The woods were thick with silence.
It was the kind of silence that weighed on the air like smoke. The trees stretched upward like skeletons, branches crooked and shivering in the light breeze.
The path they followed was barely a path at all—more like a forgotten trail left to rot with the seasons.
The only sound was the crunch of tires against gravel as a fleet of matte black cars crawled toward their destination.
At the front of the convoy, a sleek black Maybach rolled to a slow, deliberate stop.
Fu Jing Rong stepped out.
No hesitation.
No pause.
His black boots hit the earth like a declaration.
He didn't say a word. The Blue Gang members behind him, dressed head-to-toe in black, poured out of their vehicles like shadows. Each held cold steel beneath their coats, eyes sharp, jaws set.
Ahead of them stood the house.
If you could even call it that.
