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This time, the target was Fang Lei, a professional “fake-buster.” He made a living preying on small businesses, picking out flaws in their products and threatening to report them unless they paid him off. This time, the news had blown up, and netizens were even doxing his address. To lay low, Fang Lei was hiding out at his mistress’s apartment.
“Baby, change your stockings. I’ll be out in three minutes…” he called out from the bathroom, humming a tune. The provocatively dressed woman in the living room didn’t answer—she was already unconscious on the couch, courtesy of me.
I checked my watch. No rush. I’d let him finish his shower.
Death is like a train to the end of the line. As the conductor, a little patience is part of the job.
Fang Lei burst out, not even wearing underwear, his beer belly jiggling grotesquely. I wrinkled my nose. He dried his face with a towel, then spotted me sitting in the chair and panicked, grabbing a table lamp to brandish at me. “Who are you? How did you get in?!”
“Mr. Fang, I advise you to calm down. Don’t hurt yourself.”
“If you don’t leave, I’m calling the police!” He snatched his phone from the bed.
I shot across the room like an arrow. He swung the lamp at me in a panic, but I punched it out of his hand, the plastic shattering like a popped balloon. He tried to fight back, but I chopped him on the back of the neck. His eyes rolled back and he collapsed.
What a hassle.
A single bullet could have solved this, but that handsome young client insisted on making everything complicated. Just how twisted was his mind?
I tied him, pulled out my prepared kit, and injected a dose of venom into his artery. Then I waited for him to wake up.
In less than ten minutes, his face turned ashen. A violent cough brought him back to consciousness, his neck veins bulging like dying worms.
“W-what do you want?” he gasped, coughing harder.
“Mr. Fang, does bullying the poor give you pleasure?” I recited from the client’s note. “With your education and skills, you could have contributed to society, but you used them for extortion. You’ve disgraced the title of intellectual. Now, let’s play a game. I just injected you with pit viper venom. Of these ten bottles, only one contains the antidote. Since you’re an expert at spotting fakes, I trust you can find the real one among these counterfeits.”
“Please, let me go. I’ll give you money—name your price…” Fang Lei was struggling to breathe, his legs starting to spasm.
“You’d better hurry. This venom kills in fifteen minutes.” I freed his left hand so he could choose.
Fang Lei coughed and examined the identical bottles, finally picking one and gulping it down. Unfortunately, he chose wrong. It was another poison. He began to vomit—first filth, then clear water, then blood.
“Aaaaaaahhhhhh!” he screamed as the venom took hold.
“You have one more chance.” I pressed down my cap, even as a seasoned killer, thinking this was going too far.
Fang Lei shakily grabbed another bottle, struggled to open it, and drank. He started clawing at his face, as if invisible bugs were crawling under his skin, tearing himself bloody before collapsing in a grotesque heap. He’d chosen wrong again.
I sighed, carried the unconscious woman out, and left her by the elevator.
If she woke up to that cult-like scene, she’d probably go mad on the spot.
“Perfect. You’re incredible, Mr. Ray. I can’t even find the words to praise you,” the client said, savoring a glass of fine wine while admiring photos of Fang Lei’s corpse.
Such twisted tastes.
“Mr. Ray, I want to work with you long-term. Do you offer custom packages or memberships? I’ll pay any price.”
What kind of person treats torturing others as entertainment?
Worse, he had this self-righteous delusion that he was making the world better.
“No,” I replied coldly.
“Pity.” He looked disappointed for a moment, then perked up again. “There’s too much trash in the world—one person can’t clean it all up. I expected that. Mr. Ray, do you know any other professionals? I could start a justice foundation and make you the president. How about it?”
He was getting more and more excited, and as he waved his arms, his left glove slipped off. I saw five metallic fingers.
I knew who he was. No wonder he looked so familiar.
Wen Yuan, the eldest son of the Wenlian Conglomerate. Half a year ago, he made national headlines when his crimes were exposed. The police mobilized every resource to arrest him, but he vanished. Rumor had it he’d been kidnapped by a man named Gu Yan, who chopped off his left hand’s fingers deep in the mountains, forced him to record a confession, and then shot himself. Wen Yuan survived by eating Gu Yan’s corpse, lasting ten days without food or water. When the police finally rescued him, he was mentally broken and sent to a psychiatric hospital.
There, he killed his own younger brother, Wen Tao. Under public pressure, the hospital performed an unprecedented psychiatric operation. They claimed it was a success—his evil personality erased, replaced by a law-abiding, “implanted” one. After that, news of Wen Yuan disappeared, replaced by rumors: some said he was in prison, some said he was still in the hospital, others that he’d gone abroad. The public soon lost interest, especially with the new chairman Bai Kun now a rising star. Wen Yuan was forgotten.
Who would have thought he’d been hiding in this city all along?
And looking at him now, who could believe his madness was ever cured?
Chapter 06
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