"Three centimeters? Five centimeters?"
John set down his teacup, the porcelain clinking crisply. "Next time, it'll be closer."
Zhang Jie stared at John for a full ten seconds before suddenly laughing.
His laughter held a hint of madness, a touch of relief: "You truly are a complete bastard."
"Now you're starting to look like a killer."
John tossed him the key, the brass arcing brightly through the air. "Welcome to the real world."
"Today's lesson is: how to observe more carefully. Staying alive and completing the mission are equally important."
John's words seemed to carry a hidden meaning, but Zhang Jie didn't notice.
Steam from the shower condensed into fine droplets on the mirror.
Zhang Jie stood before the mirror, his fingertip gently touching the two-centimeter-long wound beneath his left rib.
Medical sutures left a fine line of black stitches on his skin, like an ugly centipede.
As hot water flowed over the wound, the stinging sensation made him unconsciously tense his back muscles.
[Medical: Lv1 (15 → 18 / 100)]
He reached out to wipe the fog from the mirror, staring at his pale face.
Five months ago, he was a rookie who couldn't even hold a gun steady.
Now, his body already bore its first professional mark—well, at least his first mark since arriving in this world.
A knock sounded on the bathroom door, John's voice muffled through the wood: "The first aid kit is on the nightstand."
"Got it."
Zhang Jie pulled a towel around his waist, water droplets sliding down his spine.
When he pushed open the bathroom door, he found John was no longer in the hallway; only a steaming cup of black tea sat next to the first aid kit.
Outside the bedroom's floor-to-ceiling window, Brooklyn's nightscape blazed with lights.
Zhang Jie sat on the edge of the bed, opened the first aid kit, and skillfully took out hydrogen peroxide and gauze.
The moment the disinfectant touched the wound, his temples throbbed, but his fingers remained steady as a rock.
[Pain Tolerance: Lv1 (62 → 63 / 100)]
After treating the wound, Zhang Jie took a black notebook from the nightstand drawer.
This was a habit he had developed over five months: a detailed debriefing after every training session and mission.
Flipping to a new page, he wrote down today's date, then began to sketch a floor plan of the alley battle.
"First mistake…" The pen nib scratched against the paper, "Didn't confirm the structure of the cane beforehand."
He drew a large question mark beside it.
The old man in the yellow raincoat's cane-knife was a classic trap; he should have been able to spot it.
But at the time, his attention had been diverted by the flickering streetlamp and the old man's deliberately hunched posture.
"Second mistake…"
Zhang Jie's pen tip paused on the paper, the ink blooming into a small black dot, "The Mozambique Drill wasn't fully executed; no follow-up shot! Damn it!"
According to standard procedure, he should have fired two shots to the chest and one to the head.
But under the pressure of real combat, his first shot only hit the knee. Of course, the urgency of the situation played a role, but… a mistake is a mistake, and it absolutely wouldn't have happened if it were John.
Although the final outcome was the same, such a deviation could be fatal in higher-intensity confrontations.
If he had followed up, none of the subsequent events would have occurred.
"Third mistake…"
His pen suddenly stopped mid-air.
Zhang Jie frowned, recalling the scene.
When he was chasing the old man in the yellow raincoat, he completely failed to notice that the strong man, shot in the knee, could still pull out a grenade.
If it hadn't been for luck… "Insufficient environmental awareness."
He heavily wrote these words, the pen tip almost tearing through the paper.
The neon lights outside the window changed colors, casting shifting red and blue shadows on the notebook.
Zhang Jie flipped to the last few pages of the notebook, where simplified maps of all Brooklyn's main roads, alleys, and underground pipe networks were recorded.
He circled his escape route from tonight with a red pen. Although this route avoided surveillance, a section of the sewer he passed through was a dead end. If the police had sealed off the exit at that moment… "I need to find three more backup routes."
He mumbled to himself, his finger tracing possible paths on the map.
Zhang Jie's choice of retreat route was indeed excellent, thanks to John's devilish training over the past three months.
He had already memorized the general map of all of New York, and thanks to the proficiency prompt, [Map Lv1] wasn't his limit; it was New York's limit.
This was essential for a killer: memorizing maps and planning escape routes were basic requirements.
Of course, Zhang Jie simply did it better.
[Map: Lv1 (73 / 100)]
[Environmental Analysis: Lv1 (25 / 100)]
[Tactical Planning: Lv1 (21 / 100)]
[Reconnaissance: Lv1: (35 / 100)]
Just as he was fully engrossed, the door was gently pushed open.
John walked in, carrying a tray with two steaks and salads.
"Eat." John placed the tray on the nightstand. "Then sleep."
Only then did Zhang Jie realize he hadn't eaten in six hours.
The cramping pain in his stomach suddenly became impossible to ignore.
He closed his notebook and took the tray. "Thank you."
John didn't leave; instead, he pulled up a chair and sat by the bed.
His sharp gaze swept over the map Zhang Jie had just drawn, nodding almost imperceptibly.
"Good choice for the escape route." John cut his steak. "But that sewer section is too risky."
Zhang Jie, his mouth full of food, mumbled, "How did you know which way I went?"
"Traces."
John pointed to a tomato in the salad. "The rust marks on your left pant leg are only found in the sewer pipes."
Zhang Jie almost choked on his steak.
He looked down to examine his pant leg and indeed found several faint orange marks. This old fox's observation skills were simply abnormal.
"Next time, I'll take the Myerson Tower's freight passage." Zhang Jie took a sip of water. "Their surveillance is serviced every Tuesday."
John's fork paused mid-air. "How do you know the service schedule?"
"The delivery truck driver who picked up the laundry last week told me."
Zhang Jie shrugged, which pulled at his wound, making him wince in pain. "By the way, the owner of that dry cleaner you frequent is an informant for the Continental Hotel."
John's lips curled into a slight smile: "Looks like I don't need to teach you reconnaissance."
After the meal, John left a brown paper envelope.
Zhang Jie opened it to find detailed files on the three killers from tonight: the old man in the yellow raincoat was a former KGB agent who defected to the US in 1989; the strong man was a retired Marine mercenary; and the tall, thin man was a professional assassin specializing in cold weapons.
But strangely, there was no mention of KH.
Attached to the end of the files was a handwritten manuscript of Zhang Jie's complete movements tonight, even including his retreat through the sewers.
The paths on the manuscript were marked with red pen, indicating times and possible suggestions for improvement.
"F*ck! So detailed…" Zhang Jie flipped to the last page and found a handwritten note:
"First combat score: 68 points. You were lucky to survive. — JW"
Zhang Jie stuffed the files back into the envelope and turned off the bedside lamp.
In the darkness, his fingers unconsciously traced the wound beneath his ribs.
68 points, higher than he expected.
But John was right; there was certainly an element of luck in his survival.
The rain started again outside the window, the sound of droplets hitting the glass surprisingly conducive to sleep.
Zhang Jie closed his eyes, replaying every detail of the night over and over in his mind.
When sleep finally arrived, his last conscious thought was the glint in the old man in the yellow raincoat's murky eyes the moment he turned around—a sight he would never forget.
[Crisis Reaction: Lv1 (41 → 43 / 100)]
The next morning, Zhang Jie was startled awake by the stinging pain of his wound.
Sunlight streamed through a gap in the curtains, casting a golden line on the floor. He reached for the nightstand but touched something cold.
A brand new Glock 34, with a small note tucked beneath it, on which was written a single line:
"For the rookie who survived. — JW"
Zhang Jie picked up the gun, feeling its perfect balance.
As he pulled back the slide to check the chamber, the smooth glide of the metal parts almost brought tears to his eyes.
This was several grades better than the training gun he had used before.
This was a custom model!