Chapter 2

The next day at 3 PM.

The barcode scanner at the checkout counter emitted a monotonous beeping sound. I mechanically scanned the product barcodes and stuffed a box of cereal into a plastic bag. The plump woman in front of me counted coins, placing them one by one on the counter.

That string of gibberish has been swirling in my head all day last night.

I smoked half a pack of cigarettes in the early hours, repeatedly analyzing the possibilities. Maybe Ethan's phone was hacked, maybe he accidentally pressed the keys in his panic, or maybe it wasn't even him who sent it. There were too many possibilities, too little information. But all day today, the phone screen hasn't lit up again.

"Here's five cents in change." I handed the coin to the fat woman, who muttered something and walked away.

"Boss, how much is this?"

I looked up. A woman in her thirties stood behind the counter, wearing a wrinkled nurse's uniform, her eyes slightly red, looking like she had just finished a night shift. Her backpack was open, revealing the corner of a brown wallet.

"A box of band-aids and two bottles of sports drinks."

I nodded and turned to get the goods from the shelf.

The doorbell rang. Out of the corner of my eye, a young man with dyed blond hair slipped in. His eyes darted around, his hands were in his pockets, and he kept glancing left and right as he walked. His fingers slipped into the woman's bag, pinched the edge of her wallet, and gently pulled it out.

He turned to leave.

"Wait!" The woman turned around, her face instantly turning deathly pale. "My wallet! It contains my rent money! Eight hundred dollars!"

The blond-haired man had already reached the door without turning his head.

"Stop!" The woman rushed over, but he pushed her away, causing her to stumble and fall onto the shelf, scattering cans all over the floor.

"etc."

My voice rang out in the convenience store.

The blond-haired man stopped, turned around, and asked with a provocative smile, "What did you say?"

I walked to the door and blocked his way: "Give me back my wallet."

"What wallet?" He shrugged. "I didn't take anything."

"Ten seconds ago, your right hand reached into her bag."

The blond-haired man's smile froze. He pulled a switchblade from his pocket, the blade springing out: "Don't force me to use a knife!"

The tip of the knife was trembling.

He swung his knife at me. I dodged the blade, grabbed his wrist holding the knife, pressed my thumb against his radius bone, and twisted the joint. Crack. The switchblade fell to the ground. The blond-haired man screamed and collapsed to his knees.

"wallet."

He trembled as he pulled out the brown wallet, threw it on the ground, clutched his wrist, and stumbled away.

The woman picked up the wallet, checked the cash inside, and her eyes reddened: "Thank you... thank you..."

"It's nothing." I turned and walked back to the cashier. "Please take care."

She hesitated for a moment, paid the money, and quickly left.

I went to the monitoring room and pulled up the recording. On the screen, the wrist-grabbing motion was so fast it only left a blur. Deleted. Deleted the backup too.

An hour later, the roar of motorcycle engines shattered the silence of the street.

Three modified motorcycles were parked in front of the convenience store. Yellow-haired man stood at the front, his right hand in a sling across his chest, his face contorted with malice. Beside him stood a dozen or so burly, tattooed men. The leader was a bald man with a cobra tattooed on his neck, carrying a baseball bat. Jake "Razor" Malone, the leader of the Third Street gang in the South.

He kicked the door open.

"That's him!" the blond-haired man pointed at me.

Jake sized me up, the baseball bat scraping against the floor with a harsh sound. "I heard you're good at fighting?" He grinned maliciously and smashed a glass bottle on the shelf with the bat. Whiskey spilled all over the floor.

For the next five minutes, I watched them smash all the glass, overturn the shelves, and empty the cash register—there was only $237 inside. I stood behind the counter, motionless.

Be patient. They'll leave once they've vented.

Jake seemed to have had enough fun. He threw down the baseball bat: "Alright, guys, let's go."

Just then, the doorbell rang again.

The woman stood at the doorway, holding a bag of medical supplies. She froze when she saw the mess before her.

Jake turned around, his eyes lighting up: "Hey, isn't that the little nurse?" He walked over and reached out to touch her face. "No wonder the boss wanted to play the hero and save the damsel in distress—"

Several thugs held her down, laughing and tearing at her clothes.

I rushed behind Jake. Grabbing his wrist with one hand, I used a joint lock, and with a snap, his arm dislocated. Before he could even scream, my knee had already slammed into his abdomen. Jake doubled over, collapsing to his knees, his face instantly turning a purplish-red.

The other thugs were stunned.

I stood there, looking down at him.

"Get out. Take him with you and get out of my shop."

The sound was very soft. No one dared to move. Two thugs trembled as they lifted Jake up, and everyone else fled in panic.

The sound of the motorcycle engine gradually faded into the distance.

The woman approached, her voice trembling: "Are you... are you alright?"

I turned around, my face expressionless: "It's nothing. It's not safe here, please leave."

She took a business card out of her wallet, placed it on the fallen shelf, and quickly left.

I slumped to the ground, leaning against the overturned shelf, and gave a bitter laugh.

Late that night, at an underground clinic in the South District. Jake's arm had been reattached and was fixed in a splint; his face was contorted with pain.

"That boss isn't an ordinary person," the underling whispered.

“Nonsense!” Jake roared, aggravating his wound and letting out another scream. He pulled out his phone and opened an encrypted dark web page. The screen displayed a skull icon, below which were several large, blood-red words—“The Book of Judgment.” The Hand of God's underground bounty system.

Jake gritted his teeth and typed the message. Target: Owner of a 24-hour convenience store on 7th Street in Chicago's South Side. Age: 30-35. Characteristics: Black hair, beard, glasses. Mission objective: Break both his legs. Reward: $50,000. Note: The target appears to have received professional combat training; caution is advised.

He clicked to upload attachments and uploaded the photos taken by the external surveillance cameras of the convenience store.

The bounty information was instantly entered into the database of the God's Hand.