010, donation skull

Zaire, his face stern, withdrew the massive machete.

He flicked the blade, shedding a mix of red and white.

The machete looked as good as new.

As expected from a finely crafted Catachan weapon.

It didn't take much effort for Zaire to end Sergei's brief life.

Zaire wasn't a bloodthirsty person by nature.

But to maintain a peaceful and tranquil life,

Staining his hands with blood was a necessity and since this not first time he done this.

Using the tip of his military boot, Zaire nudged Sergei's corpse.

He noticed that in Sergei's hidden hand, a phone with its recording function activated was still running.

Clearly, Sergei had not realized his mistake.

Zaire bent down to pick up the phone.

He also took anything that could identify Sergei, as well as the small amount of cash left in his pockets.

Then, after carefully cleaning up any traces left at the scene,

He turned and left.

Midnight had passed.

The earlier clear night sky

Was now gradually covered by thick clouds.

The air was becoming more humid,

A heavy rain seemed imminent.

By the tidal East River,

Warehouse No. 10 facing the Brooklyn Bridge was hidden among numerous buildings.

If one were to investigate on paper, they would find this small warehouse

Owned by an inconspicuous publicly traded company in Manhattan, used for storing idle items.

Under layers of disguise, as long as the comings and goings were kept discreet and the personnel's appearances were watched,

Even the police could be used to guard the warehouse.

Vladimir Vich.

It was through this clever plan that he quickly gained the favor of the gang leader.

And became one of the notorious leaders of the tracksuit gang.

However, recently,

The rapid changes in the underworld

Had left Vich in a difficult position, no longer as prosperous as before.

Do criminals need order?

To some extent, yes.

The unwritten rules of gangs can help most criminals evade legal punishment.

They also prevent conflicts between gangs from escalating and causing economic losses.

However, when these unwritten rules are fully realized

And become inviolable orders,

Vich was surprised to find

His degree of freedom was even less than that of an ordinary New York citizen.

But Vich had no way out.

Above him were the calculating and ruthless gang leaders,

And the even more terrifying underworld king.

Below him were the gang members relying on him, and the diminishing criminal profits.

In the concrete jungle,

Vich, as a mid-level leader of the tracksuit gang, could only struggle to survive...

In the brightly lit warehouse, wooden crates were piled high.

In a small clearing surrounded by crates,

Vich, with a serious expression, sat cross-legged at a table.

He was meticulously counting stacks of old cash.

These were the criminal profits he was about to turn in.

Even a single missing bill could result in severe questioning from the gang leaders.

So, the dedicated Vich dared not be careless and always handled it himself.

Due to the significant interests involved, to prevent anyone from getting ideas,

Vich hadn't brought much manpower.

Only two trusted confidants were guarding the warehouse.

Buzz, buzz.

At that moment, his phone vibrated in his jacket pocket.

Vich blinked a few times to relieve his dry eyes, then pulled out the phone.

"Ha…"

He twisted his neck, trying to relax, and after glancing at the message, let out a chuckle.

"How I miss those wild and simple youthful days…"

Vich sighed.

The message was from his cousin Sergei.

It contained no words.

Just a racy photo of Sergei celebrating with some naked women.

Vich chuckled and put the phone away.

After their first crime,

The unspent adrenaline always seeks an outlet in two things:

Women and drugs.

Until the criminal methods become routine,

The numbed feelings no longer stir any emotion.

One day, Sergei would understand this feeling too...

"Hmm?"

Suddenly, Vich frowned.

He instinctively grabbed a submachine gun from the table.

Something felt off about the environment.

And the warehouse was too quiet...

Where was the sound of his confidants smoking and chatting, and their patrolling footsteps?

"Yinwan? Nikolai?"

Vich called softly, listening intently.

But when he received no response,

Click!

Vich, expressionless, pulled the bolt of the gun.

He agilely leaped off the table, hiding in the angle formed by several crates.

The warehouse lights above were warm and bright.

But sweat was starting to bead on Vich's forehead.

Even his palms gripping the gun were sweaty.

Forcing Vich to repeatedly wipe his palms,

To prevent the gun from slipping and ruining everything.

After a moment of silence,

Vich swallowed and called out into the eerily quiet warehouse:

"Friend! If Yinwan and Nikolai are still alive, please spare them! They are just men trying to make a living, with families to support…"

"What do you need? If I can help, I won't refuse! The cash on the table, if you're not afraid of gang retaliation, take it… If it's not enough, there are ten kilograms of high-purity drugs in the black crate in the corner, worth millions!"

For a while, only the faint echo answered him.

Vich was sure the intruder wasn't a cop...

If not a hitman from a rival gang,

Then it had to be those mysterious 'vigilantes'!

Thunk, thunk, thunk!

Suddenly, a basketball-sized round object was thrown from a narrow aisle in the warehouse.

After several bounces, it rolled to Vich's feet.

A single glance made Vich's face pale!

He closed his eyes, a mournful sound escaping through gritted teeth.

"Yinwan!"

It was a human head.

A familiar face bloodied and unrecognizable.

Eyes pierced by long, thin nails!

At the base of the nails stuck in the eye sockets, several strips of torn toilet paper were wrapped around!

At that moment, the blood-soaked toilet paper clung to the face,

Like a grotesque Halloween mask.

Horror mixed with absurdity, terror brewed into dread!

Breathing heavily, Vich opened his bloodshot eyes wide.

He gritted his teeth and shouted:

"I swear to God! The tracksuit gang will hunt you down forever! And your family! We'll kill everything you care about! Even if your family is just a dog, we'll find it, chop it up, and deliver it to you! You're dead meat!"

Bang, bang, bang—

Fueled by rage, Vich aimed his gun from behind the crates,

Firing wildly in all directions!

Hot shell casings hit Vich's face,

Making him flinch.

But every time his peripheral vision caught the gruesome head,

The mix of sorrow and fury drove him mad again!

Click, click!

The submachine gun's magazine emptied with a loud click.

Vich panted heavily, trembling fingers reaching for his waist,

Ready to reload.

Whoosh—

But at that moment, a nail wrapped in toilet paper

Silently shot through the gap between two crates.

It struck Vich's hand with pinpoint accuracy!

"Ah!"

Vich screamed, the gun slipping from his sweaty grip.

Before he could react,

More nails, like bullets, shot out!

Piercing Vich's face!

Penetrating flesh and bone!

.....................

Stones?

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