Since that bar only opened at night, Jill Young and her friend spent another half-day shopping. Sophie Chow was lost in the world of jewelry, while Jill’s only interest was street food. At eight in the evening, Jill finally arrived at the GAY bar Sophie had mentioned, tucked away in a basement at the end of a secluded alley.
This was your classic hormone-fueled party spot—a bunch of folks shaking their booties in the dark, under disco lights so bright you’d think they were trying to fry your eyeballs. On the dance floor, it was guys with guys, and more guys with guys. Watching the crowd, Jill muttered, “Seeing this, I gotta say—praise be!”
“Right?” Sophie Chow grinned proudly. “Thank God most gays are total hotties—it’s a visual feast!”
“No, I thank God because so many hotties turned out to be gay.” Flipping the sentence changed the whole meaning. Jill raised her glass to the sky, “To you, whoever you are—God or some other deity—thanks for doing us such a huge favor!”
Sophie Chow was totally lost, poor thing. She clearly didn’t get how, if all these hotties went ‘straight’ again, regular folks like us would be doomed. Sophie couldn’t sit still—she was off to the dance floor to hunt for eye candy. Truth is, not many people in this bar gave her a second look, so her so-called ‘hunting’ was just window shopping for the soul.
Jill couldn’t care less, especially once two dudes started getting all lovey-dovey. To save her eyesight, she retreated to the bar, ordered a beer, and sang along to the music while sipping her drink.
In the corner, two foreigners were eyeballing Jill as she chugged her beer. They exchanged a look, both bug-eyed. That bottle had been tampered with—a sedative mixed in that should’ve knocked anyone out flat. But Jill guzzled the whole thing, glass after glass, and only started to wobble after draining the bottle.
“Am I drunk? Better wash my face.” Jill got up and headed to the restroom. Thankfully, there was a ladies’ room, and it was pretty spacious too. Jill splashed cold water on her face, glanced at the mirror, and realized her vision was a little blurry. “Huh? Since when did my tolerance get so bad?” Jill finally sensed something was off.
Even back when Jack Young’s Titan Spirit Method wasn’t that advanced, he could drink Nie Kun under the table no problem. Logically, as his skills improved, his organs should’ve gotten stronger, and his tolerance even higher—so how could one bottle of beer knock him out like this?
“Got careless, huh? Didn’t expect someone would actually try to attack me.” Jill turned to look at the restroom door. It opened, and in walked two white men, faces blank as they stared her down.
Jill’s legs buckled and she slumped softly to the floor. One of the men started forward, but the other pulled him back. “Careful. She’s tough—don’t screw this up.” The second guy pulled out a spray can. Both men took out masks and put them on, then began spraying Jill with a mist that stank of chemicals—clearly loaded with ether, another kind of sedative.
After a while, Jill sat motionless on the ground. The two men exchanged glances and moved in. One reached for Jill’s shoulder—only for her to suddenly open her eyes, murder in her gaze, and throw a punch. Bam! The guy went flying and crashed into the opposite wall, bits of plaster and who-knows-what raining down. He was out cold, no sound at all.
Jill lunged at the second guy, fist whipping up a wind like a typhoon. Boom! Her punch whistled through the air, but only grazed his cheek and missed. Not that he was some kung fu master—he was frozen like a deer in headlights, barely breathing. Jill missed because her vision was doubling; she couldn’t see squat.
“Crap, my vision’s blurry, balance is shot, and my strength is fading.” Jill squinted at the sweating, panicked man backing away. If she couldn’t see, then forget seeing! With a cold shout, she mustered her last bit of energy, stepped forward, and whipped a powerful roundhouse kick at his waist. Crack! His body bent at a weird angle and flew sideways, smashing into the sink. His head broke the faucet, sending water and blood spraying everywhere.
Jill took out the first guy by surprise, and the second with sheer effort—but now she was done for. The sedatives were spreading through her bloodstream, leaving her limp and powerless. Weakly leaning against the wall, Jill pulled out her phone and dialed Bobby Brooks. Ring, ring—the call was connecting. Just then, the ladies’ room door swung open and someone walked in.
Jill looked up—it was the bartender, the same one who’d handed her that beer. Now he stood in the doorway, expressionless, watching everything in the restroom. He pulled out a handkerchief and poured some colorless liquid onto it.
“Damn.” Jill managed a wry smile. If she ever got the chance, she’d definitely train for total poison immunity. A faint glow flickered in her right hand, and, just like that, her phone vanished into her personal storage space.
Twenty minutes later, in Jonathan Black’s office.
“Sophie Chow, what the hell happened?” Bobby Brooks thundered. “You two went out together, but only you came back. Where’s the Queen?”
“I—I don’t know…” Sophie Chow looked both aggrieved and worried, tears streaming down her face as she struggled to explain.
Bobby Brooks was about to scold her again when Jonathan Black slammed his hand on the table and roared, “Enough!” The room went silent.
Jonathan’s face was grim, fingers drumming on the desk like a funeral march. Jill wasn’t the type to pull a Houdini for no reason, so her sudden vanishing act was a massive red flag. Worse, she’d called Bobby right before going MIA. Charlie had already led a team to lock down the bar and start a thorough investigation—they’d sniff out the truth soon enough.
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Just as Jonathan thought that, Charlie walked in. He usually looked stern, but today he was downright grim. “Boss, after a full lockdown and sweep, we found traces of a powerful sedative in a beer bottle, and signs of a fierce fight in the ladies’ room. It was definitely an attack. Plus, I found this in a hidden corner.” Charlie placed a small object in front of Jonathan—a brass pin marked ‘SD’.
“SD!!” Jonathan shot to his feet, face darker than ever. Sophie Chow was clueless, but Bobby Brooks stared in horror.
“Boss, no offense, but if this really is the SD Syndicate, we’re toast.” Charlie’s voice was flat as a pancake as he delivered the bad news. “That bunch is deep, dark, and way above our pay grade. ‘Ghostface’ might be hot stuff in Asia’s Black Fist world, but over there, she’s just a benchwarmer. We’re totally outclassed.”
Bobby didn’t say a word, just clenched his fists in frustration. Jonathan was silent too, hands folded under his chin.
After a moment, Jonathan stood up and ordered calmly, “Bobby, use every connection we’ve got to find out when and where SD’s next event is. Charlie, get the special team ready to move at any moment. Whether we can pull it off or not, we have to try. Even if it’s the SD Syndicate, if they mess with me, Susan Show, I’ll bite back!”
Charlie gave Jonathan a long look, nodded, and left.
Two days later, Bobby Brooks showed up in Jonathan’s office, eyes bloodshot from working nonstop. He’d finally found a clue. “SD’s next event is ‘Six of Spades,’ in Eastern Ukraine—tonight.”