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

Jason's hand paused for a moment, just a moment.

Without looking up, she turned to the next page of the intelligence report, her voice as calm as if she were having a casual conversation: "It's so late, what else is there?"

The visitor did not answer.

Footsteps came from the doorway.

It wasn't the dull sound of military boots stepping on carpet; it was cloth shoes, very light, like a cat walking on cotton.

The person wasn't walking fast, but every step was firm and steady.

Jason's hands stopped completely. She looked up.

A man stood in the center of the living room, dressed in dark combat clothing and wearing night vision goggles.

The night vision goggles flipped up, revealing those eyes—deep, still, like a bottomless pool of water.

Jason's pupils contracted sharply.

Her hand moved away from the documents and instinctively reached for the pistol hidden under the sofa cushion.

The movements were quick, an instinctive reaction honed through countless training sessions.

"Who are you?"

Chen Feng did not move.

I stood there, watching her reach under the sofa cushions and pull out the gun.

The gun was jet black, gleaming dimly under the light.

The gun was pointed at him, and his finger was already on the trigger.

Chen Feng shook his head.

"I thought you were smart. Weren't you investigating me all along?"

His voice was calm, as calm as if he were chatting casually.

"I am Chen Feng."

Jason's eyes widened.

Shock flashed in her grey-blue eyes—it was the most shocking thing she had ever seen in her life.

She flew in from Hong Kong Island in less than 24 hours. How did he manage to catch up?

How did you get in?

Where are the sentries at the gate?

Where are the checkpoints?

No one could answer her.

She gritted her teeth, gripped the gun with both hands, and pointed it firmly at Chen Feng's chest.

"You're asking for it!"

Chen Feng looked at her, and the corners of his mouth slowly turned up.

The smile was brief, fleeting in the dim light.

"Oh? You trust your gun that much?"

Jason was stunned.

Something flickered in those grey-blue eyes—doubt, confusion, and an unease that seeped from the very core of their being.

She's been in this line of work for over a decade, from the Middle East to Southeast Asia, from Africa to South America. She's seen all sorts of people and experienced all kinds of situations, but no one has ever stood under her gun and spoken to her in this tone.

"What do you mean?"

Chen Feng looked at her, his voice still calm: "I bet your gun isn't loaded."

Jason's eyes narrowed.

She stared at Chen Feng, at his expressionless face, at his unfathomable eyes, her finger tightening on the trigger.

Do you think I'd believe you?

Chen Feng's lips curled up again.

"You can try shooting. If it rings, I'll die. If it doesn't—"

He paused.

You've already lost.

He took a step forward.

Jason's body tensed, his finger gripping the trigger, his knuckles turning white.

Chen Feng took another step. He was less than a meter from the muzzle of the gun.

"However, I have a habit."

He looked at her.

"That is to kill the person who shoots at me. Even if the gun doesn't fire."

Jason's hands began to tremble—not from fear, but a tremor that seeped from the very marrow of his bones and could not be suppressed.

In the Middle East, in Africa, in those places rife with gunfire, she never trembled.

But at this moment, in front of those eyes, in front of that expressionless face, her hands trembled uncontrollably.

She gritted her teeth, trying to stay calm, but her finger on the trigger tightened, causing the muzzle of the gun to sway slightly.

Chen Feng took another step.

He raised his hand, placed his fingers on the barrel of the gun, and flicked it gently.

The gun barrel is bent.

She did not pull the trigger.

It's not that I don't want to deduct it, it's that I can't.

Chen Feng took the gun from her hand, stepped back, raised the gun, and pointed the muzzle at the ceiling.

boom.

Gunshots rang out in the closed room, making the windows rattle.

The bullet was embedded in the plaster of the ceiling, and dust fell down in a flurry.

Smoke billowed from the muzzles of guns, rising in wisps under the lamplight.

Jason shuddered, his hands still gripping the gun, held in front of his chest, like a frozen sculpture.

She looked at Chen Feng, watched him put down the gun, and saw the slight smile on his lips; her lips trembled slightly.

"You win."

Chen Feng looked down at the gun in his hand—a Glock, with a seventeen-round magazine and a nine-millimeter caliber.

The magazine was full of bullets.

He tucked the gun into his waistband.

As Jensen watched his movements, he felt as if his bones had been removed, and he leaned back on the sofa, all his strength draining away.

She stared at the ceiling, her voice a mixture of crying and laughing, indistinct: "You're a madman."

Chen Feng sat down opposite him, moved the documents on the coffee table aside, and also moved the now-cold cup of black tea aside.

"Then tell this madman your plan."

He looked at her and waited.

Jason stared at the ceiling for a long time.

Then she sat up straight, reached under the coffee table and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, took one out and put it in her mouth, then pulled out a silver lighter from the same spot, and with a "ding," the flame flickered and lit the cigarette.

She took a drag, and smoke billowed from the corner of her mouth, rising in the light.

Those grey-blue eyes looked at him through the smoke.

She spoke.

"Hank sent me to Hong Kong Island. Not to sell heroin."

Chen Feng's eyes twitched slightly, just for a moment.

She continued, "Cod is just a means to an end. Snake King Chan is just a pawn. What Hank wants is the docks and smuggling routes on Hong Kong Island."

She paused, her grey-blue eyes expressionless, and her voice returned to its usual crisp calm, as if reading a report: "For cargo from Southeast Asia to Hong Kong Island, your dock is the most convenient. Hank wants your dock."

Chen Feng leaned back in his chair, looked at her, and didn't say anything.

She took a drag of her cigarette and slowly exhaled: "But you refused to cooperate. So Hank told me to try a different approach—to control your docks, to control your territory. Snake King Can is a puppet we've supported. He sells heroin for us, and the money he earns is used to bribe your men. As long as your men have money, they can turn against you at any time."

Chen Feng looked at her; her expressionless face looked like a stone statue under the light.

Hank wanted to try a different approach: Snake King Can was a puppet, and he wanted to bribe his subordinates.

He knew all of this; Ah Ji told him everything after Snake King Can ran away.

"Anything else?"

Jason looked at him, stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray, the cigarette butt flattened, and the last wisp of smoke dissipated.

She leaned back on the sofa, her face looking somewhat tired in the dim light.

Finally, she spoke.

"Hank asked me to bring Chen Xiaoyu from Hong Kong Island."

Chen Feng's expression changed.

The change was very small, lasting only a moment, like a pebble hitting a calm lake, causing ripples to spread out and then disappear.

But Jason saw it.

She had seen those eyes before—in the files on Hong Kong Island, in Snake King Chan's mouth, and in Ah Ming's descriptions.

They said there was nothing in those eyes.

Now she stands before me. Yes, she does.

She didn't say it.

She just looked at him and waited.

Chen Feng stood up, walked to the window, and turned his back to her.

The curtains were pulled open a crack, and the moonlight from outside shone in, casting a faint white glow on him.

He stood there for a moment, then turned to look at her, a faint smile playing on his lips. The smile was brief, cold as ice, flashing by in the moonlight.

"Looks like I need to teach Hank a lesson."

Jason's heart skipped a beat.

He drew a knife from his waist, walked up to her, and grabbed her right hand.

Her hands were trembling, but she didn't struggle.

He cut off one of her little fingers.

Blood gushed from the severed finger, splattering on the table, on the documents, and on her nightgown.

She groaned, clutching her wound as she backed away, leaning against the sofa armrest, looking at her hand missing her little finger.

Blood gushed from the wound like a tap that couldn't be turned off, flowing down the lines of his palm and spreading a large patch of dark red on his white bathrobe.

She pressed her injured hand to her chest.

Chen Feng picked up the severed finger, wiped it clean, and put it in his pocket.

Stop at the door.

The moonlight shone in from behind him, casting his shadow long and thin on the carpet, like a black pillar.

"Tell Hank I'll take his head!"