17: Chapter 17: Having earned enough 50,000, I'm feeling quite confident and proactively seeks out the thugs to pay off my debts!

Lin Chen stared at the line "Profit $50,230" on his phone screen, a spark igniting deep within his pupils. Fifty thousand dollars. This number was like a potent shot of adrenaline, instantly dispelling the accumulated fatigue, fear, and anxiety of the past few days. The mountain weighing on his chest, named "Debt" and "Marcus," finally cracked, letting light shine through.

He slowly exhaled a breath of stale air, which condensed into white mist in the dim warehouse. His fingertips no longer trembled; instead, he firmly locked the screen and tucked his phone into his inner pocket. He stood up, stretching his body stiff from sitting too long, his spine straight. A strength he hadn't felt in a long time, something called "confidence," was burgeoning from every fiber of his being.

Walking out of the warehouse, the slanted afternoon sunlight filtered through the Grocery Store window, casting warm patches of light across the front shop. Uncle Zhao was hunched over the counter tallying accounts, his reading glasses sliding down to the tip of his nose. He looked up upon hearing footsteps.

"Uncle Zhao." Lin Chen's voice was steady, carrying a clarity that was different from before.

Uncle Zhao pushed up his glasses. Seeing the expression on Lin Chen's face, he was stunned for a moment before knitting his brows: "Little Chen? Are... are you okay? Why is your face..."

"I'm fine, Uncle Zhao. On the contrary, I'm doing great." Lin Chen walked to the counter, meeting Uncle Zhao's gaze. "I've earned enough money. Fifty thousand dollars. I'm going to pay off Marcus's debt right now."

"What?!" The ledger in Uncle Zhao's hand hit the counter with a "thud." He abruptly rounded the counter and grabbed Lin Chen's arm with surprising strength. "Have you lost your mind?! Going to find him now? No! Absolutely not!"

"Uncle Zhao, I have to go." Lin Chen didn't pull away, simply stating his case calmly, his eyes filled with unshakeable determination. "Hiding isn't a solution. I was afraid before because I had nothing. Now that I have money, this is a matter between him and me to resolve. Once the money is repaid, the contract ends."

"Ends? Talking about contracts with someone like Marcus?" Uncle Zhao's face turned red with anxiety. He lowered his voice, speaking rapidly. "Will he honor it? He'll only think you have more! He'll think you're easy to bully! If you go alone, you're walking right into the lion's den! Listen to Uncle Zhao, wait a little longer. Wait for the heat to die down, or... or we can think of another way, have someone else deliver it. You can't go yourself!"

"If I have someone else deliver it, he won't acknowledge it. He'll just think I'm playing games, which would make it worse." Lin Chen gently patted Uncle Zhao's hand, where veins were bulging, his tone softening but remaining firm. "Uncle Zhao, I know you're worried about me. But this path is one I must walk myself. I can't live under your wings forever, living in this warehouse. Don't worry, I'm just going to pay the debt. I won't say a single extra word; I'll pay and leave. He runs a business; he's only after money. With the cash paid in full, he has no reason to touch me again."

"You... why are you so stubborn, child!" Uncle Zhao was anxious and angry. Looking into Lin Chen's eyes, which had shed their cowardice and were now filled with calm resolve, he knew he couldn't persuade him. He sighed heavily, released his grip, and turned away, his shoulders slightly hunched. His voice was hoarse with helplessness. "...What about the money? How... how do you plan to take it there? Withdraw it all? That's even more dangerous!"

"I'm prepared." Lin Chen took an opaque black document envelope from his inner pocket and placed it gently on the counter, making a dull thud. "Ten thousand dollars, in cash. Not a penny more, not a penny less; it's exactly his debt. The rest is in the account, perfectly safe."

Uncle Zhao turned around, looking at the document envelope with complex eyes. Finally, he let out a long, deep sigh, as if he had aged several years in an instant. "...Go then. Be... be very careful. Remember, once you pay the money, leave immediately! Don't look him in the eye, don't engage in conversation, don't say anything! Once you're out the door, don't look back, run toward places with people... your phone, make sure you have your phone, if anything happens... call me immediately!" He repeated his instructions incoherently, every word soaked in worry.

"I've got it, Uncle Zhao." Lin Chen picked up the document envelope, clutching it tightly in his hand, feeling its substantial, heavy weight. "Wait for me to come back."

He took one last look at Uncle Zhao, turned around, pushed open the Grocery Store's wooden door, and stepped into the somewhat blinding afternoon sunlight.

The clamor of Chinatown rushed to meet him, but unlike before, this noise no longer made him feel a sense of alienating panic. He walked through the familiar streets with steady steps, eyes fixed straight ahead. The sunlight elongated his straight silhouette, casting it onto the bluestone pavement. In the shadows of the street corners, there seemed to be prying eyes, but he paid them no mind.

He knew where his target was.

【Navigation initiated. Target: Marcus Guerrero.】

【Latest location: East Los Angeles, 12th District, 'Old Drunkard' bar. Signal stable.】

【Environmental analysis: The security in this area is extremely poor; 'Old Drunkard' bar is one of Marcus's frequent strongholds. Current thermal imaging shows over six life signals inside. Recommendation: High alert.】

The AI's notification flashed coldly through his mind. Lin Chen did not stop, walking straight toward that more dilapidated and dangerous area.

The closer he got to the "Old Drunkard," the fouler the air became. The sour stench of rotting garbage, the smell of cheap spray paint from graffiti, and the reek of urine in the corners were all mixed together. The streets were potholed, sewage flowed freely, and several gaunt addicts leaned against the walls with hollow eyes. A stray dog rummaged through a trash pile, emitting a low, whimpering growl.

The frontage of the "Old Drunkard" bar was crooked, the letters on the sign were incomplete, and half of the neon light tubes were dead. The concrete ground at the entrance was littered with cigarette butts and broken glass, glinting dangerously in the sunlight. Two Latino thugs wearing dirty undershirts, revealing large swaths of tattoos, leaned against the doorframe, smoking, their eyes lazily and viciously scanning the occasional passerby.

Lin Chen's appearance drew their focus. Their eyes were first filled with confusion—this Asian kid, shabbily dressed but with a straight back, looked unfamiliar. Then came scrutiny, sweeping over his washed-out jeans and peeling shoes, finally landing on the black document envelope he was clutching tightly in his hand.

Lin Chen did not pause, nor did he avoid their gaze. He walked straight to the door and stopped two steps away from them.

"I'm looking for Marcus." His voice was not loud, but it was exceptionally clear in the quiet street corner.

The two thugs exchanged glances. One of them tilted his head and gestured with his chin toward the inside without speaking, but he shifted aside, clearing the way to enter. There was a hint of playful mockery in their eyes, as if they were about to watch a show.

Lin Chen pushed open the greasy, sticky wooden door.

A more intense odor instantly engulfed him—inferior whiskey, sweat, tobacco, and some indescribable sweet, rotten smell. The lighting was extremely dim, with only a few dim spotlights behind the bar and light filtering through a few grime-covered windows. The air was so thick it felt almost solid. A few scattered patrons sat by some dilapidated tables, their eyes unfocused. The loudest noise came from a larger table at the very back.

Marcus had his back to the door, wearing a tight black undershirt that revealed his muscular, tattoo-covered back. He was holding a beer bottle, loudly saying something to two of his underlings at the table, his crude laughter echoing in the heavy air.

Lin Chen's gaze first fell on the jacket Marcus had draped over the back of his chair. Attached to the waist of that dirty leather jacket by a leather cord was a dark, palm-sized copper badge with irregular edges. The lighting was dim, making it hard to see the patterns clearly, but its unique shape and antique texture vaguely overlapped with the silhouette that had flashed by the waist of the stalker in his memory.

His heart skipped a beat. But there was no time to think it over.

Seemingly sensing the movement at the door, or perhaps because an underling had given him a look, Marcus's laughter stopped abruptly. He turned his head slowly, with the alertness of a predator.

When his gaze pierced through the dim light and landed on the face of the young Chinese man standing straight at the door, clutching a black document envelope—

Time seemed to freeze for a second.

The flesh on Marcus's face twitched reflexively, revealing a fierce look. But immediately, that fierceness was replaced by extreme shock and disbelief. He widened his eyes, his pupils contracting in the dim light, as if he had seen a ghost that absolutely shouldn't exist.

He slowly, extremely slowly, put down the beer bottle. The bottom of the bottle clinked against the wooden table with a dull "thud," which was exceptionally jarring in the suddenly quiet bar.

Then, he grinned, revealing teeth stained yellow by tobacco. But it wasn't a smile. It was a twisted expression that mixed rage, cruelty, and a kind of extreme excitement at discovering that his prey had dared to deliver itself to his doorstep.

"Lin... Chen?"

He whispered the name, his voice hoarse, like gravel grinding against tin. Every syllable was soaked in cold, unmasked killing intent.