Chapter 520: I'll Give You a Chance

"Well then, I'll be leaving now. I'll come visit you another day."

"Sweet dreams, may God watch over you."

"May God watch over you."

When Yu Lin walked out of the Church.

The time was 8:07 p. m.

The lantern under the Church porch still burned.

Yu Lin stood on the steps for two seconds, looked up at the sky without stars or moon, then set off toward the deeper part of the South District.

The night streets are a different species from those in daylight.

The first two blocks were still decent.

Although a few streetlights were out, it was at least still peaceful.

The sidewalk had cracks, gum marks, and a few spots of unknown liquid, and that was all.

The convenience store kept its door open, and a faint glow seeped from the window fitted with a metal grille.

Then the streetlights began to go out on a large scale.

Every three lamp posts, one was completely dead; the remaining flickering ones only cast a sickly orange‑yellow halo on the asphalt, unable even to push back the darkness a meter away.

The first homeless man appeared at the corner.

He was curled up inside a torn cardboard box salvaged from a trash heap, only his feet—wearing three layers of socks—visible, with his exposed ankles covered in frostbite and bite scars.

Four bulging black plastic bags piled beside the box were probably all his possessions.

He seemed asleep, breathing heavily, a murky rattle of phlegm rolling in his throat.

Twenty meters ahead, tents gradually emerged.

They were not the brand‑new, shiny camping tents from an outdoor gear store.

They were made of canvas, plastic sheeting, moldy sheets, scavenged door panels, bound together with nylon rope and rusted wire, resembling ugly moss clinging to the city's flesh.

They stretched under the eaves of abandoned shops, in the shadows of overpasses, along the edge of a community park, one tent after another, forming a temporary settlement nearly a hundred meters long.

Someone inside a tent coughed, a gut‑wrenching cough; outside, someone boiled water on a makeshift stove built from scavenged red bricks, the flames licking the pot and reflecting a numb face.

Then the addicts showed up.

They weren't in the tents or lying on the ground; they were crooked and everywhere.

The three closest to Yu Lin were three people.

Two men and a woman, backs pressed against graffiti‑covered brick walls, like three abandoned wet clothes, exuding an indescribably foul stench.

Their pupils were dilated wide, their perception of the surrounding world reduced to processing only the most basic visual signals.

So when Yu Lin passed in front of them, they didn't look up.

The woman's lips moved a few times, but no sound came out.

She seemed under thirty, as thin as a skeleton, the inner side of her left arm covered with fresh and old needle marks, some scabbed over, some still oozing.

Yu Lin didn't stop.

These people were beyond saving; their brains had been fully corroded by poison, their bodies spent, even surviving two more months would be a miracle.

He kept walking.

Then the gang members appeared.

They weren't like the addicts.

They occupied the street corner, the steps at the convenience store entrance, and the few square meters of brightest ground beneath each still‑functioning streetlight.

Groups of three to five, each in a different posture.

Some squatted, some leaned, some paced back and forth like leopards.

What they shared were loose waistbands, brand‑new or faux‑new sneakers, and suspiciously shaped bulges at their waists, lower backs, and armpits.

Their gazes were like a pack of hyenas smelling blood, snapping at Yu Lin the moment he stepped into the first streetlight's halo.

One street.

Two streets.

Yu Lin's pace didn't quicken, didn't hesitate, and he didn't even adjust his posture to seem unapproachable.

He just kept walking, hands naturally at his sides, eyes level forward, as if strolling beneath his own residential complex.

That "no‑one‑matters" stance, at nine p. m. in Chicago South District, was itself the most dangerous provocation.

"Hey."

The first call came from behind, and Yu Lin didn't look back.

"Don't eat the sour radish! Yellow‑skinned monkey!"

The second shout, laced with obvious racial slur, still didn't make Yu Lin turn.

Then footsteps sounded—not a chase, but an encirclement.

Three silhouettes swayed out from the alley's slanted entrance, blocking the road ahead.

Another two approached from behind at a measured pace, completing a street‑side pincer attack.

Leading them was a tall, skinny Black youth, estimated over 1.9 m, thin as a clothes‑line.

His jeans sagged to mid‑thigh, exposing the edge of his underwear, and he walked crookedly.

A Glock was tucked in his right pocket, the grip exposed like a medal—not one of honor, but of intimidation.

He stopped half a meter in front of Yu Lin, chin lifted fifteen degrees, aiming his nose at the audacious intruder.

"Hey, kid," he said:

"This is Blood Wolf Gang territory, you causing trouble m3?"

A few brothers behind him responded with timely hums, like a coordinated background chorus.

"You've got a lot of nerve?"

The skinny tall youth stared at Yu Lin with a pair of reddened eyes, for reasons unknown:

"If you don't give a reasonable reason, you'll just wait to die, gah damn!"

"I'll toss your corpse into the sea, just like a gull being swallowed whole!"

His head swayed slightly with the last syllable, as if following a rhythm only he could hear.

Yu Lin stared at him.

Then, he gave a faint smile.

"Bro," he said, in a relaxed tone:

"Don't get so worked up."

He paused, his gaze flicking over the skinny tall youth's Glock at his waist, then returning to the face that tried to look fierce yet still betrayed a childish air.

"I'm just here to ask you some questions. I heard the Blood Wolf Gang is the biggest gang around here?"

He paused.

"I want to meet your boss."

The air fell silent for half a second.

Then, laughter burst like fireworks.

"Huh?"

The skinny tall youth turned to his brothers, his face wearing that "Did you hear that? This guy must have water in his brain" expression.

"Hey, brothers," he drawled, his tone dripping with contempt:

"Did you hear? This guy wants to see our boss?"

"Oh, for real?" a short, stocky bald man chimed in, spreading his hands exaggeratedly:

"He wants to see the boss? He wants to see BigC? Just him?"

"Man, do you think you're the mayor or the FBI?" another youth wearing a crooked baseball cap stuck his head out from behind, eyeing Yu Lin's modest, somewhat shabby casual attire:

"At this rate, you can't even pass our gang's entry test. Have you ever killed anyone? fork!"

The skinny tall youth withdrew his gaze satisfied, realigning it on Yu Lin.

His smile still lingered, but the teasing glint in his eyes was rapidly cooling.

He drew the Glock from his waist.

His movement was neither hurried nor sluggish, like taking out a cigarette.

The barrel didn't press against Yu Lin's forehead, nor was it deliberately aimed; it simply hung down, the muzzle angled toward the ground, pointing at the small patch of cement between Yu Lin's faded sneakers.

But that was enough.

"Hand over the money on you," he said, the drawl in his voice gone, replaced by murderous intent:

"Then get out."

He lifted the muzzle three centimeters upward.

"Otherwise I'll blow your head off."

"Fine, I'll give you a chance."

"Uh, what?"

"I... I give you a chance to blow my head off."

Yu Lin lifted his pistol, aiming at his own head, grinning broadly:

"Come on, fire."