Zhang Jie sat on the edge of his apartment bed, clutching the worn diary, his fingertips gently tracing the yellowed pages.
Five months of training, two High Table missions, one month of tasks, countless bullets and wounds.
His body had adapted to this rhythm, but his mind was still somewhat weary.
Pistol: Lv2 (88/100)
Rifle: Lv2 (75/100)
Shooting: Lv2 (71/100)
Combat: Lv2 (85/100)
Crisis Response: Lv1 (82/100)
The stats had indeed increased, but it wasn't enough.
He sighed, tossing the diary aside.
He had already read this thing to pieces, but aside from the original owner's trivial complaints and Lisa's scattered words, there was almost no useful information.
"What kind of normal person keeps a diary?"
Do you?
I certainly don't!
Zhang Jie scoffed, shaking his head.
He himself never wrote one, but the original owner seemed to be an exception.
What he did each day, how much money he earned, even the details of his dates with Lisa—everything was recorded clearly.
But precisely the most crucial parts—what happened on the warehouse mission day, why the bullets were damp, what did Lisa take?
He didn't know!
"Damn it..."
He rubbed his temples, a headache brewing.
"Forget it, let's get some gear first."
Zhang Jie stood up and pulled out the gold coin from a drawer, the one John had given him, his pass to the Continental Hotel.
He would take it with him!
He hoped 3000 dollars would be enough!
Brooklyn's underground arms market was hidden in an inconspicuous alley, with a dilapidated hardware store as its entrance.
When Zhang Jie pushed the door open, the boss was smoking a pipe and reading a newspaper, without looking up: "What do you want?"
"Four glock 34 magazines, five hundred rounds of 9mm hollow-point bullets."
Only then did the boss look up, sizing him up: "You haven't been here in a long time."
Zhang Jie: ?
What did he mean?
The boss's eyebrows twitched; he put down the newspaper and pulled out four magazines from under the counter.
"Magpul PMAG 21-round magazines, good value, lightweight design, 4 more rounds than the standard version."
Zhang Jie took the magazines, weighed them in his hand, and nodded with satisfaction.
"How much?"
"1200 dollars."
"..."
Zhang Jie's mouth twitched.
He was going to be broke again!
The wail of a pauper echoed in his heart.
He took a deep breath, pulled out the cash from his wallet, counted out 20 bills, and placed them gently on the counter.
The boss's eyes narrowed.
"Add a dagger, a Cold Steel Black Bear, 7-inch blade."
In the evening streets of Brooklyn, Zhang Jie walked with a black nylon weapon bag, in a good mood.
Now he had plenty of ammunition; at least next time, he wouldn't have to count his bullets before firing.
Then, he was attacked.
Yes.
Without warning.
A blonde woman in a beige trench coat brushed past him, her long hair sweeping his shoulder, carrying a faint scent of perfume.
The next second, her right hand drew a three-inch Razor from her hair.
Zhang Jie's Crisis Response instantly flared, but his body was still half a beat too slow.
Hiss—
The blade grazed his left arm, tearing a slit in his shirt sleeve, and blood beads seeped out.
"Fuck!!"
He sharply recoiled, his right hand already reaching for the glock at his waist, but the woman gave him no chance to draw his Pistol.
Her movements were incredibly fast; she clung to his body as if boneless, the Razor striking again from a strange angle, this time aiming for his throat.
Zhang Jie barely managed to turn his head to avoid it, the blade tip grazing his chin, leaving a burning sensation.
Close-quarters combat!
He immediately gave up on drawing his Pistol, instead blocking with his left arm, and his right hand formed a fist, delivering a hammer blow towards the woman's temple.
She arched her body like a cat to dodge, simultaneously thrusting her knee into his abdomen.
Zhang Jie cried out in pain and retreated, his back hitting the wall, and the woman had already lunged at him again.
Thanks to John's close-quarters combat training!
His muscle memory instantly took over his body.
When the woman's Razor struck for the third time, he no longer dodged but met it directly, taking the blow with his left arm, while simultaneously grabbing her wrist with his right hand and twisting it sharply.
Crack.
The sound of a dislocated joint.
The woman grunted, but surprisingly didn't let go; the Razor remained tightly clutched in her palm.
Her left hand suddenly drew a short stiletto from inside her trench coat, aiming directly for Zhang Jie's eyes.
Zhang Jie dodged by tilting his head, then used the momentum for an over-the-shoulder throw, slamming her hard onto the ground.
But the woman twisted her body like a snake, rolling to absorb the impact the moment she landed, kneeling on one knee, and when she looked up, a smile was on her lips.
"Not bad," her voice carried a certain Eastern European accent, "much better than last time."
Last time?
Zhang Jie froze for a moment.
In that split second of vulnerability, the woman had already sprung up, the Razor once again slashing towards his carotid artery.
He barely leaned back, the blade tip leaving a bloody mark on his collarbone.
"Who exactly are you?!"
The woman didn't answer; instead, she suddenly changed her move, the Razor changing from a slash to a thrust, aimed directly at his heart.
Zhang Jie could no longer hold back; his right hand drew the newly bought Cold Steel dagger, and sparks flew as it blocked.
Amidst the clash of metal, he suddenly lifted his leg, delivering a front kick to the woman's abdomen, sending her flying two meters away.
She knocked over a trash can but immediately scrambled to her feet; as her trench coat hem flared, Zhang Jie saw another knife strapped to her thigh.
A professional killer.
And she wasn't after money; she was after his life.
The woman shook her dislocated right wrist, and amazingly, reset it herself; the crisp crack of bone snapping back into place made his teeth ache.
"Again?"
She tilted her head, her smile as sweet as if inviting him to dance.
Zhang Jie's breathing was a bit ragged, and the wound on his left arm burned, but he knew he couldn't show weakness now.
"What exactly do you want?"
The woman didn't answer.
But Zhang Jie's sense of danger blared again; he instinctively dived forward.
Bang!
A bullet grazed the back of his head, striking the nearby fire hydrant, sending sparks flying.
Where did the sniper come from!?
By the time he looked back, the woman had vanished, leaving only the lingering hem of her trench coat and a faint scent of perfume in the alley.
Zhang Jie leaned against the wall, gasping for breath, the wound on his left arm still bleeding.
That woman knew him.
"Weakling, you're much stronger than last time."
Last time?
Had they fought before?
In the original owner's memory?
He looked down at the Cold Steel dagger in his hand, its blade reflecting his pale face.
Lisa's shadow seemed to overlap with that woman for a moment.
"Damn it..."
He put away the dagger, picked up his weapon bag, and quickly left the alley.
This attack was no accident, and that woman, who exactly was she?
Back in his apartment, Zhang Jie locked the doors and windows, drew the curtains, and then collapsed onto the sofa.
The wound on his left arm had been roughly bandaged, but it throbbed faintly.
He took the glock 34 from his waist, skillfully disassembled, oiled, and reassembled it, then filled four magazines.
84 bullets.
This time, he wouldn't have to be so frugal.
Outside, the New York night deepened, neon lights casting blurry shadows on the glass.
Zhang Jie stared at the ceiling, his thoughts drifting to that woman—her skill, her knife, and her enigmatic phrase, "last time."
What else was hidden in the original owner's memories?
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