The room was plunged into darkness, the lights extinguished.
The red glow of distant neon lights cast from the window, flickering across Fang Cheng's face, alternating between light and shadow.
He picked up a black pistol, his actions crisp as he cocked the slide twice, loading the bullet into the chamber.
Then he set it down, along with three extra magazines, hiding them in the inner layer of his shoulder bag.
Next, he picked up the Butterfly Knife, sheathing it and securing it to his belt.
Finally, he put on a rather nondescript black mask, covering half his face.
With all his preparations complete, he glanced at the street below from the window.
He saw several pedestrians passing by in succession, and a van driving away from the front of the tubular building.
Fang Cheng felt a slight flutter in his heart, a vague sense of foreboding.
Immediately, he shook his head to settle his mind, regaining his composure.
