Chapter 75: The Female Singer

"Hey, girl." The Black man with a full head of Mexican curls stood before Anjielina and shoved aside the homeless man holding the burger, sending him stumbling.

"I didn't eat breakfast. Give me one." He slouched with a lazy air, as if he didn't care about the burger at all—just looking for trouble.

Behind him stood two other burly Black men, their faces twisted with menace.

Anjielina felt a pang of fear upon seeing them, but still said, "Sorry, I only give these to the homeless who have nothing to eat."

"What the hell, which eye do you think I ate from?" The Black man glared, unreasonable. "I said I didn't eat breakfast—give me the burger!"

Anjielina pressed her lips together, about to speak, when she caught Weide's glance signaling her.

"Forget it. Give them the burgers."

Seeing the fear in the boy's eyes, the white girl hesitated, then said, "I can't give them to you—you're not people in need."

"Hahahaha." The Black man grinned. "What did I just hear? That's hilarious!"

His expression darkened as he leaned in, warning, "Listen, girl. This is our turf. If I feel like it, I can smash your car and take everything you've got!"

"So I'll say it one last time—give me the burger!"

By the end, the Black man was shouting.

Spit flew everywhere, making Weide step back and quickly pull a burger from the car, handing it over: "Here, take them all."

The Black man snorted, took the burger, tore open the wrapper, and bit into it.

When he tasted the fried chicken inside, he nodded. "Not bad."

Then he waved his hand. "Take all these back and split them among the boys."

"Got it." His underling stepped forward, pulled out a cloth sack, and began stuffing the burgers inside.

Seeing this, Anjielina rushed forward to stop them: "You can't take them all—there are still many people without food!"

Near the vehicle, many ragged homeless men and Black women pushing baby strollers had been waiting in line.

Seeing their burgers being taken, they grew anxious and shouted: "Oh my God, no! You can't do this!"

"Yes! My child hasn't eaten!"

"I haven't eaten in two days—don't take my burger!"

"Stop them!"

But as the homeless closed in, the Black man turned and barked: "Shut your mouths! You pathetic, worthless, junkie scum who can't survive three days without a fix!"

Overwhelmed by his ferocity, everyone froze in place.

The Black man threw the burger on the ground and crushed it under his foot. "Ah, playing hero? Didn't think you had that much spine."

"Too bad I still remember you crawling on your knees, crying over a dollar, begging for a tiny dose of enhancer."

"So choose—do you want the burger, or the enhancer?"

The Black man spread his hands wide, as if holding an invisible scale.

Hearing this, someone immediately recognized the Black man and whispered to the others.

"That's Pilu from the Scarface Gang—he loves picking on the homeless. If you piss him off, he'll stop selling you the stuff."

The Scarface Gang was a small street gang in Seattle, far smaller than the Crips, but they controlled the enhancer trade along this stretch of street.

Once they realized who he was, the homeless stood silent, glancing at each other, no one speaking.

Even the Black women with babies fell quiet.

Seeing this, Pilu sneered: "So you've made your choice?"

He turned back to Anjielina. "Girl, see? They all agree—your burgers are mine."

"I'm calling the police." Anjielina pulled out her phone. "Officers are patrolling nearby."

Pilu shrugged. "Then call them."

He seemed utterly unafraid, merely urging his men to hurry with the burgers.

Anjielina had no choice—she dialed the emergency number.

But as she opened her mouth to speak, the Black giant reached out and violently snatched her phone.

The next second, a forearm with sculpted, defined muscles reached out, gripping the Black man's arm and wrenching it sharply backward.

"Ahh!" The Black man cried out in pain, instantly releasing his grip.

"Behave." The man shoved the Black man aside, then turned his back to the white girl and asked, "You okay?"

"I'm fine." Anjielina stared at Roger in surprise.

She had clearly not seen him moments ago—yet now he'd appeared out of nowhere and bravely come to her aid.

"Where the hell did you come from?!" Pilu roared. "You wanna die?!"

He reached for his waist, as if preparing to draw a weapon.

But before Roger could answer, the wail of sirens came from nearby, freezing the Black man's hand mid-motion.

Roger spoke calmly: "If I were you, I'd leave now. If the cops see you armed, they might empty their magazines right here."

"Shit!" Pilu had no desire to face the police—he spat on the ground and threatened, "Kid, you're gonna regret this."

With that, he signaled his men to leave.

But as they passed the van, he suddenly pulled out a knife and stabbed the tire hard.

"Sssss!"

The sound of air escaping rang out.

Weide's face turned grim. "Fuck! My car!"

He rushed to the tire, saw the clean puncture, and the white boy nearly wept. "Damn it—I should've never come here!"

Seeing the Black men depart, Roger said to the female singer: "I'll head out now. See you at the café."

"Okay, but where are you going? You haven't taken your burger!"

But the man left too quickly—Anjielina received no reply, only stood there, staring blankly at Roger's hurried back.

Soon, police cars arrived, and several white officers with weapons walked over for a routine inquiry.

On the other side, Juan and Qiangsen were following behind Pilu.

When they turned into a secluded alley, Juan stopped and leaned against the corner.

He observed with the corner of his eye while using burger crumbs to tease the pit bull.

Not long after, Roger's figure appeared before them.

"He's already inside. Need help?" Juan asked.

He didn't even ask what Roger intended to do—or rather, he was willing to help with whatever Roger did.

Qiangsen, however, was still confused, unsure of Roger's next move.

"No, of course not." Roger cracked his wrist; every muscle in his body awakened at once.

At this moment, he was like a sleeping, ravenous beast that, upon suddenly smelling blood, was filled with savage impulses.

Roger took a deep breath: "Leave them to me. You two keep watch outside."

"Got it." Juan nodded, turning his gaze to the vehicles along the street.

At the same moment, inside the alley, Pilu lit a cigarette and told his subordinate: "Find that damn guy from earlier, then hire a homeless man. Twenty dollars. Bang! Get it?"

"Understood." The Black subordinate nodded.

On Meilijian's streets, hiring homeless people was an extremely cost-effective method. After all, twenty dollars for a gunshot—even if it didn't kill—was still a bargain if it injured the target.

Far safer than doing it themselves.

But just as Pilu grinned, footsteps suddenly sounded behind them.

Along with them came a man's mocking voice:

"Twenty dollars is too little. Give me all your money—I might just spare your life."