------------
Because that young lady screamed at the top of her lungs, the commotion became huge. People from the neighboring private rooms poured out to watch the spectacle. They saw a group of hostesses fighting with a bunch of men in black, and everyone started asking what happened. One hostess, still in the thick of the brawl, shouted, "These damned Japanese bastards don't treat us like people! They're total perverts! They started hitting our sisters first! Even if I quit tonight, I'm going to beat them up good!" She kept slapping and stomping furiously as she spoke.
"What? Is that for real? We're here in Hong Kong to have fun, but beating up some Japanese guys is even more fun! Time to get in on the action—let's go, boys!" A guest with a mainland accent yelled, then rushed forward to stomp on the nearest Japanese men in the chaos. His friends didn't waste any time either, jumping in to punch and kick the Japanese men. Even the other hostesses from nearby rooms joined the brawl.
The unlucky Japanese men, who were actually enforcers from the Yamaguchi Syndicate, usually had decent fighting skills. But tonight, they were caught off guard. Surrounded by nearly two hundred hostesses and a mob of opportunistic male guests, each one got beaten half to death—their faces so swollen that even their own mothers wouldn't recognize them.
Stanford, standing off to the side, hadn't expected things to spiral out of control like this. He thought he had Yara Zen right where he wanted her, but this new chaos forced him to deal with the situation first.
Stanford was no stranger to mayhem. He whipped out his phone to call for backup, then strode over to the hostesses and the male guests caught up in the fight. Drawing a deep breath from his diaphragm, he roared, "Stop fighting! If you keep going, someone’s going to die! I’ve already called the cops! The police will be here any minute!"
Sure enough, as soon as he said that, everyone stopped mid-punch. The guests quickly stood up, especially the men, who loudly asked each other, "Hey? What happened here?"
"Looks like nothing happened, right? We were just drinking in our private rooms, weren’t we?"
"Yeah, I think so too. If nothing’s wrong, let’s keep going!" The crowd of mainland male guests had come to Poison Bar just to drink and unwind. When this mess broke out, their dislike for the Japanese made them join in for a bit of venting, but they weren’t looking for real trouble. So, with a bit of banter, they slipped back into their rooms and disappeared. The other hostesses followed suit, and even the ones who’d been fighting stopped, realizing they might actually kill someone if they kept going. They stood up nonchalantly, a few carrying the unconscious hostess back inside. The rest formed a protective wall around Yara Zen, who’d managed to prop herself up against the wall, shielding her from Stanford in case he tried anything again.
Stanford glared at them, eyes full of menace. He swept his gaze over the women and barked, "Damn it—you bitches better get out of my way! Don’t mess with my business, or I won’t be so nice!"
The hostesses shielding Yara Zen stared Stanford down, totally unfazed. "Hmph—like we care! Our lives are crap anyway, and you're no saint yourself, you cowardly punk! Today we're ready to die—if you lay a finger on Sister Yara, we'll fight you to the end!"
"You little—! You really want to test me?" Stanford was so furious he could barely speak. Pointing at the hostesses, he snapped, "Not moving, huh? I'll show you what 'dead' means! Don't think I won't hit women! You wanna die tonight? I'll make it happen!"
As he spoke, he suddenly whipped out a pistol, the dark muzzle aimed right at the hostesses' foreheads. His voice turned vicious: "You bitches think you can mess with Stanford from Eaststar? When I was running wild, you weren't even born! Move it, or I'll blow your heads off—right here, right now!"
The hostesses hadn't expected this move. With the gun pointed so close and Stanford's eyes full of malice, fear gripped them. Death felt real and near—they froze, hands trembling, not knowing what to do.
Yara Zen spoke up, her voice steady despite the pain in her back and arm. "Girls, I appreciate you, but you should step aside. He's a real madman, but I don't believe Stanford has the guts to hurt me." She forced herself to stand, fighting through the pain.
Stanford grinned creepily. "Manager Yara, you really know how to play the game. I like you more every minute! Come on, let's find somewhere private and have a real chat, huh?" Seeing her pained expression, he got the twisted urge to pin her down and have his way right there.
Yara Zen barked, "Stanford! This is Thirteen Enforcers territory. I've already called my people. You'd better stop showing off before you embarrass yourself!"
Stanford laughed, "Oh, I know this is Thirteen Enforcers turf, and I know you get along with the Hung Brotherhood. But none of that matters to me! I just didn't expect you'd walk right into my hands. You think I'd come here without backup? Listen, Hung Brotherhood trashed one of our Eaststar spots last week—Thousandfold is pissed, so I took the job to fix it. I brought these Yamaguchi Syndicate guys because they're looking to expand in Hong Kong, and your mess gave me the perfect excuse. Their first target? Thirteen Enforcers! So if things blow up, blame them. I'm just being a good host! Now you know my game—why not have a little fun with me?" He cackled and stepped toward Yara, making her heart race with fear. She realized—Hong Kong's underworld was about to erupt in blood and chaos.
(To be continued... Click next page for more action!)
Stanford gripped his pistol and strode forward, shoving the hostesses protecting Yara Zen to the ground. He pointed the gun at Yara's head and sneered, "So, Manager Yara, doesn't feel great with a gun to your head, does it? Relax—just come with me, and I'll show you my other gun. It's bigger, stronger, and loaded. Trust me, you'll love it!"
While he spoke, Stanford reached for Yara Zen's shoulder. If he got a grip, she wouldn't be able to break free.
Yara Zen couldn't believe his shamelessness, but with the gun pointed at her head, she knew Stanford was here to stir up trouble and wanted things to escalate. If she resisted, he might actually shoot. Usually calm, Yara was at a loss, but she gritted her teeth and swung her hand at Stanford's head.
Stanford was ready for her. He blocked her attack with a flick of his left hand and grabbed her shoulder's pressure point. Channeling his inner strength, Yara's upper body suddenly went numb. Stanford burst out laughing, totally pleased with himself, and was about to pull Yara into his arms when a sharp, feminine voice rang out from the hallway: "Hey, you ugly, bucktoothed fatass! Get your filthy hands off her, or you won't live to see sunrise!"
Stanford froze and turned to see a ridiculously handsome young man standing there, looking at him coldly. The guy's face was calm, but his eyes radiated a chilling, murderous vibe that made Stanford's blood run cold.
Stanford quickly regained his composure, raised his gun, and pointed it at the young man with a wicked grin. "Oh? Trying to play hero, huh? How do you plan to deal with me? You gonna fight my gun with your bare hands? Ha!"
The nearby Japanese men had already scrambled to their feet and joined Stanford in laughing. Yamada Kazuo and his crew glared at the young man, eyes blazing with hatred. "Stanford! That's the punk who humiliated us! Grab him—let's teach him a lesson!"
The newcomer was none other than Shawn Young. He replied coldly, "Hey, bucktooth—love waving your gun around, huh? Just don't shoot yourself by accident!"
Stanford's face twisted with rage and embarrassment. He always thought he was a bit handsome, even if his gold teeth were flashy. Now Shawn was mocking him, ripping open his old wound. Furious, Stanford let go of Yara Zen and stomped toward Shawn, yelling, "You little punk, you dare laugh at me? I'll make you regret it!"
He raised his pistol, about to threaten Shawn into kneeling, when suddenly a flash of cold steel shot toward him. Stanford was startled and jerked his hand back.
Click!
Stanford felt a shock in his hand. He looked down and saw that his pistol had been neatly sliced, its parts and bullets scattering to the floor. Across from him, Shawn Young stood with a plain fruit knife, staring at him with contempt. A chill ran up Stanford's spine—if he hadn't pulled his hand back in time, his right hand would've ended up just like his gun.