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

Scorpion stood at the alley entrance, gun in hand, looking in that direction, watching the pedestrians coming and going on Jordan Road, watching the figures of people who had scattered and fled in fright at the sound of gunfire.

"superior!"

In the alley, Eva leaned against the wall, blood gushing from the wound on her shoulder like a faucet that couldn't be turned off.

His dark green trench coat was soaked in blood, turning black and clinging to his body. His face was as white as paper, his lips were purple, and his forehead was covered in cold sweat.

Martin squatted down in front of her and took things out of the first aid kit—tourniture, gauze, morphine.

The movements were quick, but the hands were trembling.

He wrapped the tourniquet around Eva's arm and tightened it. Eva groaned and gritted her teeth.

He pressed the gauze onto the wound, and the white gauze was instantly soaked with blood. He changed to another piece, which was also soaked.

Paul and David stood at opposite ends of the alley, guns at the ready, their eyes fixed on the entrance and the end of the alley.

No one came in, and no one went out.

The North Asians didn't come, and neither did the police.

But they knew it would come soon.

The gunshot was so loud that the whole street could hear it.

Scorpion stood at the alley entrance, watching the flow of people on Jordan Road as order was being restored.

His face was pale, his eyes were sunken, his lips were pressed into a thin line, and the muscles on his chin were taut like a stone.

He had calculated everything perfectly, including the timing, the route, and the best place to strike—but he hadn't anticipated that a sixth-grade girl would be carrying a loaded revolver in her pocket.

"withdraw!"

On Jordan Road, Chen Xiaoyu ran through the crowd.

The backpack bounced on her back, the shoulder straps slipped off her shoulders, she caught them with her elbows, and kept running.

She still held the revolver in her hand, the barrel still hot, making her hands and fingers numb, but she dared not let go, nor dared to look back, she just kept running forward.

I ran across Jordan Road, across Parkes Street, across Bowring Street, and across North Sea Street.

The streets rushed past on either side of her, and the faces of the pedestrians blurred before her eyes. She couldn't see anything clearly, nor did she want to.

All she knew was to run, run home, run to her brother's side.

Fu Rong Street.

She turned into that familiar alley, ran to the door of number 132, pushed open the door, and rushed up the stairs.

The wooden door on the third and a half floor, the one with the peeling paint.

She pushed open the door and rushed inside, but there was no one there.

She closed the door, locked it, leaned against the door, and gasped for breath.

Her legs were trembling, her hands were trembling, and the revolver was dangling from her hand.

She looked down at the gun in her hand.

There were four bullets left in the chamber—she fired two, one hitting the blonde woman in the shoulder, and the other went nowhere.

Chen Xiaoyu leaned against the door panel.

The backpack strap slipped off my shoulder and hung on my upper arm. The zipper was half open, revealing a corner of the pencil case inside. It was made of metal and printed with Mickey Mouse. Mickey Mouse's smiling face looked a little comical in the dim light.

She took off her schoolbag and placed it at her feet, then held the revolver in both hands, examining it from all angles.

The barrel carried a faint smell of gunpowder residue, and there were still four bullets left in the chamber.

She squatted down, unzipped her backpack, and pulled out a small red cloth bag from a hidden compartment. It was about the size of her palm and tied with a rope.

This is what her brother uses to load bullets for her. It always has twelve rounds in it, and he replaces them as soon as she loses a few.

She untied the rope, poured out a few bullets, and rolled them in her palm, their yellowish color gleaming.

One shot, two shots,

She loaded the bullets into the chamber one by one.

My fingers stopped shaking, and my breathing became steady.

When her brother took her to the shooting range, he told her: "Don't rush when loading. Take it one shot at a time, press it all the way down, and only load the next shot when the cylinder is fully engaged."

She practiced many times.

From initially having trembling hands and bullets slipping from his fingers, to now being able to load them with his eyes closed, what lies in between are countless weekend afternoons of tedious, repetitive practice at the shooting range.

Her brother stood behind her, rarely saying a word, occasionally saying "Slow down" or "It's safe."

Later, she no longer needed him to speak; she did everything herself—hitting the gun, assembling it, and cleaning it herself.

The shooting range owner was initially worried that she was too small to hold the gun properly, but after seeing her results—an average of eight rings on the 50-meter chest target, with a maximum of ten rings—he stopped talking.

She pushed the wheel back into place, and with a click, it locked.

He put the remaining ten bullets back into the small red cloth bag, tied it tightly, and stuffed it back into the inner compartment of his backpack.

The revolver was heavy in her hand, the cold metal pressed against her palm.

She didn't put the gun away.

Footsteps could be heard outside.

The footsteps came up from downstairs, landing slowly and steadily on the concrete steps, each step firm and deliberate.

It wasn't the light, habitual gait of someone just passing by; it was the kind of gait that indicated knowing where you were going and what awaited you there.

Chen Xiaoyu understood.

It's brother.

She stood up from the ground, inserted the revolver into the elastic band of her skirt waistband, tightened the elastic band, and secured the gun handle tightly. The skirt hem hung down, just covering it.

The lock clicked once, the key was inserted into the lock, and it was turned twice. The door opened.

Chen Feng stood at the door, wearing a dark short-sleeved shirt, black trousers, and cloth shoes.

His face was expressionless, but when his deep, calm eyes fell on Chen Xiaoyu's face, something inside them stirred, like a fish swimming beneath the surface of water.

Chen Xiaoyu called out.

Chen Feng walked in, closed the door, and locked it.

I looked her up and down—her hair was disheveled, her ponytail was askew, and the pink ribbon was gone.

There was dust on the skirt, a small stain on the knee, and a scratch on the leather shoes—not deep, but you could tell it was from something. His hands had a faint smell of gunpowder residue, but he could smell it.

"Brother, someone's been following me today."

Chen Feng sat down on a rickety wooden chair, looked at her, and waited.

Chen Xiaoyu stood in front of him, picked up her schoolbag from beside her feet and placed it on the table, then tied her crooked ponytail back up. Her hands were steady and her movements were swift.

Then he began to talk, starting from when he left the school gate after school, all the way to when he ran into Fu Rong Street, ran up the stairs, and locked the door.

An alleyway, a blonde woman, a map, asking for directions—she refused, quickened her pace, and reached into the side pocket of her backpack to grip the handle of her gun. The woman followed, very close, close enough to smell her perfume.

She said, "Little friend, don't be afraid, I'm not a bad person."

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

Chen Xiaoyu's voice did not tremble; it was as calm as when answering a question in class, each word uttered slowly and deliberately.

"I turned around, pulled out my gun, and pointed it at her chest. She reached into her trench coat and touched her waist. So I fired."

She gestured – gripping the gun with both hands, arms outstretched, muzzle pointed at the opposite wall. Her posture was perfect; her brother had taught her.

"I shot her on the shoulder, and she crashed into the wall. I turned and ran. As I ran out of the alley, several men rushed in, guns in hand. I didn't stop and ran past them. They were stunned for a moment and didn't have time to chase me."

Chen Feng looked at her, remained silent for a moment, and then gently pressed his hand on the top of her head.

That hand was big and rough.

"Little Rain, don't be afraid."

Chen Xiaoyu shook her head.

"I'm not afraid. I'm just a little nervous."