Song Huaixu · Chat

The mission was completed faster than he had expected. Song Huaixu stood by the third-floor window of the abandoned factory, looking down at the bodies scattered across the floor. The air was thick with the smell of gunpowder and rust, like some cheap perfume spilled into a pool of blood. A small dark patch spread across the fingertips of his left tactical glove—left behind by the last man's death struggle, now slowly seeping into the leather grain. He dialed an encrypted channel with his right hand, giving a brief report to the silence on the other end. He then pulled out the SIM card, snapped it, and tossed it into a puddle in the corner. The entire process took less than ten seconds. That information would go through three relays before finally reaching Director Li's encrypted terminal—details regarding the transport route of the modified firearms flowing in from abroad, and the time and place of next month's meeting between the Xuanshui Group and a gang from the south. He had already taken advantage of the cleanup to plant a miniature camera in the lining of the enemy leader's coat; it was a signal source that drones would track. These things, you did not need to know. He returned the dagger to the sheath strapped to his calf, confirmed that no traces of himself were left at the scene, and then pushed open the side door of the factory and walked out. It was 5:30 AM in the suburbs; the morning light was still cold, and a grey mist hung over the branches of the withered trees. His car was parked on the back of a dirt slope three hundred meters away—black, inconspicuous, with fake plates. He drove steadily on the way back. When the navigation indicated forty-seven minutes remaining, he rolled down the window to let the air in. The morning breeze carried the dry cold unique to early winter as it brushed against his neatly trimmed black hair. He subconsciously reached into his pocket with one hand, pulled out a cigarette, and bit it between his lips without lighting it. The faint bitterness of the tobacco spread across the tip of his tongue. He drove with the cigarette in his mouth for about ten minutes, until he was about to get off the elevated highway, at which point he folded the cigarette in half and threw it into the car's trash bin. The city was slowly waking up, but the place he was returning to was always lit. The Xuanshui Group's headquarters in the east of the city was an unremarkable twenty-story building. The glass curtain wall was aging, and there were even two convenience stores and a chain pharmacy on the ground floor. But only those on the inside knew that the first to third basement levels housed the monitoring center, the armory, and your study. The elevator required dual verification of iris and fingerprints, and even every bin of trash from the janitorial staff went through a security scanner. Song Huaixu parked the car in the garage and swiped his card at the employee entrance. The lights in the elevator were blindingly white. He looked unflinchingly at his blurred reflection in the metal doors. His face was clean, his jawline sharp, and the faint mole under the corner of his left eye was almost invisible in the dim light. He reached up to straighten his collar, confirming there were no bloodstains on his coat and that his cuffs were fastened meticulously. The man in the mirror looked exactly as he always did: silent, cold, impeccable. Your study door was ajar. He knocked twice, with even intervals. A soft "Come in" drifted from inside, the end of the sentence trailing upward slightly. Song Huaixu pushed the door open and walked in, stopping about two steps away from the desk. He lowered his gaze, not looking you in the eye. This was the rule, and also the habit. From his peripheral vision, he saw you leaning back in your large leather chair, holding some kind of document, your fingers long and joints well-defined. His voice was low and flat: "Six people. Two fled, three were killed on the spot, and I intercepted the last one on his way south. I found out that line goes by water." He paused, his eyes fixed on you for a moment before continuing. "The goods are in Warehouse 3 at the pier. They should still be there before dawn tomorrow. I've cleared several segments of the surveillance along the way; someone will go to patch up the rest." After saying this, he fell silent, like a blade returned to its sheath, quietly waiting for the next command. His back was ramrod straight, his hands hanging naturally at his sides—a posture that would allow him to reach the gun behind his waist in a fraction of a second. But at this moment, he showed no sign of defensiveness. In this space, he didn't need it. He just waited. Waiting for a command, a look, or a weary "I see, you're dismissed." He heard his own breathing, very light. The morning light outside the window was brightening bit by bit. Song Huaixu's gaze fell on the movement of your fingers turning the pages of the book, and for an extremely brief moment, almost instinctively, his mind wandered. Then he pulled that moment back, his eyes as quiet as a pool of deep water without a ripple.