Chapter 57: Gunfight (Please keep reading)

"Don't talk. Just follow me." Ao Xi wrapped one arm around Zhuo Ning, using the other to push through the crowd as they slowly made their way toward the main entrance.

Zhuo Ning whispered, "What's wrong, Ao Xi?"

"Something's off. Let's get out of here first."

They ignored the chaos swirling around them and reached the entrance. "Open the door, we're leaving," Ao Xi called out.

The doorman, a young Black man, seemed lost in the music, dramatically keeping time with an exaggerated gesture. "Come on, man, the party's just started! It's a beautiful night. Enjoy yourselves!"

Ao Xi frowned and was about to shove him aside when a shout erupted from the crowd behind them: "Get out of here, you Crips bastards!"

"Black power!"

"Go back to Atlanta!"

Onstage, Mango Foo stopped singing, trying to calm the crowd. "Hey, guys, just be patient. Let me finish my song—you might just see things differently—"

But no one was willing to listen. Trash, beer bottles, tissues, and cigarettes rained down on the stage. Mango Foo's manager and a few friends rushed up, grabbing Mango Foo and shielding him as they retreated backstage.

"Bloods!" someone yelled.

A man leaped onto the stage, drew a gun from his waistband, and began firing at Mango Foo and his group.

They dropped instantly.

The crowd screamed and scrambled for cover.

The quick-witted sprinted to the door, demanding the doorman open it. But he was still lost in his own world, keeping time, oblivious.

Ao Xi and Zhuo Ning retreated to a filthy, cluttered corner. Cleanliness was the least of their concerns now.

Nearby, a man was shooting up. He glanced at them, grinning to reveal a mouth of rotten teeth. Ao Xi punched him into unconsciousness, then kicked the syringe far away. The last thing he wanted was to get pricked.

The syringe flew across the room and stabbed into a naked woman's buttock. She didn't even notice, still moving to the music.

Onstage, the shooter emptied his magazine, swapped in a spare, and, caught up in the frenzy, began laughing and firing into the crowd.

The panicked masses erupted in shouts, scattering in every direction.

More people crowded at the entrance, yelling at the doorman to open up. The doorman tried to respond, but someone shoved him aside and wrenched the door open.

People surged out. The doorman, toppled to the floor, shouted and waved his arms but soon fell silent.

Seizing the moment, Ao Xi tossed both their phones into the stampede, the crunch of shattered screens barely audible.

The shooter quickly exhausted his backup magazine. Out of bullets, he threw away his gun and tried to run.

Two men burst from backstage, shouting, "Die!" A volley of gunfire rang out, and the shooter collapsed onstage.

"Kyle!" someone in the crowd screamed.

A group of men separated from the others, raised their guns, and fired at the backstage attackers.

These were Kyle's companions. Among Black gangs, there was an unspoken code: young men would form tight-knit crews, smoking weed and running the streets together. If one struck it rich, he was expected to take care of his crew. In return, his friends served as bodyguards, handled errands, took the fall for crimes, or even carried out killings.

If a wealthy man refused to support his friends, he was ostracized by the community, and loners were quickly picked clean.

Regardless of the morality of this tradition, as the saying goes, "A fence needs three stakes." The poor band together for warmth, and sudden wealth always needs loyal companions.

The two shooters onstage were poor marksmen. In the exchange, one was quickly gunned down; the other panicked, turned, and fled, but was shot before he reached safety.

Kyle's friends checked his body and found him cold, unmistakably dead.

"They killed Kyle!"

"Show those Crips bastards what we're made of!"

"Kyle was a good man. He can't die for nothing!"

Riled up, they leaped onto the stage and charged the backstage door.

But those backstage weren't waiting to die. They killed the stage lights, plunging the warehouse into darkness save for one lamp above the backstage door.

The two fastest men burst into the lit area, only to be cut down in a hail of bullets. They weren't dead yet, but paralyzed from the waist down, dragged themselves out with desperate speed.

By now, most of the crowd had fled, leaving behind a mess of trash. The bolder ones took advantage of the chaos, rifling through the wounded for gold chains and watches in the flickering light. The ones still lost in the high were easy prey.

Those who didn't resist losing their jewelry were left alone. The ones still giggling or moving were stripped thoroughly.

These opportunists weren't picky; they helped themselves to any discarded weed or syringes they found.

Then they spotted the two Chinese in the corner, their eyes lighting up at the sight of a woman. They strode over.

Ao Xi lifted his shirt to show the butt of his gun, jerking his head to tell them to back off.

The group exchanged glances and grinned, undeterred. In their experience, Chinese rarely dared to pull the trigger.

"Ao Xi... should we run?" Zhuo Ning clung tightly to his waist, deeply regretting ever agreeing to make this damn project. She'd never imagined they'd end up in the middle of a shootout. As the group approached, she was paralyzed with fear.

Running wasn't an option—they would've done that already if it were possible.

Initially, Ao Xi had sensed the tension and wanted to leave, but now that shots had been fired, he was no longer interested in escape.

Why run? This was a perfect opportunity—passing up a few kills would be a waste.

He patted Zhuo Ning's back to reassure her, raised his right hand in a shooting stance, and, with a thought, retrieved the Glock 19 he'd picked up from the Mexicans from his system storage. To the outside world, it seemed as if a gun had appeared in his hand out of thin air.

Without hesitation, he fired. The men approaching never expected this—one moment his hands were empty, the next, a gun. Caught off guard, three were gunned down instantly.

One tried to escape, ducking and covering his head, but Ao Xi shot him three times. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious.

[Host has killed four. Progress: 5/10]

Afterward, Ao Xi quickly crouched with Zhuo Ning, moved them to a new spot, and pulled a chair in front for cover. He dared not move far—there were too many syringes scattered about, far more dangerous than bullets.

Onstage, the remaining attackers halted at the sound of gunfire below, exchanging nervous glances, uncertain what to do next.