I searched and fought in America.

That $10,000 reward is probably just their old enemies trying to provoke them again.

Rosen put the photo back in the box and muttered a curse under his breath.

In this rotten world, the reason you can't find any dirt on this person is precisely because they are too clean, so clean that it terrifies and irritates those covered in filth.

He restored everything to its original state, erased all traces of his presence, and turned to leave the office.

By this time, it had already gotten dark outside the window.

Rosen had just climbed over the wall of the living area when he suddenly stopped in his tracks.

The long table that used to be there in the open space in front of the church has been overturned.

Reverend Meyer was standing under a streetlamp, surrounded by six or seven shady-looking thugs.

These thugs wore white tooth pendants around their necks, fiddled with baseball bats in their hands, and wore flashy leather jackets.

Rosen slipped behind a broken wall.

"Old man, don't push your luck."

The leader, a thug with a mohawk, spoke impatiently.

"Our boss just won a battle and is in a good mood. He thinks highly of you, which is why he asked you to go and give him a blessing prayer. Do you know how many people in Houston are lining up to see our boss?"

Under the streetlight, Pastor Meyer straightened his rumpled cuffs:

"The Lord says, 'Do not bless the wicked, for that is blasphemy against the good. Your leader's hands are stained with the blood of the innocent, and his soul is sinful. I will not go there, much less pray for him, unless he comes to repent.'"

"Fuck! You old geezer!"

Mohawk cursed and raised his bat as if to hit, but stopped abruptly when the bat was about half a foot above Meyer's head.

In this country with a strong religious atmosphere, even the worst gangsters still have some superstition and awe towards real clergy, especially pastors like Meyer who have an excellent reputation in the slums. What if you beat him and invite God's punishment?

"The boss said we have to bring you back today!"

The mohawk-wearing man spat, seemingly to bolster his courage, "Since you refuse to leave, don't blame the brothers for using force! Tie him up and cramm him into the car!"

Although the henchmen hesitated, they were forced by their boss's intimidating power to surround him and reach out to grab Mair's arm.

Rosen looked at the thin figure who still stood tall in the face of violence, his fingers gripping the pistol at his waist, but then loosening their grip after a while.

He considered himself a profit-driven person.

To offend the newly victorious and powerful Fang gang for the sake of a pastor you've only met once is illogical.

For some reason, Rosen gripped the pistol at his waist again.

but.

He thought of the excessively clean dormitory, the handwritten guide that embodied countless efforts, and the seemingly insignificant yet weighty expenses recorded in the ledger.

"Oh shit."

Rosen took the graffiti mask out of the side pocket of his backpack and put it on his face.

Having received a good education is such a hassle! Because of that education, he won't join a gang; because he's seen such wonderful things, he won't touch enhancers.

You've clearly time-traveled, you've clearly arrived in this hellish country, what are you pretending for, Rosen!

Rosen cursed himself inwardly, then stepped out of the shadows, his right hand sweeping from his waist, revealing the Glock 17 in his palm.

"Bang!"

A gunshot rang out, accurately knocking the baseball bat out of the mohawk-haired man's hand.

The sudden gunshots plunged the bustling street into a deathly silence.

Mohawk-haired man felt a sharp pain in his hand from the impact. He immediately pulled out a pistol from his lower back and cautiously examined the deceased.

"Who exactly is it?"

Rosen hid behind the broken wall, completely ignoring the other party, and fired several more shots.

"Bang! Bang! Bang!"

After each gunshot, a piercing scream rang out.

Before the mohawk-wearing man could react, a shallow, bloody scratch appeared on his right thigh, which startled him.

"Fuck! There's an ambush! Retreat! Retreat!!"

At this time, several of his brothers also suffered similar injuries to varying degrees.

After they found a burrow and hid, the mohawk-wearing man suddenly realized that his brothers had suffered the same injuries as him, only requiring simple wiping.

The mohawk-haired man swallowed hard. He wasn't stupid; he understood. This was a warning from the other party!

With marksmanship like that, if the other side wanted to kill them, those few shots would have been enough to turn them into four corpses!

The remaining thugs didn't care about Pastor Meyer anymore; they scrambled into the car and fled the scene.

Only after the van's taillights disappeared around the street corner did Rosen put away his gun, remove his graffiti mask, put his worn-out homeless coat back on, and slowly walk out.

Reverend Meyer remained standing under the dim streetlamp. He neither ran away nor showed excessive panic; he simply looked silently at the spent cartridge cases scattered on the ground and let out a long sigh.

"You shouldn't have shot, kid." Meyer looked at Rosen as he approached, his eyes filled with complex emotions. There was no joy of being rescued; instead, there was a deep sense of worry.

Rosen dusted himself off, his voice hoarse:

"If I don't shoot, you might die, priest. These days, God doesn't take the bullets for you."

"Violence only breeds more violence. You saved me once, but you've gotten yourself into the quagmire of the Fang Gang."

Meyer walked up to Rosen, his eyes seemingly able to see through his disguise. "You don't look...like a homeless person who can't find work."

Rosen paused for a moment, then chuckled self-deprecatingly, pulled an unlit cigarette from his pocket, and put it in his mouth.

"I am indeed looking for work, but my work is rather dirty. Pastor, you are so smart, you should know that there are quite a few people investigating your past. Stay away from those scoundrels in the future."

Reverend Meyer shook his head, took out a clean handkerchief from his wide sleeve, and handed it to Rosen, gesturing for him to wipe the dust off his face.

"If I close my eyes because I'm afraid of the dark, then this community will truly be without light."

Go do what you have to do, child, but remember, no matter who you point your gun at, don't let your heart be blackened by the smoke of gunpowder.

Reverend Meyer’s voice was calm yet resounding.

Rosen took the handkerchief and wiped his face briefly. He didn't say anything; he didn't even dare to look the other person in the eye.

He simply waved his hand, turned around, and disappeared into the dark alley.

After leaving Zion Cathedral, Rosen rode a stolen motorcycle south towards the Neil neighborhood.

As we get closer to the target point, the system provides a prompt.

[Finding a fixed map: Fang Gang's human organ factory]

Current area exploration progress: 0%

[Note: Fixed map resources refresh every 7 days.]

Map Rating: Medium

Rosen's hand paused slightly, and a look of surprise involuntarily appeared on his face.

You can complete the tasks your employer gives you and open treasure chests at the same time—it's a win-win situation!

Rosen stopped atop an abandoned water tower and raised his high-powered binoculars to look down.

It was an old food processing plant heavily surrounded by a three-meter-high iron fence, which seemed to be electrified.

At the main entrance, two burly men in black security uniforms were leaning against the gatekeeper's seat, smoking.

Although their uniforms were those of security guards, the bulging muscle contours and the noticeably oversized holsters around their waists clearly indicated that they were elite gang gunmen.

Twenty to twenty-five guards?

Rosen stroked his chin, recalling the information his employer had given him.

A direct assault is impossible; this isn't a street. If the alarm goes off, he'll be trapped inside the factory and riddled with bullets.

According to information provided by the employer, this human organ factory was operating in an attempt to conceal the strong smell of blood and discarded biological tissues.

Every day at 4 a.m., a garbage collection channel located in the back kitchen is opened, which is the moment when the entire factory's defenses are weakest.

This is also the best time to infiltrate.

Rosen glanced at his watch: 1:15 a.m.

"There are still more than two hours left."

Instead of getting anxious, he nimbly slid down the water tower, found a container at the back of the factory, and then ran inside the container.

He took a compressed biscuit out of his backpack, put it in his mouth, drank a couple of sips of water, then leaned against the shipping container, dozed off for a short while, and fell into a deep sleep.

He set his alarm for 3:30 a.m., which would also give him a chance to recharge.

---

A Foolish Author's Musings 4:

[The Self-Cultivation of Keyboard Warriors]

Others become keyboard warriors to criticize others, but I become a keyboard warrior to make a living.

We're both keyboard warriors, but they can do whatever they want. I broke three "W" keys and didn't even get a single recommendation vote.