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

Night falls earlier and deeper in the harbor than in the city of Beijing.

The salty sea breeze poured in through the open window, carrying the distinctive smells of engine oil, fish, and the unfamiliar scent of the distant ocean. After eating, Xiaoyu, soothed by Chen Feng's gentle voice, fell into a deep sleep. Even in her dreams, one hand remained tightly gripping the corner of the blanket, her brow slightly furrowed, as if fragments of fear still lingered on the edge of her dreams.

Chen Feng sat on the chair by the bed, using the faint beams of light from the distant port lighthouse that occasionally swept across the room, to do a final check of his equipment. His Type 54 pistol was polished to a gleaming shine, its magazine full, cleverly concealed in a specially made quick-draw holster behind his waist, hidden by the hem of his faded work jacket. His dagger was tucked into his boot, within easy reach. He carefully hid the Type 56 submachine gun and the remaining explosives in a gap under a loose brick in the floor—carrying them would be too conspicuous, and leaving them for Xiaoyu to use in self-defense would be too dangerous.

Finally, he pulled out the two fake work IDs he'd obtained from the black market in Beijing from his inner pocket. The photos on the IDs differed somewhat from his current appearance, but the embossed seal and format were convincing enough in the dim light. The name on one was "Wang Jianguo," the company was "Liaoning Yingkou Fishery Company," and the reason for the trip was "purchasing liaison." Xiaoyu's ID corresponded to "Wang Xiaoyun," and the relationship was "younger sister, accompanying her on a family visit."

He carefully put away his documents and checked the cash he was carrying—about five hundred yuan, which he divided into several different pockets and hidden bags. The remaining thousand-plus yuan in cash, along with the gold and silver jewelry he had obtained during the "cleanup" of Beijing, were wrapped in layers of oil paper and waterproof cloth and stuffed deep into Xiaoyu's pillow. This was their life-saving money, and also their potential "toll money" in the future.

After doing all this, he got up and walked to the bedside, leaning over to look at his sister's sleeping profile. The light was dim, and her long eyelashes cast faint shadows under her eyes, making her thin face appear especially fragile in her sleep. Chen Feng reached out and gently brushed away the damp strands of hair from her forehead, his fingertips feeling the cool temperature of her skin.

"I'm going to take care of something, I'll be right back," he whispered, as if promising her, or perhaps vowing to himself. "You get some sleep, and lock the door. Don't open it for anyone except me."

Xiaoyu, who was fast asleep, seemed to hear it and unconsciously hummed in response, loosening her grip on the corner of the blanket a little.

Chen Feng straightened up, took one last look around the simple but temporarily safe room, then gently opened the door, slipped out, and carefully locked the door from the outside. The old wooden door made a clear "click" sound when the lock engaged, which was particularly clear in the quiet corridor.

He walked silently down the creaking wooden stairs. At the guesthouse reception, the middle-aged woman who had been eating sunflower seeds had been replaced by a yawning young man who was reading a dog-eared martial arts novel by the dim light of a small table lamp, completely oblivious to Chen Feng's coming downstairs.

Stepping out of the guesthouse, a salty, damp night breeze swept over me, carrying the unique coolness of a harbor night and the lingering echoes of its bustling activity. The streets were sparsely populated, the streetlights dim, with only the distant docks still brightly lit, the faint roar of loading and unloading machinery and the shouts of night shift workers drifting through the air.

Chen Feng did not head towards the dock. He determined his direction and walked towards the old western district of the city, which was more dilapidated and chaotic than the port area.

Based on the scattered information provided by Skinny Monkey earlier, and his intentional or unintentional inquiries at the dock and nearby teahouse that afternoon, the black market transactions and underground connections in Tianjin Port were mainly concentrated in an area called "Catfish Alley" near the old dock in the west of the city. This area was a melting pot of all sorts of people, making it an ideal place to gather information and find "special" connections.

He walked slowly but steadily, his eyes scanning his surroundings sharply in the shadow of his hat. His work clothes and slightly weathered, dark face made him look like an ordinary sailor or dockworker who had just disembarked and was looking for some fun or to take care of some "personal business," and he didn't attract much attention.

The further west you go in the city, the narrower the streets become, the dimmer the lights, and the lower and more dilapidated the buildings on both sides grow. The air is filled with a more complex smell—not just the fishy and damp musty odor, but also the mingled scents of cheap tobacco, cheap liquor, rotten food, and a certain indescribable sense of decay that comes from the struggles of the lower class and the gray areas of society.

After passing through several alleys filled with sewage and piles of garbage, Chen Feng could faintly hear voices and loud music ahead. He knew he was almost there.

The entrance to Catfish Alley is a narrow alleyway that can only accommodate two people side by side. There isn't even a decent street lamp at the entrance; only the flickering light from the low storefronts on both sides barely illuminates the uneven cobblestone pavement. The alley is crowded with all sorts of stalls and shops—there are grocery stores selling cheap cigarettes, alcohol, candy, and tea; barbershops with low-hanging curtains and dim lighting (which also offer certain special services); teahouses filled with smoke, the clatter of mahjong tiles, and boisterous laughter; and a few small restaurants with tattered canvas hanging outside, a few greasy tables inside, and the smell of cheap food.

All sorts of people frequent this place. There are drunkards wearing tattered t-shirts and slippers, reeking of alcohol; skinny men with shifty eyes, looking around suspiciously, clearly pickpockets or brokers; young women dressed flamboyantly, leaning against the doorway, flirting with passersby; and a few "outsiders" like Chen Feng, dressed in work clothes, with serious expressions, looking like they have serious business to attend to.

Chen Feng lowered the brim of his hat and slowly walked into the alley. Various smells and sounds rushed in like a turbid tide. He ignored the curious, scrutinizing, or ill-intentioned glances from both sides, calmly scanning the shop signs and the people inside.

He was looking for a suitable "entry point." Directly inquiring about "snakeheads" or "ways to go abroad" would be too conspicuous and arouse suspicion. He needed a more "conventional" black market transaction as a cover, such as... exchanging foreign currency or buying gold.