The night at Warehouse 7 at the pier was thick with the scent of rust and seaweed.
Ah Biao stood in the shadow of a shipping container, constantly checking his watch.
“Dammit, why aren’t they here yet?” Behind him stood two of his men, hands shoved deep into their pockets, gripping their handguns.
Footsteps echoed from the distance as two men in leather jackets walked into the warehouse.
One was bald; the other wore his hair in a ponytail.
They walked with the tense, alert posture of military guard dogs.
“Where’s the money?” the bald man asked.
Ah Biao kicked the duffel bag at his feet.
“Fifty thousand.
Where’s the target?” “Inspect the goods first,” Ponytail said.
Ah Biao unzipped the duffel bag, revealing stacks of neatly banded bills.
The bald man squatted down, pulled out a stack, flicked through it with his thumb, and nodded.
“Target dossier.” Ponytail handed over a manila folder.
Just as Ah Biao reached out to take it, his heart suddenly felt as though it were being squeezed by a pair of iron pliers.
Searing pain, suffocation, and a sudden blackout washed over him.
He staggered back a step, losing his grip on the duffel bag.
Stacks of cash scattered across the floor.
“Brother Biao?” His men rushed forward to support him.
Ah Biao sank to his knees, gasping desperately for air.
It felt as though his very life force was being instantly drained away—a sensation a hundred times worse than the most brutal hangover.
He looked up and saw the bald man and Ponytail backing away warily, their hands reaching for their waists.
“Not…
not us…” Ah Biao wanted to explain, but he couldn’t form a coherent sentence.
Right then, an explosion shattered the warehouse ceiling.
It wasn’t a massive blast, but a highly localized, precise breach directly above the bald man and Ponytail.
As fragments of sheet metal and dust rained down, the two men rolled away instantly.
A playing card spun through the air, embedding itself into a wooden crate next to the duffel bag.
The face of the card was the Ace of Spades.
“Ambush!” Ponytail drew his gun.
A second card flew in, striking his wrist.
It wasn’t a cutting impact, but an explosion—small, yet incredibly precise.
The pistol flew from his grip, leaving his wrist a bloody, mangled mess.
The bald man immediately opened fire in retaliation, his bullets striking the steel girders and throwing off sparks.
A third card zipped in from a completely different angle, hitting an oil drum near the bald man’s feet.
The drum ruptured, spraying fuel that immediately ignited into a wall of flame.
Cursing, the bald man leapt away, and Ponytail dragged him along as they beat a hasty retreat.
The entire chaotic skirmish lasted less than a minute.
By the time Ah Biao’s men helped him to his feet, the shooters were long gone.
Two-thirds of the money in the duffel bag was missing, and the remainder lay scattered in the oil and grime.
“Brother Biao…
the money…” “Go after them…” Ah Biao rasped weakly, though he knew deep down there was no catching them now.
Inside the ventilation shaft of the warehouse ceiling, Remy pocketed his playing cards and spoke into a micro-microphone.
“Job’s done.
Both shooters are wounded.
I took forty thousand and left ten behind to keep up appearances.” “Fall back,” Zhou Mo’s voice came through the earpiece.
Standing on the roof of a freight office building three hundred meters away, Zhou Mo lowered his binoculars.
The effect of the negative energy absorption was even stronger than he had anticipated.
A high-intensity, short-duration drain could instantly incapacitate an ordinary person.
It was just somewhat mentally draining, like running a marathon all at once.
He walked downstairs, got into his car, and drove back to the clinic.
*** Three days later, Skinny Monkey walked into Renxin Hall, clutching his stomach.
“Dr.
Zhou, I have to trouble you again.” “Have a seat.” Zhou Mo checked his pulse and examined his tongue.
“Stomach pain, abdominal distension, and belching.
Have you been under a lot of stress lately?” Skinny Monkey let out a bitter laugh.
“The gang’s affairs…
Ah Biao is keeping his head down now, but he left me a complete mess.
The ledgers are in shambles, and the underlings aren’t falling in line.” Zhou Mo retrieved his needles and sterilized them.
He inserted them into Skinny Monkey’s Zusanli, Neiguan, and Zhongwan acupoints.
As the needles went in, a trace of positive energy was infused.
It wasn’t meant to cure the stomach ailment directly, but rather to soothe his anxiety and lift his spirits.
Ten minutes later, the needles were removed.
Skinny Monkey let out a long, relaxed breath.
“Incredible, Dr.
Zhou.
I feel so much better.” “Illness is born of the mind,” Zhou Mo said, writing down a prescription.
“Your stomach issues are caused by excessive worry, leading to liver qi invading the stomach.
Take your medicine on time and try to worry less.” Skinny Monkey took the prescription, hesitating for a moment.
“Dr.
Zhou, there’s something…
I’d like to do for you.” “Go on.” “I plan to declare Uncle Chen’s street, as well as the area around your clinic, a ‘no-disturbance zone.’ From now on, the Wah Ching gang won’t collect protection fees there, nor will anyone cause trouble.
Consider it my way of repaying you.” Zhou Mo looked up.
“Is that within the rules?
Won’t the gang brothers have objections?” “Rules are made by people,” Skinny Monkey said.
“Those streets don’t bring in much money anyway.
Most of the residents are elderly, and we barely squeeze anything out of them.
It’s better to do you a favor and get some peace of mind.” “Then thank you, Brother Hou.” “Don’t call me Brother Hou.
Just call me Skinny Monkey.” Skinny Monkey stood up.
“If anything comes up in the future, just let me know.
I still have some say in this territory.” He left his consultation fee and departed.
Zhou Mo placed the money in his drawer.
Inside the drawer lay three different ledgers: the flow of Wah Ching’s protection money, the lease records for the pier warehouses, and the rake cuts from several underground casinos.
All of this information had been “accidentally” slipped by Skinny Monkey or gathered through Uncle Chen’s neighborhood gossip.
The first step of control was understanding how the money flowed.
*** At nine o’clock that evening, in the secret room.
Leslie stared at the forty-watt lightbulb on the workbench, her finger hovering over the electrical contact point.
“Deep breath,” Zhou Mo said.
“Visualize the current as a stream of water.
You want to open the faucet, but don’t turn it on too high.” “I know.” Leslie closed her eyes and lowered her finger.
The lightbulb flickered, then glowed with a stable, white light.
She maintained the flow for three minutes before breaking the connection.
“Very good.” Zhou Mo checked a box in his notebook.
“Next exercise.
Try to draw a circle with an electrical arc.” “Draw a circle?” “Precision control training.” Zhou Mo set up two metal plates spaced ten centimeters apart.
“Make the arc jump from the left plate to the right, but have it follow a curved trajectory, not a straight line.” Leslie tried five times.
The first four resulted in straight-line jumps.
On the fifth attempt, she barely managed to curve the arc, but it quickly dissipated.
“Your emotions are heavily affecting it,” Zhou Mo said, pointing to the wave pattern on the monitor.
“Right before every failure, there’s a small spike here.
Is it frustration?” “Yes,” Leslie admitted.
“When I can’t do it, I get anxious.
And once I get anxious, it only gets worse.” “Then remember that spike,” Zhou Mo said.
“The next time you feel that emotion rising, consciously slow down and take a deep breath.
Controlling your power isn’t just about controlling the current; it’s about controlling yourself.” He pulled out a silver bracelet adorned with three small jade beads.
“Wear this.
It will help stabilize you.
It’s not a cure-all, but it will buy you half a second of reaction time.” Leslie took the bracelet and slipped it onto her wrist.
A cool, soothing sensation of peace immediately washed over her.
“Who exactly are you?” she asked suddenly.
“A doctor?
A scientist?
Or something else?” “I’m someone who wants to help you,” Zhou Mo said.
“Is that not enough?” Leslie stared at him for a few seconds, then dropped the subject.
*** Late at night, Remy walked into the secret room, his left forearm wrapped in bandages.
“Got nicked a bit.” He sat down and unraveled the bandage.
There was a slash wound—not deep, but clean and precise, clearly made by a sharp blade.
Zhou Mo cleaned the wound, applied ointment, and bandaged it.
“What happened?” “Wah Ching has an underground casino in a basement on Broadway.
I was keeping watch when I saw two figures in black slip inside.
Their movements were incredibly fast, definitely not ordinary thugs,” Remy said.
“I followed them in and found them rifling through the ledgers.” “Foot Clan ninjas?” “Most likely.
Low-level ones, but highly skilled.
I wanted to keep one alive, so I threw a card to knock him out, but the other one drew his blade instantly.” Remy gestured to his wound.
“The blade was incredibly fast.
I detonated a card to force them back, and they escaped through the ventilation shaft.” Having finished dressing the wound, Zhou Mo washed his hands.
“What was in the ledgers?” “That casino is mainly run by Ah Biao, and the accounts are a complete mess.
But over the last few months, there have been several large transactions of unknown origin.
The ninjas were likely trying to steal those records.” “The Foot Clan is starting to infiltrate local gangs,” Zhou Mo murmured.
“Or they’re looking for something.” “Do you need me to dig deeper?” “Not for now,” Zhou Mo said.
“Let’s handle another matter first.
Plant someone close to Skinny Monkey.
Not in a high-ranking position—preferably someone in charge of chores who can easily access daily information.” “What’s the budget?” “Under a thousand.
Find someone sharp, with a clean background.
Ideally, someone whose family is struggling and needs the money.” Remy nodded and adjusted his bandage.
“One more thing.
Over at the Continental Hotel, Elektra checked out today.
Informants say she spent three hours wandering around Chinatown before heading to the port district.” “What is she looking for?” “I’m not sure.
But someone was asking the warehouse managers at the port if they had seen an Asian male in his twenties, who showed up around March or April of this year, possibly injured.” Zhou Mo tapped his fingers on the desk.
“Understood.
Keep observing, but maintain a safe distance.” After Remy left, Zhou Mo walked over to his information board.
The board was currently divided into four main areas: Wah Ching, the Foot Clan, Livewire, and Elektra.
He drew lines connecting them, writing “Chinatown” in the center.
Skinny Monkey had already seized seventy percent of the gang’s power, and Ah Biao was half-crippled.
Through Skinny Monkey, Zhou Mo could control the underground flow of information in this district.
Livewire’s training was on the right track.
Though she was far from completely controlled, at least she wouldn’t go around blowing up streets anymore.
The Foot Clan was active in the shadows, their motives unclear.
And Elektra was drawing closer step by step.
Zhou Mo picked up a marker and wrote a small note next to Elektra’s name: *Port district, warehouses, March/April.* That was the exact window when Martin Li had escaped from the laboratory.