At six in the morning, Zhang Jie was awakened by a piercing knocking sound.
He sprang from his bed, his right hand already reaching for the Glock under his pillow, only to realize it was Mrs. Schneider poking the ceiling with a broom.
"Wake up!" the old lady's voice penetrated the floorboards, "Today's 'sunshine usage fee' has gone up to 50 dollars!"
"Damn it!"
Zhang Jie rubbed his temples; a hangover-like headache made his vision blur.
Last night's debriefing had lasted until three in the morning, and his dreams were filled with images of the bank shootout: the red-haired woman's miniature pistol, the roar of the bald strongman's shotgun, and that damned bullet casing engraved with a 'W'... He dragged his weary body out of bed, his foot hitting something hard—the original owner's diary, its cover still stained with dried blood.
"Why didn't they throw it away when they cleaned?"
Zhang Jie mumbled.
Outside, the Brooklyn sky was just beginning to turn a fish-belly white, and Mrs. Schneider's radio had already started playing today's "Rent Collection Special." The old lady's unique "bill broadcast" aired promptly at six every morning, its content ranging from overdue rent to "air breathing fees," covering everything imaginable.
Zhang Jie sighed, bent down to pick up the diary, and casually took a swig from a half-empty bottle of whiskey on his nightstand.
The moment the alcohol burned his throat, he recalled John's words:
"A killer's most valuable assets aren't their marksmanship, but their composure and judgment."
And now, his judgment was clearly muddled by a hangover and Mrs. Schneider's noise.
Opening the diary, the yellowed pages were filled with messy, mixed Chinese and English entries:
"July 15: Lisa said she wanted a new bag, but the commission was only enough for a knock-off..."
"August 14: Liu Ziqiang borrowed the last 500 bucks, said he had a big job,..."
Zhang Jie's fingertip paused on the last page—what the original owner had written before he died:
"September 8: The warehouse mission that Qiangzi introduced feels wrong, the bullets are damp... Lisa, I'm sorry."
The handwriting suddenly became distorted here.
"Fuck..." Zhang Jie closed the diary, suddenly feeling a tightness in his chest.
A simp, in the end, still had nothing, not even his life!
It had been over five months, and this was the first time he had seriously considered the original owner's past—that unlucky Chinese killer, betrayed by his brother, deceived by a woman, and finally dying due to a rookie mistake.
And now, all those messes had become his.
No, that's not right. He didn't want to deal with any of this mess at all.
He walked to the window, watching the bustling crowd on the street below.
Brooklyn mornings were always like this, filled with the smell of cheap coffee and hot dogs, and the hurried footsteps of ordinary people.
They wouldn't know that in some apartment, a killer was reading another killer's last words.
Zhang Jie suddenly felt a bit ironic.
He had transmigrated, taking over the original owner's identity, yet he hadn't even figured out how the original owner had died.
"Lisa..."
He whispered the name, a blurry image appearing in his mind: blonde hair, blue eyes, a sweet smile, and a delicate ladies' watch on her wrist.
That watch, he felt like he had seen it somewhere... The afternoon sun in Brooklyn was scorching, Zhang Jie, wearing a baseball cap and sunglasses, squatted outside a convenience store, eating a hot dog.
He had planned to go to the library to do some research, but as he passed a Chinese restaurant, he saw Liu Ziqiang through the glass window—the scoundrel who had taken the original owner's money—boasting with a few thugs around a hot pot table.
"...That batch of goods is definitely fine! The Russian personally inspected it!" Liu Ziqiang slapped the table, his face flushed, "It's just that the commission is a bit low..."
Zhang Jie's hot dog fell to the ground.
"Liu Ziqiang, die for me!"
Hearing this, Liu Ziqiang shivered, thinking his enemies had come for him, and quickly ran off.
Three seconds later, a pig-like scream came from the alley behind the restaurant.
"Who?! I—" Liu Ziqiang was knocked over a trash can by a flying kick, and before he could get up, Zhang Jie grabbed him by the neck and pinned him against the wall, "Jie, Brother Jie?!"
When Liu Ziqiang heard that roar earlier, he had taken off running, but Zhang Jie still caught up to him.
Zhang Jie didn't say a word, just punched him in the face.
The sound of a broken nose was particularly crisp.
"Where's Lisa?" He tugged at Qiangzi's collar, his voice as cold as ice.
Liu Ziqiang's face was covered in blood, crying like a child whose candy had been snatched: "She, she tricked me! Nothing happened between us! That bitch isn't some exchange student at all, she's a professional marriage scammer! All my green card money is gone..."
Zhang Jie was stunned.
So, this bastard was also a victim after all this time?
He let go, and Qiangzi immediately collapsed to the ground, sobbing: "Brother Jie, I'm sorry... But those damp bullets really weren't my doing! It was Ivan from the Tarasov gang..."
As he spoke, Liu Ziqiang kept observing Zhang Jie, noticing that the current Zhang Jie seemed to have undergone a complete transformation, no longer as weak as before.
Zhang Jie's pupils suddenly contracted. Ivan?
Isn't that the bald strongman he had shot in the leg at the warehouse, in his last memory?
In the evening, Zhang Jie sat on the terrace of John's villa, playing with the 'W' bullet casing.
"So," John took a sip of whiskey, "your ex-girlfriend is a scammer, your brother is an idiot, and you..."
He glanced at the bruise on Zhang Jie's face, "...got injured fighting in a restaurant alley."
Zhang Jie rolled his eyes: "That bastard had chili powder hidden under his fingernails."
Yes, while Zhang Jie was lost in thought, Liu Ziqiang had ambushed him, giving Zhang Jie a punch, but the end result was Liu Ziqiang getting one of his legs broken by Zhang Jie himself.
John suddenly laughed. This was the first time in five months Zhang Jie had seen him laugh genuinely.
"Do you know why you're still alive?" John put down his glass, "Because you still get hit by chili powder in a fight, you're the only one in this business."
Just as Zhang Jie was about to retort, his phone suddenly vibrated. It was a text message from Mrs. Schneider:
"Two cans of beer are missing from the fridge, 100 dollar fine. PS: Hannah asked if you want to go to her clinic to bandage your wounds this weekend (20% off)"
"..."
He looked at the text message, and for some reason, he thought of the notebook, and also the Tarasov gang that Liu Ziqiang had mentioned... Back in the apartment, Zhang Jie sat on the edge of his bed, staring blankly at the diary.
"Lisa..." he murmured, "An American white woman, why would she target a poor killer like the original owner?"
He flipped to a page in the diary, on which was scrawled:
"Lisa said she works on Wall Street... She's really drunk, she doesn't even know what the Dow Jones Industrial Average is!"
Zhang Jie frowned.
This woman clearly had problems, but the original owner didn't even notice?
"Being in love really kills people..." He sighed.
The next day during training, John looked at the bruise on Zhang Jie's face and, uncharacteristically, said a few more words.
"Do you know why killers can't fall in love?"
John wiped his 1911, not even looking up.
"Because it's distracting?" Zhang Jie answered casually.
"No," John sneered, "Because women are harder to predict than bullets."
Zhang Jie: "..."
So, you're hinting at me here?
Thanks a lot! After all that, aren't you also a widower!
Of course, Zhang Jie didn't dare to say that out loud, otherwise, he would definitely be met with a beating.
He couldn't even imagine that, given John's love for his wife.
"Here's your mission."