It was a rainy day in New York.
The torrential rain made the day seem somewhat extraordinary. On 163rd Street and 89th Avenue in Jamaica, Queens, the street was lined with houses and shops, all styled in the American aesthetic of the 2000s, with various graffiti adorning the walls.
The area was home to a diverse population, rich in ethnic diversity, but also marked by poverty, backwardness, and the chaos that often accompanies multiculturalism.
Several large and small gangs were prevalent in the vicinity.
However, the gangsters of Queens had recently become very quiet—eerily quiet—largely because over the past four months, a series of serial killings had been ongoing.
The victims were either street thugs or gang members.
The death toll had reached over two hundred, a truly horrifying figure.
Gangs, typically lawless and life-disrespecting, rarely faced consequences in this era. But now, there appeared someone like the Grim Reaper.
This figure was like a pervasive ghost, moving through the darkness, seeking them out, harvesting their lives.
They had tried to find him, secretly collaborating and offering rewards to capture this fearsome figure.
Yet, it was futile. The ghost continued to harvest lives, causing many gangs in Queens to fearfully abandon the area and their turfs.
Of course, not everyone was frightened.
Hermano Del was one of those unafraid. He was Latino, and had founded his gang, the Hermano Del Gunmen, in prison. He recruited many Latino inmates, dominating both inside and outside the prison in Queens, securing a significant territory.
Every member had a tattoo of a life-sized pistol on their lower abdomen, and the gang was known for its strict discipline and traditional operations.
They had connections with Mexican drug dealers and engaged in home invasions, carjackings, assaults, and murders.
Since its founding, the gang had grown to over two hundred core members, heavily armed and prepared for gunfights.
The Hermano Del Gunmen were notoriously vicious.
Due to a complex web of interests, the NYPD seldom interfered with them.
But today, the Reaper's steps were nearing them, and the rainy night seemed set to wash away sins and blood.
Hermano Del's turf spanned over a dozen streets, with their headquarters located in an apartment complex at the intersection of 163rd Street and 89th Avenue in Jamaica, surrounded by bars, shops, and supermarkets, with hardly any residential buildings.
The area was complex, with many specially designed back doors and basements, allowing for attacks to be countered with a complicated environment, or for hiding in basements or escaping through back doors.
Despite their ostentation, they were also cautious.
Such was the survival rule of the gangs.
Thunder roared in the sky, and the heavy rain poured down, unable to obscure the lively bars welcoming guests, cars and motorcycles parked in front of the bars, and crowds continuously streaming inside.
Groups of extravagantly dressed, confident men and women, ready to enjoy the night.
Nearby stood an apartment complex, old bricks and tiles, with a tall yard surrounded by barbed wire, and guards and security cameras all around.
Hermano Del had fortified their headquarters well.
Yet, they were still unprepared for the Reaper's approach.
The noise of the bar and the heavy rain masked some traces.
Under the cover of darkness and rain, unnoticed, a figure observed the surroundings of the apartment complex from the rooftop of a nearby building, his sharp gaze scanning everything.
He saw through the hidden guards; the rain did not obstruct his vision, his eyes sharp as a hawk's, pinpointing the surveillance spots.
Finally, his gaze settled on the high-rise apartment complex.
He crouched slightly, then leaped powerfully.
Thud!
With a muffled sound, his figure shot through the rain, crossing tens of meters in distance and height, and landed neatly at the highest window of the apartment entrance, his gloved fingers gripping the windowsill, gently pushing open the unlocked window, and landing smoothly inside.
The room was empty, with a bed and a bathroom.
While clinging to the windowsill, he had glanced for surveillance cameras, so he casually closed the window and walked lightly to the door, pressing his ear against it, his senses amplified.
In an instant, a wealth of information flooded his brain.
His hearing and sense of smell expanded, scanning the entire building like a scanner, constructing a 3D architectural image in his mind, where figures and information were being mapped.
The movement of people, the blend of distinct yet mingling scents—stink, smoke, body odor, the metallic scent of firearms, the smell of alcohol, and the vibration frequencies of sounds.
Soon, he opened his eyes, hearing a slowly approaching footstep. He stepped back, hiding in the door's angle, and as the doorknob turned and the door opened, a person walked in, just stepping inside to turn and close the door, a hand covered his mouth and nose.
The person was shocked, and before he could react, a sharp pain followed, and the next second, he lost consciousness.
His body was gently dragged by the newcomer, laid on the ground, and the door opened.
Glancing at a camera at the end of the corridor, he showed no indication but quickened his steps to the spiral staircase, leaping from the railing, falling from the height of over ten floors to the ground floor.
Thump!
He landed on the first-floor ground with a dull sound, his figure merely crouching slightly with no other abnormalities.
Exiting the stairwell into a corner, he turned the corner into the living room. Hearing something, two people came from the living room, stepping into the corner, met by two gloved fists.
Fast as lightning, striking precisely at the neck.
With two snaps, their necks collapsed, and instinctively clutching at their necks, they stumbled back two steps, and with expressions of despair and pain, they fell to the ground.
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