Starting as dockworkers, they swept through Chongqing.

There was a three-second silence at the firing range.

Then, it exploded with a loud bang.

Whistles, table-banging, and stomping came rushing in like a flood.

Several sailors raised bottles above their heads and yelled at the young man's back, their voices loud enough to lift the roof off.

"Ten shots!"

"Damn, ten shots, all hit!"

"Who has ever seen a moving target hit the bullseye ten times in a row?!"

Sean's wine glass fell to the ground and shattered before he could react.

Bridget's mouth was open, but he couldn't say a word.

The young man had already gone to the scoreboard to confirm his score with the red-haired woman.

Old Rick stood still, motionless.

The cheers around him were deafening, but he couldn't hear anything.

He stared at the young man's back, his lips moved slightly, but no sound came out.

He was still clutching the training gun he had spent half the day cleaning.

The gray cloth on the gun barrel was polished to a shine, like a mirror.

A long time passed.

All the crowd's attention was drawn to the scoring table, and old Rick walked to the front of the shooting line in a corner where no one was paying attention.

He raised his gun.

"Launch the target."

His voice was so hoarse that he didn't even recognize himself.

The first eagle target was launched.

boom.

It's off-center.

The second one.

boom.

It's off-center.

My hands are shaking.

It's not because of the cold, it's not because of old age.

He couldn't explain why.

All ten bullets were fired.

The first shot missed.

Old Rick put down his gun.

There were no cheers, no laughter, and no one even turned around to look at him.

Everyone crowded around the scoring table, eager to see the young man pick something from the prize pool.

Old Rick looked down at his rough, calloused fingers for a long time.

The gas lamp on the tin wall crackled and flickered, casting a dim, flickering shadow on his face.

He gently placed the training gun back on the table, turned around, and walked towards the door.

"Damn it, they're taking advantage of my weak frame and inability to use a gun properly, resorting to all sorts of underhanded tricks!"

Suddenly, old Rick cursed, spat, and walked away with his hands on his hips.

......

Three blocks into the working-class area, there is a three-story Western-style building.

It occupies a considerable area, with withered vines climbing the blue brick exterior walls, and the two iron gates are closed year-round, without even a sign hanging at the entrance.

The neighbors couldn't say who lived in the building, only that it used to belong to a wealthy man. Later, it changed owners, and there weren't many people coming and going, but they were all formidable.

The heating pipes in the living room on the second floor were hissing.

An old man was reclining on a mahogany chaise lounge. His hair was white and sparse, and his face was so wrinkled that it could trap a fly.

He yawned deeply, his eyelids drooping, as if he could fall asleep at any moment.

Footsteps echoed down the stairs.

Calm, but with a hint of haste.

A middle-aged man walked in, around forty years old, with high cheekbones, a hooked nose, and prominent brow bones—he bore a resemblance to Irma, but was twenty years older, with deeper lines around his eyes and a more defined jawline.

The old man took a cigar from the coffee table and put it in his mouth.

The middle-aged man, quick as a flash, pulled a lighter from the inside pocket of his trench coat, flicked it on, and brought it to the old man's lips.

The firelight illuminated two faces.

The old man took a drag, and the smoke slowly drifted out of his nostrils, dissipating into the warm air.

"sit."

The middle-aged man pulled out the chair opposite him and sat down, his back straight, his hands resting on his knees, like a subordinate waiting to be reprimanded.

The old man took another puff before speaking.

"An old friend greeted me."

The middle-aged man didn't speak, but his fingers tightened slightly.

"Your nephew," the old man said calmly, as if commenting on the weather, "went too far. He got a club-wide beating."

The living room was quiet for a few seconds.

The heating pipe made a "gurgling" sound.

The middle-aged man's Adam's apple bobbed.

"...Is this all over?"

His voice was low, but every word carried a harshness, like being cut by a dull knife.

"My sister only has one son."

The old man didn't reply, his cigar held between his fingers, a small amount of ash falling onto the carpet.

"My sister passed away two years ago," the middle-aged man's fist clenched and unclenched, his knuckles white, "and now her son is dead too. How am I going to explain this to my family?"

The old man squinted and exhaled a cloud of white mist.

The mist dispersed under the warm yellow chandelier, like a thin veil.

Then he laughed.

It wasn't mockery, nor was it consolation; it was the kind of indifferent smile that comes from someone who has seen life and death many times.

"Now you're caught off guard."

The middle-aged man's lips were pressed into a thin line.

The old man placed his cigar on the edge of the ashtray, shifted his position in the recliner, and the wooden frame creaked.

"They said we should be a little more careful here."

He extended a withered finger and pointed it at the middle-aged man.

"Just bear with it for the next year or two."

The middle-aged man's brows furrowed even more, and his lips pressed down as if he had swallowed a mouthful of molten iron.

The old man picked up his cigar again, took another puff, exhaled white smoke, and spoke in a neither loud nor soft tone.

"Once nobody cares anymore—"

He paused.

The sound of carriage wheels rolling over the stone road came from outside the window, distant and muffled.

"Whether a student is beaten to death, fatally injured, or dies of illness..."

The old man's eyelids finally opened a crack, revealing cloudy eyes that were devoid of warmth.

"What does this have to do with us?"

The middle-aged man remained silent for a long time.

The only sounds in the living room were the hissing of the heating pipes and the faint crackling of burning cigars.

His fist loosened.

"good."

Just one word.

The old man nodded in satisfaction, took another puff of his cigar, this time a deep drag, and the tip of the cigarette glowed for a moment, like an eye in the darkness.

"The most pressing matter right now," his tone shifted from casual to serious, like a stone thrown into water, "is the Greywater River."

The middle-aged man was sitting with his back slightly forward.

"Have you found a suitable boat?"

"I'm watching."

"This won't do," the old man said, tapping his cigar into the ashtray, the ash falling in a flurry. "I need you to keep a close eye on things. Make sure the goods come in safely; not a single ship can have any problems."

The middle-aged man opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something.

Nothing else matters.

The old man interrupted him.

"Your sister's affairs, your nephew's affairs, are not important."

That's a cold statement.

The cold made the muscles on the middle-aged man's face twitch.

But he did not refute it.

The old man stared at him for two seconds, as if to make sure he had taken his words to heart.

"If you get this done for me, I'll take the pressure off you."

"I'll talk to the higher-ups about Irma's matter; you don't need to worry about it. I'll make the necessary payments and take care of the relationships."

The middle-aged man's shoulders relaxed slightly.

Then the old man's voice suddenly dropped by half a octave.

"Can't do it well—"

The heating pipe made another "gurgling" sound, as if something had turned over inside the pipe.

"Just fill it with cement and let it sink into the ash-filled river."

This sentence was flat and lacked any threatening tone.

It is a statement.

The middle-aged man's back stiffened for a moment.

He has known this old man for almost twenty years.

Over the course of twenty years, he had seen the old man smiling as he drank tea with people, smiling as he discussed business, and smiling as he crossed people's names off the roster.

Of those who were crossed out, some sank to the bottom of the Greywater River, some were buried in the wasteland outside the city, and some simply disappeared as if they had never existed.

The old man never said harsh words.

Because everything he said was true.