The man had a face with distinct outlines, not overly robust, that showed a bit of cynical handsomeness in the sun. His fingers were like a pianist’s, long, slender, and beautiful, extremely dexterous. No matter what he did with these hands, it would appear pleasing to the eye—even if he was handling a sniper rifle. 

There was already shooting up ahead. People were shouting nonstop over the communicator hanging from his ear. This was a battle of armed police mopping up the remnants of scientific extremists.

“Requesting support, requesting support. The firepower at the back door is too strong, we can’t hold out! This crowd is fighting to the end!” 

“Copy!” 

“All units take note, take note not to let dangerous individual Number 002 escape. All units take note…” 

Meanwhile, as always, he held up his gun, neither fast nor slow. He loaded the bullets, slid them into the chamber, and unhurriedly took aim. 

“We have found Number 002. This is Squad 4. We have found Number 002!” 

“Copy. Squad 4, report your position.” 

The man narrowed his eyes and took a look from far away. He shook his head and laughed quietly. He indistinctly recited: “Number 002.” 

“Approaching the back door position. Number 002 is attempting to run!” 

“Intercept him!” 

“Squad 1 is in position to support.” 

“Copy!” 

Another period of fierce gunfire. The man picked up the binoculars by his hand and looked, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips. He casually raised the gun and tilted his head, seeming to aim absent-mindedly. 

“Warning! Warning! Unusual energy reaction detected on Number 002. He’s about to activate spatial energy equipment!” 

“Block him!” 

“All right,” the man added to himself—as though the others could really hear what he was saying. Then he suddenly squeezed the trigger. The bullet flew unerringly according to its precisely planned trajectory. The man didn’t even take a look. After shooting, he lowered the rifle and nimbly put it away. He touched the elaborate communicator, adjusted the frequency, and said in a serious tone, “Reporting! Target individual has been shot dead.” 

There was a silence over the chaotic communicator. Then an obvious new recruit’s voice shyly said, “Squad 4, Number 5 reporting! The dangerous individual is dead. Spatial energy equipment warning resolved.” 

Then, as though others couldn’t hear him, he quietly added, “Where did the sniper come from? He’s so awesome.” 

Then there was a light click—it must have been a teammate next to him turning off his communicator, afraid that he would humiliate them. 

The man put on sunglasses and put the big bag holding the gun over his shoulder. He rolled up his pant legs and slowly left the rooftop, humming some tune. He took out a phone and dialed a number. More dead than alive, he said, “Resolved.” 

The person on the other end laughed. “So quick. A performance worthy of the finest gun.” 

The man clamped the phone between his ear and shoulder and took out a cigarette. He lit it and gave an indistinct “yeah.” Seeming a little lacking in enthusiasm, he said, “When is my transfer order coming?” 

The other person was silent for a while, then asked, “Jinchen, do you really want to leave?” 

The man blew out a smoke ring and went downstairs. There was a car parked waiting there. He tossed the bag into the backseat and plopped into the passenger’s seat, casually rolling down the window and tapping cigarette ash outside. He didn’t look like a mysterious sniper. Rather, he seemed like a big, lazy cat. 

He said, “I’ve sold my life for my country for so many years. Now I want to enjoy a quiet retirement. I don’t think that’s an excessive request, is it?” 

The other person sighed. “I understand what you mean. I’ve already sent it up. You rest for a couple of days, and the organization will make arrangements for you. You’ll be notified this Thursday at the latest.” 

The man whistled. “Thank you for taking the trouble!” 

His name was Huang Jinchen, but few people knew this name. For the last decade and more, he had had another appellation and identity. 

Science and technology were developing rapidly. Scientific terrorists had risen to the occasion. In this world, a terrorist organization known as “Utopia” had just been caught—no, rather than saying they had been caught, it would be better to say that after a difficult war, international allied forces had barely won. 

This was a terrorist organization that had an “energy source” as their core, with human bodies as their carriers and human emotions as their fuel. Through a special process, they obtained and burned the “emotional energy” of innocent people’s lives and minds and developed all kinds of unimaginable weapons. They had nearly dragged the whole world into their mad “Utopia Alternate Space,” attempting to formulate new rules. 

And in this war, the planted agent who had had the most critical effect had been Huang Jinchen, called a “gun” by the Utopia organization, serial number 11235. 

Not a single person made a lucky escape once this gun got his eye on them. All the people in the world who used guns couldn’t help dreading this person, who was like someone out of legend. He didn’t have an abnormal body remodeled by Utopia. He couldn’t use that unthinkable energy system, and he didn’t have any bizarre abilities. He was only an ordinary person. 

But an “ordinary person” who could easily pursue and kill people of extraordinary abilities. 

However unbelievable the circumstances, even in an abnormal space where all weapons had been blocked, even a place where the laws of physics had changed, a place with abnormal energy reactions, a person he had gotten his eye on couldn’t escape the fate of getting a bullet between the eyes. 

Whether enemy or comrade-in-arms, everyone felt a strange fear towards this legendary “gun,” because in his hands, a gun wasn’t a lethal weapon, wasn’t even a weapon at all, but some kind of magical object; also because he didn’t even seem like a person. Even among the comrades-in-arms who had fought for the same country, there was a rumor that said that “that gun” wasn’t actually a living person, but a robot manufactured by one the country’s secret bases. 

That was how he could be so precise, just like his serial number in Utopia, 11235—the Fibonacci sequence; perfect. 

How could a person have such terrifying psychological quality? 

But in fact, Huang Jinchen didn’t drink machine oil. Time after time, he liked to drink certain brands of carbonated beverages that relevant departments had issued warnings against because their preservative content exceeded the standard. His normal hobbies weren’t wiping guns or target practice; he played an online game—of course, the game wasn’t the holographic club’s wuxia series, or the keyboard club’s World of Warcraft; he liked to play Lian Lian Kan¹.

Apart from this, though the government had given him generous work and benefits, in his leisure time, he still had hobbies that brought in a little extra income—for example, busking. 

When he didn’t have a mission, wearing a pair of flashy sunglasses, a wooden guitar on his back, in a faded t-shirt bought wholesale from the zoo and ragged jeans with one pant leg long and the other short, revealing a pair of knock-off sneakers underneath, he would go sing for money on the subway. Sometimes he sang old classical songs. Sometimes he would take in a lot of money and, as if showing off before an audience, he would stir up an original song. 

On Thursday afternoon, when the middle-aged man came to find him, Huang Jinchen was performing an English edition of “Two Tigers” for two blond, blue-eyed foreign children—the lyrics extemporaneously translated by himself. For some reason, he sang with a thick Russian accent: “Two tigers, two tigers, run fast, run fast…”² 

The two foreign children heard this and stared blankly, feeling that this country’s children’s songs were truly abundantly vigorous. They absolutely couldn’t understand! 

A middle-aged man with a refined pair of glasses on his nose, dressed up like a beast in human clothing, waited for the thunderous applause and laughter of the crowd to pass, then went over to pat Huang Jinchen on the shoulder. “Sir, I don’t know whether you have any interest in being recruited for show business?” 

Huang Jinchen looked disdainful. “You talent spotters move too slowly. I’ve been showing myself off on this subway line for months, and you’ve only just discovered me. How bad is your eyesight? Tut, it’s no good being a little four-eyes.” 

Then the train pulled into the station. Putting on airs like a superstar, he bowed towards the audience, then swaggered off hugging his guitar. The middle-aged man in glasses, under the eyes of the crowd, calmly left after him. 

There was an audience member present who liked live broadcasts and recorded a full version of Huang Jinchen’s “Two Tigers” to post online, even naming it “Peerless singer, shaking the world with one song.” 

When they came out of the subway station, there was a car waiting. The middle-aged man stepped up to open the car door for him, making an inviting gesture. “Big star, please get in.” 

Huang Jinchen didn’t stand on ceremony at all. He plopped down, twisted around, and commented: “Listen, what’s this company of yours? Does it have assets? This crappy car’s seat is harder than the backseat of a bike. You’re so poor, and you still want to hire me? Can you even afford to hire an agent?” 

The middle-aged man looked back and took off his glasses, revealing unmoved eyes. “How about I be your agent?” 

Huang Jinchen sneered. “You? I don’t think much of you. You aren’t good-looking, either.” 

The two of them laughed at the same time. Huang Jinchen put down the guitar and crossed his legs. “What, do they want to transfer me over to you?”

“That’s right, how about it?” The middle-aged man winked. “Sitting in an office every day, no need to struggle through the elements, no need to run around hoisting a gun bashing in people’s heads. Your rank would be higher than before, and the position is special, in a special training base. People from other places couldn’t direct you. When you aren’t busy, you can go out onto the grounds to plant crops. There’s earth, the environment is good. It’s suitable for a quiet retirement.” 

Huang Jinchen considered for two seconds, then decisively shook his head. “Nope, I’m not going. General Zhong, sir, don’t go fooling us rough, uncultured fellows. I know about your blessed place, ‘the final contact base.’ No one can direct you, you can have a quiet retirement when there’s nothing to do, but when there is something do, you have to put your life on the line. Don’t think I don’t know you just got out of the hospital.” 

Before General Zhong could speak, Huang Jinchen continued: “Although…I hear that the treatment at the ST Base is the best, and it’s true that no one can direct you. I could…heh-heh, work for you in name only, get myself a position. Don’t arrange concrete duties for me. I think fetching tea is good work. No need for me to step up when there’s business, and when there isn’t, I can collect my wages. Anyway, our comrades don’t have the unfortunate practices of the old society’s rich landlords. I figure there’ll be no need for this unworthy one’s attentions. When nothing is going on, I can skip work and go out to play guitar, get some extra income. Maybe one day I’ll hit it big.” 

General Zhong didn’t speak. He only turned back to look at him from the passenger’s seat and tell him with his cool, distant eyes—wake up, kid, you’re drooling. 

So Huang Jinchen obstinately sang: “Little sister, walk bravely onward—” 

General Zhong sighed. Looking at this difficult person was giving him a bit of a headache. “Are you absolutely set on being discharged from service?” 

Huang Jinchen sang: “Walk onward—” 

General Zhong was silent for a while, then suddenly gave the driver the address of a hospital, interrupting Huang Jinchen’s ear-piercing demonic notes. “How about this? I’ll sign you up at the base. You won’t have to come to work normally. I’ll sign you up with the ‘special expert group.’”

“Are you guys that unwilling to let me go?” Huang Jinchen asked. 

“You’re most excellent. No one wants to lose a talent like you.” 

The corners of Huang Jinchen’s mouth curved in a slightly inscrutable smile. “What kind of ‘expert’? Are you telling me you’re going to sign me up as a ‘killing expert’?” 

“The special medical treatment expert…group.” General Zhong paused delicately. “Before you, there was only the special medical treatment expert. I won’t conceal that there’s only one person. Normally, when nothing is going on, he also doesn’t come to the base much. I’ll take you to see this expert. Perhaps you’ll be interested in his work. Then you can decide whether to stay or not.” 

Huang Jinchen didn’t oppose this. He sat quietly in the backseat plucking his out of tune guitar, thinking that worldly affairs were truly inconstant if he could one day do something he had as little to do with as being a medical treatment expert.

General Zhong took him right to the hospital. As he went ahead to lead the way, he said, “He recently had a bit of an accident and is staying in the hospital right now. Though you haven’t seen each other, I think that you must have spoken to him over a communicator during the Utopia war. He’s…” 

His voice came to a stop when he pushed open the hospital room door. In the single-bed hospital room, a tall, thin man with a cast on his leg was standing up. Despite his serious injury, he was still misbehaving, standing on one leg like a rooster, swaying to keep his balance, holding a bowl of instant noodles he had scared up from somewhere, sharing it with a stray cat crouched on the wall by the window. 

He drank a mouthful of broth himself, then picked out a noodle for the cat. It was very dramatic. 

“…Dr. Kou,” General Zhong finished unflappably after silently looking at this groundbreaking doctor for a long moment.