At three in the morning, Chinatown was as quiet as a ghost town.
Zhou Mo stepped out through the back door of Old Canton Restaurant, locked up, and walked down the back alley toward his clinic.
Then he saw the blood.
Not a puddle, but a trail, stretching from the alley entrance all the way behind a dumpster.
Zhou Mo paused and activated Wall-Piercing Vision.
Behind the dumpster was a human heat signature.
Its vital signs were faint, and there were no other living creatures within fifty meters.
He walked over.
A Black man lay in a pool of blood.
He looked to be in his early thirties, dressed in a tailored black suit that was now soaked with blood.
There were two bullet holes in his chest, though the rounds had been stopped by a bulletproof vest.
Near his right femoral artery was a far more severe through-and-through wound, blood still bubbling out.
The man was still clutching a compact submachine gun—a modified MP5K with a suppressor attached to the barrel.
His eyes were half-open, his pupils contracting slightly when he saw Zhou Mo.
“Don’t…” his voice was weak.
“Don’t call the police…
Tell Red…
the info was fake…” With that, he passed out.
Zhou Mo squatted down for a quick assessment.
Three gunshot wounds, roughly fifteen hundred milliliters of blood loss.
Without treatment, he would be dead within ten minutes.
He looked around.
The street was deserted, a dog barking in the distance.
“Consider yourself lucky,” Zhou Mo said.
Or unlucky—depending on how things turned out.
He hoisted the man onto his shoulder.
He was heavier than expected, with dense muscle mass.
Returning to the back door of Renxin Hall, Zhou Mo unlocked it and dragged the man into his secret room.
Positioned under the shadowless surgical lamp, Zhou Mo put on a pair of gloves.
The patient was unconscious, his vital signs continuing to drop.
Zhou Mo circulated Nine Breaths of Qi Refinement.
Pressing his palm against the man’s chest, he slowly injected pure life energy, forcibly stabilizing the heart rate and blood pressure.
At the same time, he used Daoyin Technique to control the blood flow around the wound—not stopping it completely, but slowing it to a manageable rate.
Then he began the actual surgery.
Incising the thigh wound, he located the severed femoral artery, clamped it, and sutured it shut.
The bullet lodged in the bone was removed with forceps.
He cleaned, disinfected, and sutured the muscle and skin.
The entire process took forty-seven minutes.
Midway through, the patient twitched from the pain.
Zhou Mo turned on the anesthetic gas valve—just a tiny dose, enough to keep him under without suppressing his breathing.
Surgery finished.
Zhou Mo checked the other wounds.
The bullet marks on the chest were mere contusions; nothing had penetrated the vest.
He removed the man’s suit jacket.
Underneath was a tailored shirt of high quality, completely unbranded.
His pants pockets were empty—no wallet, no ID.
But there was a tattoo on his neck.
A tiny black mark resembling some kind of African totem, with an even smaller line of text underneath: “PMA 1992.” Zhou Mo took a photo for the record.
Next, he examined the weapon.
The MP5K’s serial number was completely ground off, and seventeen rounds remained in the magazine.
“A professional,” Zhou Mo muttered to himself.
He locked the gun in his safe, changed the man into clean hospital scrubs, and hooked him up to IV saline and antibiotics.
Vital signs were stable.
Dawn was breaking.
At eight in the morning, an FBI convoy drove into Chinatown.
Zhou Mo watched from the second floor of the clinic.
Six black Chevrolet SUVs pulled up, and over twenty people in suits got out, splitting into groups to knock on doors house by house.
The lead agent was in his forties, blonde, with an expression as grim as a funeral director.
At nine fifteen, there was a knock at the clinic door.
Zhou Mo opened it.
Two agents stood at the doorway, displaying their badges.
“FBI.
Agent Donald Ressler,” the blonde man said.
“Dr.
Zhou Mo?” “That’s me.” “May we come in?
We have a few questions.” Zhou Mo stepped aside to let them in.
Ressler scanned the clinic, his eyes lingering for a few seconds on the medicine cabinet, the examination bed, and the back door.
“Where were you last night between eleven p.m.
and four a.m.?” “I closed up at eleven last night, went to the restaurant to handle some accounts, and came back around two in the morning,” Zhou Mo said.
“Then I went to sleep.” “Can anyone confirm that?” “Old Wallace at the restaurant.
He was taking inventory when I left.
Also, the corner convenience store’s security camera should have caught me walking by.” Ressler stared at him.
“Have you seen this man?” He produced a surveillance screenshot.
It was blurry, but clearly showed a Black man in a suit at the docks at 1:23 a.m.
Zhou Mo looked closely and shook his head.
“Never seen him.
What did he do?” “It involves a matter of national security.” Ressler put the photo away.
“If anyone comes to you seeking treatment for a gunshot wound, or if you hear of anyone getting shot, you are required to report it immediately.
Withholding information will be treated as obstruction of justice.” “Understood,” Zhou Mo said.
“Though I mostly practice traditional Chinese medicine here—treating rheumatism, stomach trouble, things like that.
Gunshot victims don’t usually stop by.” Ressler studied him for a few more seconds, then handed over a business card.
“Call this number if you get any leads.” After they left, Zhou Mo closed the door.
During the conversation, he had quietly activated Standing Erect Without Shadow—not to turn fully invisible, but to dampen his presence, making his speech and demeanor appear perfectly natural and trustworthy.
It seemed to have worked well.
At ten that night, the wounded man in the secret room woke up.
The instant he opened his eyes, he tried to sit up, his hand instinctively reaching for his waist, only to find his gun gone.
Then he saw Zhou Mo.
“Stay down,” Zhou Mo said.
“I just sutured your femoral artery.
Moving around will tear it open.” “My gun,” the man rasped.
“Locked away.” Zhou Mo sat in a chair.
“Now answer my questions.
Who are you?
Who is Red?
And why is the FBI looking for you?” The patient—Zuma—stared at Zhou Mo for a long time.
He was assessing his situation: the environment, his injuries, and the threat level of the doctor before him.
“Dembe Zuma,” he finally said.
“Red is my employer.
We were betrayed in San Francisco.
An ambush.
I need to contact him.” Zhou Mo handed him a disposable burner phone.
“Use this.
Keep it brief.” Dembe took it and dialed a long number.
Once connected, he spoke rapidly in a language Zhou Mo didn’t understand—likely Xhosa.
The call lasted a minute before he hung up.
“Red thanks you.” Dembe returned the phone to Zhou Mo.
“He will arrange extraction.
Until they arrive, I need a safehouse.
The FBI cannot find me.” “I can help you,” Zhou Mo said.
“But I need to know more.
What were you doing in San Francisco?
Who is hunting you?
This affects my safety.” Dembe remained silent.
His fingers absently rubbed the bedsheet—a telltale habit when he was thinking.
“Red came to meet a defector,” he said at last.
“A bioengineer from Weyland-Yutani who has intelligence on an extraterrestrial biological weapon.
But the meeting site was ambushed by a joint force of the FBI and Weyland-Yutani mercenaries.
They knew we were coming.” “So you have a mole on the inside.” “Or the defector was the trap,” Dembe said.
“I need to confirm with Red.
But the FBI has locked down communication channels.” Zhou Mo stood up.
“I’ll move you somewhere safer.
But in exchange, I want everything you have on Weyland-Yutani.
Especially their research here.” “Why?” “Because they’re conducting dangerous experiments in my city,” Zhou Mo said.
“And I don’t like danger.” Early the next morning, Dembe was moved to the basement of Old Canton Restaurant.
Frank was tasked with delivering food and medicine.
He asked zero questions—a quality Zhou Mo appreciated in him.
Zhou Mo called Remy.
“Two things.
First, launch a full background check on Raymond Reddington.
Second, monitor all FBI activity in Chinatown.
I want to know their search progress and intelligence sources.” “Reddington?” Remy whistled on the other end of the line.
“The most wanted man in the world?
Boss, you’re playing with fire this time.” “He owes us a favor now,” Zhou Mo said.
“And his intelligence network might be far bigger than we imagined.
But the main focus is Weyland-Yutani—their business with the Foot Clan might just be the tip of the iceberg.” “Got it.
Also, there’s movement from the Foot Clan.
They’re working with Weyland-Yutani’s security forces, searching warehouses along the dockland one by one, like they’re hunting for someone—or something.” “The defecting engineer,” Zhou Mo said.
“Keep monitoring them, but maintain your distance.” Three days later, the FBI lifted most of the lockdown, though undercover agents remained on watch.
Remy’s intelligence indicated that they hadn’t found Dembe and suspected he had already left San Francisco.
On the fifth night, Zhou Mo received a package.
Unmarked, left at the entrance of Renxin Hall.
Inside was three hundred thousand dollars in cash, along with a note: “Extraction tomorrow, 11:00 p.m., Pier 37, Fisherman’s Wharf.
—Red.” Zhou Mo counted the cash and locked it in his safe.
Then he called Remy.
“Dembe leaves tomorrow.
Before he does, I want you to dig out everything he knows about Weyland-Yutani, the FBI, and that defecting engineer.
Use whatever means necessary, but don’t harm him.” “Interrogation?” “A chat,” Zhou Mo said.
“Tell him we saved his life, and now we need to know how to save ours.
He’ll talk.” Hanging up, Zhou Mo walked over to the workbench in his secret room.
Two items lay on the surface: an analysis report of Xenomorph cell tissue samples, and Agent Ressler’s business card.
He picked up the business card, looked at it, and set it back down.
“Alien organisms, a global fugitive, the FBI.” Zhou Mo murmured softly, “The stage in San Francisco is getting crowded.”