"You're two minutes late."
The Professor took a sip of coffee. "But considering you were the only one to find the correct safe, you passed."
Zhang Jie's Glock had 5 bullets left, and his face was covered in blood and sweat. "This is a fucking test?"
"Not entirely." The Professor pulled out a gold card. "Now you are officially a member of the High Table's assassin organization."
Zhang Jie looked at the five "contemporaries" being escorted over and suddenly laughed. "So this is the High Table's welcoming party? Fucking unique."
As he spoke, Zhang Jie was looking at John.
He understood that John wouldn't play a crucial role, as he was already retired.
But as a guide, he needed to be present.
The redhead's ponytail was undone, and she flipped him off with her other good hand.
The bald strongman's shotgun had been confiscated, and he was cursing loudly.
The dreadlocked youth's jaw was shattered—yes, shattered by a shot from Zhang Jie.
The Asian man looked utterly dejected.
"Welcome to the real game." John placed his coffee cup on the safe. "By the way, congratulations, you've officially graduated."
Zhang Jie looked at his almost empty Glock, then at his five future "colleagues," and suddenly felt the old wound in his ribs start to ache again.
"John, I hate you."
"I know."
Only the Professor's eyes, hidden behind gold-rimmed glasses, flashed with a hint of coldness… The rainy nights in Brooklyn always carried a mixed scent of rust and gasoline.
Zhang Jie stood below his apartment building, looking up at his window, where a light was on.
"Fuck…"
He instinctively touched the Glock 34 at his waist; the magazine was full, but there were no bullets in the chamber.
The wound on his shoulder throbbed faintly, and the bruise on his left leg made his steps a little unsteady.
The moment the key entered the lock, a familiar perfume scent wafted from the crack in the door—Mrs. Schneider's "Midnight Rose," cheap enough to kill a pigeon.
Damn it, the old lady wasn't asleep!
"Zhang—Jie—!"
The door was yanked open, and Mrs. Schneider's heavily powdered face was right in front of him.
Her fake eyelashes were especially exaggerated today, flapping like two small black fans, and her bright red lips were almost stretched to her ears.
"You fucking know how to come back?!"
Zhang Jie's eardrums buzzed.
"Uh…"
Just as he was about to speak, Mrs. Schneider's index finger poked his nose.
"Five months! A full five months!"
With her other hand, she dramatically pulled out a stack of bills from her pajama pocket, rattling them loudly. "Rent for 824 days! Utility bills for five months! Trash disposal fee! Hallway fright fee! And—"
She suddenly leaned closer, narrowing her eyes. "Are you fucking doing those unspeakable things again?"
Zhang Jie's pupils suddenly constricted.
Mrs. Schneider grabbed his collar and dragged him into the room.
The door slammed shut behind him. Only then did Zhang Jie realize that his shabby apartment was spotless, the floor was polished enough to reflect his image, the sheets were new, and even the fridge was full of food.
"Don't think I cleaned it for you!" Mrs. Schneider glared at him fiercely. "My granddaughter Max couldn't stand it! That silly girl insisted you'd starve to death out there!"
Zhang Jie looked down at himself; his tactical pants still had bloodstains, his cuff was torn, and the gun in his holster at his waist was clearly for a specific purpose to anyone with an eye.
Mrs. Schneider's gaze swept over him, then she suddenly sneered. "Not only are you not dead, but you're living quite comfortably!"
Zhang Jie's Adam's apple bobbed.
The old lady turned and walked towards the kitchen, still chattering. "Young people these days, always disappearing without even a phone call!"
She took a steaming plate of lasagna from the microwave. "Eat it! Don't starve to death in my house!"
Zhang Jie stared at the plate of pasta and suddenly felt a lump in his throat.
"…How much?"
He asked dryly.
Mrs. Schneider's mouth twitched, as if holding back some emotion, then she suddenly slapped a new bill down. "Adding emotional damages, it's a total of 2000 dollars!"
I knew it!
Zhang Jie was silent for two seconds, then pulled out a thick wad of cash from his pocket—exactly 2000 dollars, earned from occasional missions during this period.
Mrs. Schneider's eyes lit up, but she immediately put on a stern face again. "Don't think this is over!"
She snatched the money, counting it quickly with her fingers. "Window cleaning fee! Air purification fee! And—"
Zhang Jie was speechless. Noticing his shoelace was loose, he bent down to tie it.
Just then, a brass bullet casing rolled out of Zhang Jie's pocket and landed on the floor with a "ding."
The room suddenly fell silent.
Mrs. Schneider's gaze was fixed on the bullet casing, which had a small "W" engraved on its base.
Zhang Jie quickly bent down to pick it up, but the old lady was faster.
She picked up the casing, weighed it in her hand, and her expression suddenly became complex.
"This is…"
Her voice suddenly dropped.
"A souvenir," Zhang Jie replied cautiously.
Mrs. Schneider's thumb caressed the "W" engraving, and a flicker of emotion Zhang Jie couldn't decipher crossed her cloudy eyes.
But the next second, she slapped the casing onto the table with a "thwack." "Don't try to fool me with this junk!"
She turned and walked towards the door, her back stooped but somehow strangely upright. "Wash the dishes after you eat! And—"
She paused at the door, without turning around. "…Next time you're going to die, pay the rent in advance. 2000 bucks isn't enough!"
The door closed.
Zhang Jie sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the bullet casing on the table, his thoughts drifting back to the chaotic shootout at the bank.
He took out his notebook and roughly sketched the bank's floor plan.
"Mistake one, insufficient environmental observation. I didn't even notice the ventilation ducts at the time,"
He bit the pen cap.
"Mistake two, ammunition management out of control!"
"Glock 34, 18-round magazine, fired 13 rounds…" He calculated on the paper. "I should have rushed the shotgun strongman when he had 2 rounds left, but I was tricked by his reloading time."
"The dumbest thing was not chasing that old man," Zhang Jie circled the words "yellow raincoat" fiercely. "Otherwise, I could have learned more!"
"Also, while my usual training seems good, in real combat, there's still a lot lacking."
Actually, he was quite good at the Mozambique drill, but in real combat, he still couldn't maintain calm judgment, leading to continuous mistakes—this was fatal!
The rain outside grew heavier, and he recalled John's teaching: "An assassin's most valuable assets are not marksmanship, but calmness and judgment."
Just then, his phone vibrated.
It was a message from John: "Meet me at the usual spot tomorrow."
Zhang Jie frowned. It seemed retirement was just a pretense for John; the High Table wouldn't easily let go of assassins like them.
He rubbed his temples and got up to wash the dishes in the kitchen.
As he washed the dishes, his thoughts drifted again.
Although he passed the test this time, he knew he still had many shortcomings.