Chapter 52 The gun in my hand—I can reason with you.

Mu Xin did not want to get into a conflict with this homeless man, so he simply let the young man from before go.

He then leaned against the hood of the car, hands in his pockets, and sized up the homeless man.

He noticed a few details: the man had rushed out from behind the van with great speed, but he landed lightly, his footsteps making almost no sound.

The way he picked up the knife wasn't the reverse grip typical of petty thugs; it was a forward grip, with the tip pointing up and the blade facing out.

This was the way a trained person held a knife—not to intimidate, but to kill.

Mu Xin recalled that when he was renovating the Water Plant in Oxford Town, that veteran instructor had mentioned this.

Ordinary people hold knives to bolster their courage; trained people hold knives to solve problems.

And then there was his gaze; someone who had been wandering the streets for who knows how long should only have numbness and emptiness in their eyes.

But that was not the case with this man's eyes; in them, there was vigilance and calculation.

He must have been making an assessment—assessing the people in front of him, assessing the Mercedes, and assessing the entire parking area for potential retreat routes.

Mu Xin's breathing hitched for a moment, but his mind did not stop.

"This guy is staring at me. No, he's staring at my right hand."

"My hand is in my pocket, it's empty, but he can't see that. He's guessing what I might have in my hand."

Mu Xin slowly pulled his hand out of his pocket, empty, and spread it open to let the man see clearly.

The homeless man's gaze lingered on Mu Xin's open palm for less than half a second, then quickly swept toward Jessica.

His line of sight didn't linger on Jessica's face but slid down half an inch, landing on her waist.

He saw it.

A Glock 19 was hidden under Jessica's jacket, with only a small black outline of the grip's base visible.

An average person wouldn't have noticed it at all, but this man's gaze lingered on that small black outline for a fraction of a second before moving away as if nothing had happened.

He saw it, but he pretended he hadn't; only someone who had been trained could do that.

"Which unit were you with?" Mu Xin asked, his voice not loud.

"Army, 18th Airborne Corps." The homeless man looked at Mu Xin and twitched the corner of his mouth slightly. "You guessed?"

"I didn't guess." Mu Xin shook his head. "Your stance—center of gravity lowered, feet shoulder-width apart, left foot forward."

"You're ready to exert force in any direction. Ordinary people generally don't use this kind of stance."

The homeless man's brow twitched slightly, just for a split second, before quickly returning to calmness.

"Do you have a name?" Mu Xin asked.

"I do, but there's no need to tell you."

"How long have you been wandering?"

"Are you a cop? Do you need me to show you my ID?"

"No need." Mu Xin leaned against the hood of the car, hands back in his pockets, his tone as casual as if he were chatting with an old acquaintance.

"I need people. My construction site needs people."

"Not the kind of ordinary workers who move bricks or carry cement, but the kind of people who can hold down the fort."

The homeless man looked at him, remained silent for a few seconds, then suddenly let out a laugh.

It wasn't a happy laugh; it was a dry, mocking chuckle.

"Do you know who I am?"

"I don't."

"Do you know what I've done?"

"I don't."

"Then how do you know if I can do your work?"

"Your eyes." Mu Xin said. "People who have seen blood and people who haven't—their eyes are different."

The homeless man's mouth twitched, his expression a mix of mockery and bitterness.

"Have you seen blood?"

"I have, but it wasn't mine."

The homeless man ignored Mu Xin and turned to leave. His pace wasn't fast, but it was steady, with each step almost exactly the same distance.

Mu Xin watched his retreating figure, a thought surfacing in his mind: he could get this man onto Robert's construction site.

And not just him; there were many people like this on the streets of Columbus.

The homeless, the wanderers, those shattered by life who couldn't be put back together.

They didn't need charity; they needed a chance to stand back up.

Robert's construction site needed people, and the construction industry in Ohio was generally short on workers.

These people had hands and feet, and most were willing to work; they just weren't given a chance.

Mu Xin gave Jessica a look.

Jessica was stunned for a moment, then she understood.

She reached into her jacket, felt the grip of the Glock 19, and drew it from its holster.

She didn't raise it, just held it in her hand, hanging at her side.

The muzzle was pointed down, the safety still on; it wasn't an aggressive stance, just a reminder.

The homeless man heard the faint sound of metal rubbing against fabric behind him and stopped.

He didn't turn around, but Mu Xin could see his shoulders tighten slightly—just a momentary tensing, then quickly relaxing.

It wasn't fear; it was muscle memory, an instinctive defensive reaction from someone who had lived in a war zone upon sensing a weapon.

"You're not very principled." The homeless man turned around slowly, looking at Mu Xin, then glanced at the gun in Jessica's hand, his expression unchanged.

"I am very principled." Mu Xin stood up from the hood, straightened his collar, and walked toward the homeless man.

He stopped two steps in front of the homeless man, looking into those cloudy yet still sharp eyes.

"I just want to buy you a cup of coffee and have a chat."

"I said no." The homeless man's voice was calm.

"Hmm. I heard you." Mu Xin nodded. "Let's rephrase that. I need you to talk with me."

The homeless man looked into Mu Xin's eyes for a long time. His hand was tucked in his jacket pocket, gripping the folding knife.

He was calculating whether he could hold that knife to Mu Xin's throat within two seconds, then disarm him, subdue Jessica, and drive away.

He could do it; after so many years of training, he had simulated this kind of thing in his head countless times.

But he didn't move—not because he couldn't, but because he saw no fear in Mu Xin's eyes.

A man standing in front of him knew he was facing a former special forces soldier who could snap his neck with his bare hands, yet there was no fear in his eyes.

This guy was either a madman or someone who had seen the world.

Either way, he wasn't someone to mess with.

"Why do you insist on finding me?" the homeless man asked.

"Because I need people. I can't let my money go down the drain."

"And," Mu Xin paused, "because people like you shouldn't be on the street."

The homeless man opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but in the end, he said nothing. It had been a long time since he'd heard anyone tell him he didn't belong here.

So long that he had almost forgotten he had once been a useful person, a person with dignity, a person who was needed by others.

But he still refused.

"No." He shook his head, his voice hoarse. "People like me, I don't fit in anywhere."

He turned around and took the first step.

"Sir." Mu Xin's voice came from behind him, unhurried, carrying an unfathomable warmth.

"If you are a reasonable man, then I will naturally treat you with courtesy, but if you are not reasonable—"

The gun in Jessica's hand lifted slightly, not pointing at anyone, just moving from her side to in front of her.

The muzzle was still pointed down, but the action itself had conveyed enough information.

The homeless man's footsteps stopped.

"Then the gun in my hand can reason with you." Mu Xin's tone remained unhurried.