Siheyuan came through and sent Jia Zhang to prison

Doubts exploded in Zhang Jie's mind instantly, like a thunderclap, leaving him dizzy and disoriented. Who was she? Why did she suddenly come to his rescue? Was she a backup plan sent by Jiang Hu? Or... another carefully laid trap? Zhang Jie subconsciously took a step back, the gravel on his heel digging painfully into his skin, his muscles tense like a fully drawn bowstring, every nerve screaming for danger. He couldn't be sure if she wanted to stall him, lure him to a secluded spot, extort a hefty sum, or simply silence him—after all, many people coveted his life.

He clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles turned white from the force, his mind focused on only one thought: he had to strike first. Only by surviving could he possibly uncover the truth behind this. Almost instinctively, he lunged forward, his right fist, brimming with all his strength, hurtling towards the man in black's face with a fierce, swift force—this punch embodied all his will to survive, determined to seize the initiative before his opponent could react.

Unexpectedly, the man in black was prepared. His movements were as agile as a leaf swaying in the wind; with a slight sidestep, he deftly dodged the powerful punch. Almost simultaneously, the man flicked his wrist, producing a short, black stick from somewhere, which struck Zhang Jie's wrist with a sharp "snap." Zhang Jie felt a sharp, tingling sensation shoot up his arm, like a snake bite. His fist instantly lost its strength, and his arm went limp, unable to be lifted.

The two men clashed in the warehouse filled with discarded wooden crates. Zhang Jie gritted his teeth, using every trick in the book, his punches and kicks imbued with the raw, ruthless energy honed in street brawls, each strike aimed at his opponent's vitals—he knew he couldn't afford to waste time and had to finish the fight quickly. But no matter how he lunged and kicked, he couldn't even touch the hem of his opponent's clothes. The man in black was far more skilled than him, his movements as swift as a shadow sweeping across the ground, dodging his attacks by the slightest margin. What was even more chilling was that every block and counterattack from his opponent was precise and ruthless. The short stick that struck him first caused a numbness, followed by a burning pain, yet it never broke the bone, as if deliberately torturing his will.

After only a few rounds, Zhang Jie was already panting heavily, cold sweat mixed with dust streaming down his forehead. Suddenly, the man in black seized an opening and delivered a clean, decisive side kick to his chest. Zhang Jie felt a tremendous force surge through him, as if he had been struck by a heavy hammer. He crashed to the ground with a thud, his back slamming heavily against the rusty iron frame. The pain made his vision blur, a metallic taste rose in his throat, and even breathing became a tearing difficulty. His chest burned as if on fire.

In the chaos, he struggled to lift his head, and by the dim light filtering through the hole in the warehouse roof, he could see the black-clad woman's face as her hat brim slipped down during her dodge—curved willow-leaf eyebrows, long and narrow phoenix eyes, and a straight, prominent nose. It was… a woman? But before he could utter the name that lingered on his tongue, his neck was gripped tightly by the other woman's black-gloved hand. The cold leather made it hard for him to breathe, and the feeling of suffocation overwhelmed him like a rising tide, even the ringing in his ears became sharp.

In his final moments, as his consciousness blurred, Zhang Jie mustered all his remaining strength, raised his hand, grabbed the other person's wrist, and with his last ounce of power, yanked it hard—

A soft, crisp "ding" echoed through the empty warehouse. A small, round pearl slipped from the thin chain on the black-clad man's wrist, like a forgotten star, rolling onto the dusty concrete floor, reflecting a faint yet persistent light. His gaze finally settled on the other man's eyes, cold as an icy pool, devoid of any emotion, only an unfathomable indifference. The next second, utter darkness engulfed him.

The men in black were squatting beside Zhang Jie's body, carefully searching his pockets. Their fingers, clad in thin black gloves, were rummaging through his belongings—a crumpled cigarette case, half a hard, dry bun, and a heavy tin lighter. Just as the leader's fingertips touched something hard in his inner pocket, like a small notebook, they heard hurried footsteps approaching from the alleyway in the distance, along with beams of flashlight flickering against the wall and the faint sound of shouting.

"It's the police!" someone whispered. The leader of the men in black's eyes narrowed, his brows furrowing – he hadn't expected them to arrive so quickly. He gestured to his companions, and the group exchanged glances. No longer caring about the hard object, they leaped up like ghosts, their toes lightly touching the mottled wall, and in a few bounds, they were on top of it, their black figures disappearing into the thick night. After all, the police had arrived, armed with weapons. A direct confrontation would be tantamount to walking into a trap; they had no choice but to retreat and reconsider their strategy.

When He Feng arrived with Zhao Lei and a group of officers, only Zhang Jie lay in a pool of blood in the alley. His body was still warm, and blood was slowly seeping from the wound on his neck, clearly indicating he had been recently silenced. He frowned, his knuckles white from clenching his fists at his waist, his heart heavy as lead—the encirclement he had set up was impenetrable, with plainclothes officers guarding both the front and back doors, and even people watching the rooftops. How could Zhang Jie suddenly appear in this back alley? And who killed him? Clearly, there was another force behind this.

"Chief, we couldn't find Zhang Jie alive. He's already dead." Zhao Lei squatted down, checked Zhang Jie's carotid artery with his gloved fingers, and then flipped his eyelids over. He reported in a low voice, "The wound looks like his throat was slit with a sharp weapon. It was a swift and decisive attack."

He Feng bent down to examine Zhang Jie's eyes, his gaze sweeping over them—still filled with terror and resentment, clearly indicating a violent struggle before death. His gaze then fell on Zhang Jie's curled-up hand, where a bead the size of a fingernail lay rolled on the ground. It was jet black, with several twisted, eerie patterns etched on it, gleaming matte in the flashlight beam. The bead looked strangely familiar, as if he'd seen a similar pattern in some old file. Without a word, he picked up the bead with a tissue and slipped it into his inner pocket—this might be a crucial clue; he needed to go back and check the files to find out its origin.

"Seal off the scene, put up a cordon, and don't let any unauthorized personnel get close," He Feng ordered in a deep voice, his tone carrying an unquestionable authority. "Notify the forensic department and have them come over to perform an autopsy as soon as possible. Also, have the technical department carefully examine the scene and don't overlook any clues."

After giving these instructions, he turned and walked towards the Peace Hotel. Jiang Hu was still waiting for "good news" in the private room, probably unaware that someone had already died outside, and even less aware that he had become a fish in a net.