Brother Dao Took the Entertainment Industry by Storm, Fans Beg Me Not to Kill Anymore

Chapter 702: No Light Tonight, the Hunt Begins (1)

By evening, the sky over Los Angeles had already gone completely dark.

In most areas, the streetlights on both sides of the road were bright, traffic flowed steadily, and from time to time, casual observers would walk by, giving the entire street a bit of life.

However, there were also a few dark zones, where streetlights were sparse and their dim yellow light cast large patches of shadow across the ground. Forget about traffic—even the shadow of a stray animal wouldn't be seen. Most of the buildings on both sides were hidden in darkness, with only the homeless huddled in corners, treating the street ground as their home.

And ever since the environment had taken a turn for the worse, more and more people had been setting up camp in these corners. Even if this was the city center, even if this was what most people considered a bustling commercial district, for these homeless individuals, it was nothing more than a ruin wrapped in pretty lights.

Those who cared a little more would set up a small tent or pick up a cardboard box. Those who didn't care at all would just sit on the ground wrapped in their clothes, spice things up with a bit of pre-sleep "medicine," and then slump their heads low, drifting into a daze in the darkness, waiting for who knows when the dark would completely swallow them.

Compared to daytime, this place was undoubtedly dirtier, colder, and more dangerous.

Apart from the people already living here, no one usually passed through.

Even the insiders here chose to stay quiet in the darkness once night fell, not moving around much, as if afraid of provoking something more terrifying and dangerous.

But today was a little different.

In a place that had long been divided into territories by various underground forces, their arrival was like fireflies in the pitch-black night—so dazzling, so attention-grabbing.

Almost as soon as they stepped in, covert gazes were already locked onto them.

In the depths of the night, it didn't stop the news from quickly spreading between people.

Moses was the boss of the underground trading market.

The place he was in right now was the deepest part of this dark alley.

It was a makeshift shack built from a tricycle with an iron roof, surrounded by tattered cloth and worn-out clothes stacked together to form leaky walls. It looked crooked, as if it might collapse at any moment.

At that moment, only a dim yellow bulb hung from the top of the cart, swaying back and forth, casting flickering light and shadow across the interior. All you could make out was a wooden plank that had been temporarily set up as a countertop, covered in scratches and grease stains. Right beneath the wooden board were messy piles of old parts, cables, and unidentified equipment.

Finally, at the spot closest to the driver's seat—which was the innermost part of the "shack"—cartons upon cartons were stacked up, forming a shelf that separated the front from the back. Another piece of waterproof cloth was draped over it to keep the "merchandise" from getting damp.

The air was thick with the smell of motor oil and mold, but Moses had long grown used to it.

He was humming a tuneless song, carefully wiping the camera lens in his hands with a gray rag that had long since lost its original color.

Because Moses had the backing of a minor gang, he was considered the boss in this area. Even his dilapidated, tricycle-made shack hadn't attracted any covetous eyes from the locals.

As the only shop owner in this special district, no one dared to provoke Moses. Even the heavily addicted junkies would drag their half-exposed asses away to somewhere else. And those reckless thugs who usually didn't know their place would occasionally patrol the area, cracking down on troublemakers and keeping the peace.

—Yes, even though this was the United States, it had already become another mode of societal operation.

Here, they had their own way of surviving. This place had become a small, internal society.

And without a doubt, Moses stood at the very top of the food chain here. Among these garbage-like people, he was the one with the most connections and networks.

So besides selling a bit of "flour" and doing some small business, Moses often took in shady items from the lower-class people.

Doing business with these people was much more comfortable for him.

After all, when you'd already sunk to this level, you were basically incapable of turning your life around. Living was just about scraping together a meal and getting a few hits. Even if they got their hands on something good, it was hard to circulate it without attracting the attention of other gangs. So in the end, after all the back-and-forth, they could only turn to him, trading items at rock-bottom prices.

In other words, when trading with these people, he didn't need to spend much money. He could just barter, get valuable items from them, and then use his network to flip them into a higher market.

Though opportunities like this weren't common, staying long enough always brought unexpected surprises.

For example, those two thieves who had recently arrived in the alley.

Those two guys, apparently, had sticky fingers when they were thugs in another block. They had a criminal record and an addiction, so they'd drifted over here to start over.

Moses naturally didn't mind these guys showing up—as long as they didn't eye his pockets. Sure enough, these brothers had participated in a few collective riots and robberies over the past few days, bringing him plenty of good stuff. Moses had made a nice profit from it, and now he was even considering recommending them to the higher-ups in the gang.

Bold and meticulous—they were real talents.

If he recommended them to the gang, supported them to climb a little higher, who knows...

The more Moses thought about it, the happier he became. Even his thick beard couldn't hide his smile. Especially when he looked at the few items placed on the wooden plank beside him, Moses couldn't help humming again, completely unaware that someone was slowly approaching.

"Shh—shh—"

It wasn't until a pair of eyes appeared in the tattered cloth hole beside him that Moses jumped in fright.

"Fuck! Say your piece or get lost!"

Once he recognized the eyes belonged to a nearby homeless man, Moses covered his heart and cursed irritably.

"Is there an outsider coming? Cops? Someone from another crew?"

The owner of the eyes shook his head.

"Useless piece of trash—"

Moses kept cursing, then wrapped the camera in his arms impatiently and said to the homeless man, "Scram, get out of here. I'm in a good mood today, I've already packed up early. You better not bother me."

The man didn't dare linger, and Moses watched the eyes silently disappear back into the torn cloth. The sound of footsteps gradually faded outside.

Outside seemed to have regained its peace.

This would be a night that belonged only to him.

Moses's mood, which had just been interrupted, lifted again. He started humming a little tune once more, organizing the stolen goods in his hands, and scheming about the leads for disposing of them.

At that moment, what Moses didn't notice was that the wind outside seemed to have stopped.

In the deep darkness, only the bulb above his head still gave off a faint, warm yellow light.

—In the eyes of a predator, wasn't this just as dazzling a prey?

Others were prey to him.

But in the eyes of others, he was prey too.

And by the time Moses noticed, it was already too late.

Outside had suddenly become eerily quiet.

The ragged cloth at the door, however, suddenly fluttered, as if something had brushed past the entrance.

Moses stopped what he was doing.

He stared at the door, a puzzled look on his face.

The next moment, a pair of hands suddenly pierced through the torn cloth and grabbed him by the collar—

Moses's pupils shrank sharply—

"Ah!!!"

A scream tore through the night!