The hulking figure was all triceps and brawn, his upper body clad only in a tight dark green military vest. There were no tattoos on him like those found on petty gangsters, but instead scars—and not just one or two, but many, many scars.
On his neck, shoulders, and the parts of his face not covered by clothing, there were cuts from knives, gunshot wounds, and some which looked like animal bites, nothing like the trivial markings of the street thugs.
This big guy gave Ye Wudao a menacing glance and blocked his path with an outstretched hand, rudely saying, "Beat it, kid. You can't go in here."
"I'm here to have a drink," Ye Wudao said without a hint of fear, but rather nonchalantly.
"This place is members-only and not open to the public. Go drink somewhere else," the bouncer insisted, not budging an inch.
"I have a membership card." Ye Wudao pulled out a black card; in reality, it was just a special black business card that looked ordinary apart from its color.
