Brad’s plan was brutally simple: at three in the morning, take four trusted henchmen, pry open the Wah Ching Gang’s underground vault in Chinatown, take all the cash and gold, and drive to Los Angeles.
“Boss Brad, what about the security cameras?” a henchman asked.
“Cut the wires.” Brad stuffed gloves and crowbars into his backpack.
“That useless waste Skinny Monkey—his security system is still from five years ago.
Ten minutes in and out, and we’ll be on the road before dawn.” What he didn’t know was that Skinny Monkey was sitting in the monitoring room right next door to the vault at that very moment, watching six screens.
Four displayed the area around the vault, and two showed the street.
“Is Dr.
Chow’s information accurate?” Skinny Monkey asked his confidant beside him.
“The time and location are spot on,” the confidant said.
“Brad went to the hardware store this afternoon and bought hydraulic cutters and crowbars.
His guy, Little Ma, was bragging at the bar just now, saying they were pulling off a huge score tonight.” Skinny Monkey checked his watch: 2:45 AM.
“Get ready.” At exactly 3:00 AM, Brad and his four men appeared in the back alley.
Two kept watch while three began prying open the back door.
The door lock crushed under the hydraulic cutters like a cracker.
They slipped into the hallway and headed straight for the vault’s iron door.
Brad pulled out a key he had secretly duplicated back when he was second-in-command.
The door opened.
Then the lights flicked on.
Over a dozen men poured out from rooms on both sides, armed with steel pipes and machetes.
Skinny Monkey walked out of the monitoring room, holding a thermos.
“Brad, coming to withdraw money so late without even saying hello?” Brad’s face turned pale as ash.
“You…
how do you…” “How do I know?” Skinny Monkey took a sip of tea.
“Because I’m smarter than you.
Take them down.” A chaotic brawl broke out.
Brad’s men fought desperately, but the numerical disadvantage was far too great.
Three minutes later, all five were pinned to the ground.
Brad’s forehead was bleeding, and one of his eyes was swollen shut.
“By gang rules,” Skinny Monkey said.
Two burly men dragged Brad out to the courtyard.
According to the old rules, embezzlement and betrayal demanded the punishment of “Three Blades, Six Holes”—three stabs, each piercing clean through the body, leaving six wounds.
The first blade pierced through his thigh.
Brad shrieked in agony.
The second blade pierced through his shoulder.
He blacked out.
The third blade pierced through his other thigh.
“Dump him outside the city,” Skinny Monkey said.
“Let him fend for himself.
Anyone who harbors him shares the same crime.” After dealing with Brad, Skinny Monkey returned to the monitoring room and made a call.
“Dr.
Chow, it’s taken care of.
Thanks for your…
heads-up.” “I didn’t do anything,” Joe Chow said over the line.
“I just noticed you weren’t looking well yesterday and reminded you to rest and not overwork yourself.” Skinny Monkey chuckled.
“Understood.
I’ll drop by another day to pay my respects.” Three days later, the Wah Ching Gang held a small celebration at the Dragon Pavilion Restaurant.
Skinny Monkey officially took charge, taking the head seat at the main table.
Joe Chow didn’t attend, but he had someone deliver a valuable moth orchid.
Hidden inside the flowerpot was a little extra: a miniature bug, crafted by Remy, with a battery that could last three months.
The night after the celebration, Skinny Monkey arrived at Renxin Clinic carrying a gift box.
“Dr.
Chow, just a token of my appreciation.” Inside the gift box were two cartons of premium cigarettes and a bottle of imported liquor.
Joe Chow glanced at it without taking it.
“Brother Hou, I’m a doctor.
I don’t smoke or drink.” “My mistake for not considering that,” Skinny Monkey said hurriedly, placing the box on the table.
“Actually, I came today because I wanted to ask a favor of you, Dr.
Chow.” “Speak.” “We have a lot of brothers in the gang.
It’s inevitable someone gets sick or injured in a fight.
I want to invite you to be our…
health consultant.
You don’t need to do much day-to-day, just give our brothers priority when they need treatment.
Naturally, the medical fees will be doubled.” Joe Chow remained silent for a moment.
“Brother Hou, I’m a legitimate doctor.
I don’t want to be tied to gang affairs.” “I understand, I understand,” Skinny Monkey said quickly.
“It’s just in name only.
We won’t involve you in any gang business.
And I guarantee the area around your clinic will be kept completely peaceful.
If anyone dares cause trouble, I’ll be the first to deal with them.” Joe Chow looked at Skinny Monkey and finally nodded.
“Medical consultation and emergency treatment only.
No involvement in gang affairs, and this identity stays confidential.” “No problem!” Skinny Monkey breathed a sigh of relief.
“Thank you, Dr.
Chow.” After he left, Joe Chow opened the gift box.
Underneath the cigarettes was an envelope containing twenty thousand dollars in cash.
“Consultation fee,” Joe Chow murmured, tucking the money away.
Another week passed, and Remy brought news.
“The informant is planted.
Frank, thirty-two years old, runs the warehouse.
He owed twenty grand in gambling debts, which I paid off.
Now he owes us his life.” “Is he reliable?” “His wife just had their second child, so he needs the money.
And he isn’t stupid—he knows who offers a real future.” “Have him report regularly.
Warehouse entry and exit logs, personnel movements, unusual cargo.” “Understood.” Remy paused.
“There’s one more thing.
Elektra has started contacting intel brokers.
She’s inquiring whether any Asian male was severely injured and sought medical treatment, or suddenly appeared in San Francisco, around March or April.” Joe Chow tapped his fingers on the desk.
“Guide her.
Feed her false information through our channels.
Say a few smuggling boats docked around that time, and some people were sent to hospitals, but they either died or fled afterward.
Keep the details vague and contradictory.” “Keep her running in circles?” “Keep her busy.” An abandoned quarry on the outskirts of town, 10:00 PM.
Leslie stood in the middle of the open lot, staring at a dead tree twenty meters away.
Hanging from its branches were three paper leaves tied with thin strings.
“The rules are simple,” Joe Chow said.
“Use an electric arc to sever the leaves without damaging the tree branches.
From left to right.” “How far?” “Ten meters.” Leslie took a deep breath and raised her hand.
The first electric arc shot out, slender and precise as a scalpel.
The leftmost leaf fell.
The second arc struck, and the second leaf drifted down.
With the third arc, her trajectory strayed by three centimeters, grazing the branch and striking the ground.
“Two leaves,” Joe Chow wrote in his notebook.
“Control accuracy improved by sixty percent.
Emotion-correlated cognition is forming well.
You got a bit rushed on the third leaf, but you adjusted quickly.” “I still failed.” “A passing mark,” Joe Chow said, closing his notebook.
“Next month we begin new content: learning to attach electrical energy to physical objects.
For example, charging a blade, or recharging a battery.” “What’s the point of that?” “Plenty,” Joe Chow said.
“You could jump-start a car ignition or short out a door lock.
Control isn’t just about destruction; it’s also about creation.” Leslie looked at her hands, where gentle electric arcs danced across her fingertips.
“A month ago, I almost blew up half the city.” “Now you only blew up three leaves,” Joe Chow said.
“That’s major progress.” They drove back into the city.
On the way, Leslie suddenly asked, “Why are you helping me?
Don’t tell me it’s just out of the goodness of your heart.
I don’t buy it.” “I need your abilities,” Joe Chow stated plainly.
“But I need controllable power, not a random disaster.
Helping you control it is helping myself.” “Fair enough,” Leslie looked out the window.
“Keep the training going.
At least now, I don’t feel like a monster anymore.” Late at night, in the secret room beneath Renxin Clinic.
Joe Chow had three reports spread out before him.
The first was a monthly financial summary of the Wah Ching Gang provided by Frank.
Protection fees brought in eighty-four thousand, casino rake sixty-two thousand, and dock storage fees thirty thousand.
Expenses included payroll, payoffs, and a new Mercedes for Skinny Monkey.
Net profit was around forty thousand.
The second was Livewire’s training data.
Her control precision curve was steadily climbing, and peak emotional fluctuations were gradually decreasing.
Note: [Recommended to introduce combat simulation in the next phase.] The third was Elektra’s investigation movements compiled by Remy.
She had already contacted seven intel brokers and bought four conflicting reports on population movements.
Latest movement: she had begun checking hospital records.
Joe Chow wrote annotations on each of the three reports.
For the Wah Ching Gang: “Control expenses, reduce violent activities, transition toward gray-market commercial operations.” For Livewire: “Conduct first combat simulation next Thursday.
Location TBD.” For Elektra: “Continue interference.
If necessary, plant false evidence suggesting the ‘target is deceased.'” He stood up and walked over to the intel board.
It was now densely covered in notes, interconnected by lines: the Wah Ching Gang, the Foot Clan, Livewire, Elektra, financial markets, underground intel networks.
It resembled a spiderweb gradually taking shape.
And he sat right at its center.
The phone rang.
Joe Chow picked it up.
“Boss, Skinny Monkey just called,” Remy said.
“The Italians want to negotiate dock warehouse shares with him.
He asked, ‘Does Dr.
Chow think my health is suitable for such taxing business?'” “Tell him his liver fire is high lately, so he should rest and avoid getting worked up,” Joe Chow said.
“Negotiating is fine, but don’t rush into decisions.
Listen more, observe more.” “Understood.”