Courtyard House: First, kill the hypocrites, leave none alive.

Yau Ma Tei, Hong Kong Island.

The mahjong parlor hidden deep in the narrow alleys of Temple Street still had the same door, but the paint was peeling off and rust was seeping out from the gaps in the door frame, giving it a dark red glow under the dim wall lamp.

The two characters for "Mahjong" painted in red on the doorway looked older than before, with several pieces of paint peeling off the edges from the wind.

Snake King Can sat in his usual spot, the rattan chair creaking under his weight. Beside him was a cup of cold tea, the thin film on top of the tea soup thicker than last time.

He had a cigarette between his fingers, but didn't light it. He had lost a lot of weight in the past few days; his cheekbones were more prominent, his eye sockets were deeper, and the flashy silk shirt he wore looked like it was hanging on a hanger, empty and flimsy.

The woman was sitting opposite me. She was still wearing that dark gray suit dress, her blonde hair was pulled back, and her light makeup was a bit heavier than last time, with her lips painted a dark red, like congealed blood.

Three million.

Snake King Can narrowed his eyes, picked up the now-cold cup of tea, touched the rim of the cup with his lips, and put it down.

He tapped his fingers lightly twice on the armrest of the wicker chair. The woman sat opposite him, her back ramrod straight, the hem of her suit dress covering her knees, her legs together and slightly angled, the tips of her black high heels touching the ground, motionless. Her grey-blue eyes were fixed on him, waiting for him to speak.

Snake King Can gathered the stack of banknotes, his fingers tracing the pristine surface. He looked up at the woman and spoke, his voice hoarse: "With Mr. Hank's support, I think it's possible."

The woman's lips curled up slightly; the smile was brief, like a knife flashing under the light.

The woman said, "The first batch of goods will arrive in three days. Mr. Hank would like you to pick them up at the dock in person."

Snake King Can nodded, nodding like a chicken pecking at rice. "Of course, of course."

The corners of his mouth slowly curled up, a smile that was both ingratiating and tentative: "Then...the payment for the goods?"

The woman looked at Snake King Can and spoke softly, but every word was clear: "This is the payment for the first batch of goods, ten million. You can pay after you sell them. Mr. Hank asked me to tell you—if they sell well, we can have a long-term partnership. If they don't sell well, there won't be a next time."

He looked up at the woman, the smile still lingering on his lips, now widening to reveal a set of teeth stained yellow by smoking: "Please thank Mr. Hank for me."

The woman stood up, her high heels clicking crisply on the terrazzo floor.

Snake King Can also stood up, the chair leg scraping the ground with a creak. The woman turned and left, the sound of her high heels echoing in the empty mahjong parlor, one note after another, like some kind of countdown.

Snake King Can stood there, watching her walk to the door. She stopped at the door, didn't turn around, and her voice drifted from the doorway, not loud, but each word clear: "Remember, this time it's pink."

The sound of high heels disappeared into the alley.

The iron gate slowly bounced back behind me, the hinges rusting and scraping. The gate hit the frame and then opened a crack.

North of Temple Street, there are gambling dens. The gambling dens are much quieter in the afternoon than in the evening. Most of the gambling tables are empty, with only a few old gamblers slumped over them, their eyes bloodshot, staring intently at the dice cups.

Snake King Can walked in, and the gamblers looked up at him, then lowered their heads to continue gambling. Ah Kun sat behind the innermost gambling table, counting money—a thick stack of Hong Kong dollars, tied with rubber bands.

"Brother Kun," Snake King Can spoke. Ah Kun looked up, saw Snake King Can, paused for a moment, stuffed the counted money into the drawer, stood up, and put on a smile: "Brother Can, what brings you here?"

Snake King Can walked up to him, stopped, and glanced at the gambling tables before looking back at Ah Kun. After a moment of silence, he spoke, his voice not loud, but every word clear: "Brother Kun, I have a batch of goods. Powder. Pure. Much better than what's on the market. Half the price."

Ah Kun's expression changed. He looked at Snake King Can as if he were a stranger. Cop—coplasma—Snake King Can used to be in the human trafficking business, smuggling people from the mainland to sell, but he had never touched coplasma before. Ah Kun swallowed hard, lowering his voice: "Brother Can, this is no joke."

Snake King Can looked at him, the corners of his mouth slowly curving upwards. The smile was brief, like a knife flashing under the light, and his voice lowered: "That's why I came to find you. You've been around Temple Street for so many years, you know a lot of people. Help me ask who wants the goods."

Ah Kun was silent for a moment, then nodded.

West of Temple Street, a nightclub. Neon lights flashed at the entrance, red, green, and yellow, illuminating the entire street in a dazzling display. Two hostesses in cheongsams stood at the door, heavily made up, smiling sweetly as they beckoned to passersby. The music in the lobby on the first floor was deafening, and the dance floor was packed with men and women.

Snake King Can stood by the bar, a glass of whiskey in front of him, untouched. Next to him stood a short, stout middle-aged man in a dark suit, his hair slicked back. He was the owner of the nightclub, surnamed Ma, and known in the underworld as Boss Ma. He held a cigar between his fingers, slowly puffing on it, the smoke rising and dissipating quickly amidst the loud music.

Boss Ma put a cigar in his mouth, looked at the swaying bodies on the dance floor, and squeezed out a voice from the corner of his mouth: "Brother Can, you've never been to a place like this before."

Snake King Can picked up the glass of whiskey, took a sip, put it down, and looked at Boss Ma: "Boss Ma, I have a batch of goods. Could you help me ask those customers who wants them?"

That evening, at Snake King Can's home. On the third floor of an old-style tenement building, a two-bedroom apartment, not large, but fairly clean. He sat on the sofa in the living room, several sheets of paper spread out on the coffee table in front of him, covered with names and phone numbers—he picked up the phone and dialed a number.

The phone rang three times before being answered. Snake King Can spoke up: "Hello, Brother Qiang? This is Snake King Can. How's business lately? Is business good...? I have a batch of goods... powder... pure... half price... Okay, okay, I'll wait for your news." He hung up and dialed another number.

That night, he made dozens of phone calls. Some hung up immediately, some called him crazy, some were silent for a moment and said, "Let me think about it," and some said, "Okay, I'll ask for you." He wrote down the names of those who said "okay" one by one.

At two in the morning, Snake King Can hung up the phone, leaned back on the sofa, let out a long breath, and closed his eyes. Three million worth of goods wasn't a big deal in Hong Kong. As long as this batch of goods could be sold smoothly, Hank would give him more.

Three days later. At the dock.

Before dawn, a thin mist shrouded the sea, with cargo ships in the distance appearing and disappearing in the fog. A salty sea breeze blew, carrying the chill of early autumn, causing the metal containers on the dock to creak slightly. Snake King Can stood at the dock entrance, wearing a dark short-sleeved shirt, his hair neatly combed. Behind him stood two people, Ah Kun and Boss Ma.

Ah Kun stood half a step behind him, wearing a black short jacket with his hands in his pockets. Boss Ma stood next to Ah Kun, his short, stout body wrapped in a dark gray suit, his tie neatly tied, and fine beads of sweat already on his forehead.

A cargo ship emerged from the fog, its hull a dusty gray, unmarked. Its lights shone, casting a dim, yellowish glow in the thin mist. The ship slowly approached the shore; mooring lines were lowered, caught by workers, and secured to bollards. A gangplank was lowered and placed between the dock and the ship's side.

Several men emerged from the ship's cabin. Leading the group was a white man in his forties, strong and muscular, wearing a black T-shirt that revealed his heavily tattooed arms. A pistol was tucked into his waistband, a submachine gun slung over his shoulder, and bullet belts were slung across his body; the yellow bullets gleamed darkly in the morning light. Behind him followed several other white men, all dressed in dark combat uniforms, carrying guns, their faces expressionless.

Snake King Can's face paled for a moment, just a moment, then he regained his composure, quickly stepped forward, and extended his hand from a distance. The white man looked at his hand, didn't shake it, and glanced over Snake King Can's shoulder at the dock—it was quiet, with only a few workers at work and forklifts weaving between containers.

Snake King Can withdrew his hand and rubbed it on his trouser leg. The ingratiating smile on his face was still there, his mouth was stretched and his eyes were curved, making him look uglier than crying.