At 2:30 AM, the San Francisco port area was dead silent.
Zhou Mo stood on the roof of the Pacific Union Freight warehouse, the night wind tugging at the hem of his jacket.
He closed his eyes, extending *Wall-Piercing Vision* across the entire structure.
The night shift guards were dozing off in the monitoring room; the corridors were completely empty.
He held out his hand, and a black memory card materialized in his palm—not constructed through physical assembly, but synthesized directly from atmospheric molecules using *Mediation of Creation*.
The card contained only a single message: [High-ranking official in the FBI San Francisco Field Office involved in the Weyland-Yutani case.
Internal audit recommended.
Source: A concerned citizen of San Francisco.] *Vanishing Trace* activated.
Zhou Mo’s form dissolved from the rooftop, reappearing a second later in the third-floor corridor.
Avoiding every security camera angle, he slid like a phantom toward the office at the end of the hall labeled “Supervisor.” The door was locked.
Zhou Mo touched the keyhole, sending a microscopic thread of energy surging inside.
The internal tumblers rotated silently, popping open with a faint click.
He pushed the door open, slipped inside, and pulled it shut behind him.
The office was plain: a desk, a file cabinet, and a map of the Bay Area.
Zhou Mo walked to the desk and set the memory card beside the keyboard—in a spot that was obvious to anyone sitting down, yet shielded from direct camera view.
Mission accomplished.
Rather than retracing his steps, he triggered his Earth-traversal arts.
His body sank into the floor, passing through layers of concrete and rebar before emerging cleanly from the ground in the alley behind the warehouse.
The entire process took less than three minutes, without setting off a single alarm.
*** Back in the secret room of Renxin Hall, Zhou Mo stood in the center, surveying the ten-square-meter space.
Packed with equipment, intelligence files, and stacks of medicinal herbs, it was becoming uncomfortably cramped.
“Time for an expansion,” he muttered.
*Turning Earth to Steel* activated.
The four walls of the hidden room began to vibrate—not collapsing, but compressing inward.
The molecular structure of the stone and mortar reshaped itself, growing dense and rock-hard.
The wall thickness shrank from twenty centimeters down to ten, while its structural strength tripled, freeing up half a meter of space.
*Moving Mountains and Stones* followed immediately after.
The soil and bedrock ten meters beneath the floor were quietly shifted away, expanding the room upward and downward.
The ceiling rose half a meter, and the floor dropped by the same measure.
The entire transformation generated no noise and no vibration, as though the room had merely taken a quiet stretch.
The renovated secret chamber expanded to fifteen square meters with a noticeably higher ceiling.
Zhou Mo reorganized his workbench, herb cabinets, and equipment racks.
He even added a small lounge area in the corner, complete with a chair and a small table.
“Good enough for now.” He wiped the dust from his hands and headed upstairs to sleep.
*** At 9:00 AM, inside SHIELD’s San Francisco Command Center, Phil Coulson picked up the black memory card that had inexplicably appeared in his office, his brow deeply furrowed.
The technical team had already finished their analysis.
“The card’s material composition is unique,” a technician reported.
“It’s completely untraceable.
The data was written in a single pass with no deletion or modification logs.
The content…
is an anonymous report detailing a mole inside the FBI.” Coulson inserted the card into a reader.
The brief message flashed onto the monitor.
“Same methodology as before,” Melinda May said, standing beside him.
“Delivered silently with zero trace left behind.” “Though it’s a bit more direct this time,” Coulson noted.
“‘A concerned citizen of San Francisco’…
at least he has an alias now.” “Should we investigate?” “We have to.” Coulson pulled the card from the reader.
“Initiate background checks on the senior leadership at the FBI San Francisco Field Office.
Keep it quiet.
Don’t spook them.” He turned toward the window, where the San Francisco skyline stood out sharply in the morning light.
“Who is this ‘concerned citizen of San Francisco’?
And why is he helping us?” “Maybe he has a personal grudge against Weyland-Yutani,” May suggested.
“Or maybe he *is* the mole, trying to use us to eliminate his rivals.” “Both are possibilities.” Coulson turned around.
“Either way, the intelligence itself is worth verifying.
Let me know the moment you find anything.” *** At 12:30 PM, while taking a break at the clinic, Zhou Mo received a call from Skinny Monkey.
“Doctor Chow, we’ve got a lead,” Skinny Monkey said, keeping his voice down.
“Regarding the Russian Gang, we managed to get a copy of their cigarette smuggling ledger.
Johnny got it through his connections at the freight company.
It lists exact dates, quantities, and buyers.” “Good,” Zhou Mo said.
“Hold onto it for now.
Don’t use it until the critical moment.” “Understood.
The Irish Gang side is trickier,” Skinny Monkey continued.
“They control the construction unions.
Our Shunda Freight tried to pick up transport contracts for building materials at construction sites, but we got blocked.
Union rules state all haulage must use their designated fleets.” “Then look at it from a different angle,” Zhou Mo replied calmly.
“The construction workers still need to eat lunch, don’t they?
Old Canton Teahouse can launch a meal-set delivery service straight to the job sites.
And those workers need to send money back to their families, right?
Tonghui Wire Express can setup temporary service booths near the sites.” “Ah…
I didn’t think of that.” “Take your time.
Don’t rush,” Zhou Mo said.
“An economic war isn’t won in a day.
Infiltrate first, then erode their base.
The Russians and the Irish are tougher nuts to crack than the Vietnamese gang; have patience.” “Got it.” Skinny Monkey paused briefly.
“One more thing—several warehouses in the dock district were abandoned after the Foot Clan pulled out.
Should we move in and…” “Don’t touch them yet,” Zhou Mo interrupted.
“Those places might still be under surveillance by Weyland-Yutani or the FBI.
Wait until the heat dies down.” “Right.
We’ll do as you say.” Hanging up, Zhou Mo returned to sorting his medicinal herbs.
Sunlight streamed through the window, painting the dried Angelica roots a bright golden yellow.
*** At 11:00 PM, the aroma of hot food drifted through the secret room beneath Renxin Hall.
Zhou Mo had set up a folding table in his newly expanded lounge area, laden with three plates of fried rice, two plates of fried noodles, and a large bowl of savory soup.
Remy and Leslie sat across from him, looks of mild shock on their faces.
“Boss, you know how to cook?” Remy picked up his chopsticks.
“Basic survival skill.” Zhou Mo sat down himself.
“Try it.
Authentic Chinese late-night comfort food.” Leslie carefully picked up a bite of fried rice with her chopsticks and tasted it.
As she chewed, her eyes widened.
“This…
is delicious,” she said.
“Better than any Chinese restaurant I’ve been to.” “That’s because those restaurants adapt their recipes to suit American tastes,” Zhou Mo said, ladling a bowl of soup for her.
“This is the real thing.” Remy had already wolfed down half a plate of noodles.
“Boss, it’s a crime for you not to open a restaurant.
Old Canton should hire you as their head chef.” “Cooking once in a while is fine, but doing it every day is exhausting.” Zhou Mo scooped some fried rice into his own bowl.
“Besides, being a doctor is safer.” “Safer?” Leslie let out a soft laugh—the first time Zhou Mo had seen her smile.
“Is anything you do even remotely safe?” “Relatively safe,” Zhou Mo corrected.
“At least I don’t have guns pointed at my head every single day.” The three ate and chatted comfortably.
Remy shared some bizarre rumors from the underground intelligence circuit, while Leslie mentioned that her control over her ability had improved—she could now use micro-electrical arcs to charge a smartphone battery.
“Though it’s rough on the hardware,” she added dryly.
“I fried three phones before I got one to work.” “Progress requires sacrifice,” Zhou Mo noted.
“Use old, discarded phones to practice next time.” Leslie picked up another bite of fried noodles, then hesitated.
“Will eating this much make me gain weight?” Remy nearly choked on his food.
“You?
You generate electricity!
Your metabolic rate is double a normal person’s.
I bet you’ll burn off all these calories before morning.” “Really?” “Really,” Zhou Mo confirmed with a nod.
“Superpowered bodies burn an immense amount of energy.
Eat up, or you won’t have enough gas in the tank.” Reassured, Leslie went back to enjoying her meal.
Halfway through dinner, Zhou Mo suddenly paused, his chopsticks frozen mid-air.
*Wall-Piercing Vision* automatically flared outward, expanding its range across several city blocks.
Three blocks away, inside an office building belonging to the Irish Gang, he detected an anomaly.
A compact thermal signature was moving through their main vault at an impossible speed—far too fast for a normal human.
The vault’s electronic lock was being jammed by a high-frequency signal, and the security feed had been frozen on a frame from thirty seconds ago.
Someone was breaking into the vault.
“What’s wrong?” Remy asked, noticing his shift in tone.
“Nothing.” Zhou Mo picked up his chopsticks again.
“Just thought of some neighborhood business.” He resumed eating, though he mentally recorded the exact location.
It wasn’t his concern right now, but it was certainly worth keeping an eye on.
Once they finished their late-night meal, Remy and Leslie helped clean up the table.
Zhou Mo saw them out through the back door.
“Training continues tomorrow,” he told Leslie.
“We might have a new assignment next week.” “Understood.” After the two left, Zhou Mo returned to the hidden chamber.
He unrolled a map of the city, located the Irish Gang’s office building, and marked the spot with a black pin.
“The Irish Gang’s vault…” he murmured under his breath.
“Interesting.”