "social influencers" of a certain type. They were proud new employees of the Sweetwater Gulch Trading Company. Zhang Kai was promoted to Procurement and Operations Manager. The rest were Departmental Associates. Benefits included the legendary "Five Insurances and One Fund" and a base salary. The fact that no such company existed was a minor detail they would be rectifying as their first managerial task.
Third, they were to immediately contact a certain diner proprietress known as "Boss Lady" and resolve her "supply chain issues" with extreme prejudice and permanent results.
And fourth, most urgently, they were to procure, before nightfall, two industrial-scale boilers suitable for pyrolysis, and obtain detailed, workable schematics for the conversion of waste plastics and rubber into diesel fuel.
As their cars pulled onto the main road, the normalcy of the traffic around them feeling like a dream, Zhang Kai stared blankly ahead. He was a manager now. He had a company to register, employees to manage, and a shipment of mysterious boilers to find. The talisman from the Golden Rooster Temple, it seemed, worked in mysterious, terrifying ways.