United States, Nevada, Las Vegas.

With gambling legalized, all sorts of transactions naturally followed: organ trade, sex work, drugs, smuggling. Overnight fortunes were made, and the city saw its fair share of suicides.

“Vibrant” and “dazzling” hardly capture the city. Perhaps the word “extravagant” comes closest to describing what newcomers feel when they first arrive: twenty-four-hour casinos, a place where anything is possible—if you have the money.

This is the Entertainment Capital, the City of Sin.

The weather in July and August was blistering. You could leave an egg on the desert sand and peel it in minutes. Feng Zhannuo had been here before, but every visit was hurried.

Now, he stood at a lavish banquet, champagne in hand, wearing a subtly patterned suit that did little to draw attention—but in a room filled with the scent of fine perfume and the shimmer of silk, he still radiated presence, impossible to ignore.

“Ian.”

Someone approached. Beneath a crimson-gold gown, her pale skin gleamed like pearl. Golden hair was pinned up, with one playful strand falling down, catching the light and all the men’s eyes in the room.

Those familiar with the scene would think of a name—behind it, an image of a poppy flower: alluring, poisonous, inescapable—the Black Widow.

“Madame Marble.”

Feng Zhannuo stepped forward. A polite kiss on her hand drew a mix of gazes. Madame Marble clasped his arm. “I’m glad you’re here, Ian. Only you can handle this for me.”

Her warm whisper brushed his ear, suggestive, tantalizing. But Feng knew why he was here—and he knew exactly what she wanted.

“Who’s the target this time?” He didn’t waste words. They walked hand-in-hand across a fur-lined carpet, his posture sharp and upright, her figure fluid and hypnotic. Together, they were like a painting—radiant, commanding attention.

But beneath the glamour, a primal transaction was taking place. They were killer and client, nothing more. Madame Marble sipped her champagne, then handed the glass to a waiter, her gaze naturally shifting slightly to the right front.

“That one.”

Ahead stood a few men. One turned. Their eyes met, and both froze.

Feston Kaida.

Perfectly tailored charcoal suit, dark hair slicked back. Anyone caught in his gaze instinctively looked away, as if their hidden sins had been exposed.

Why was he here? Feng Zhannuo couldn’t hide his surprise. He didn’t spill his drink, but Madame Marble noticed.

“What’s wrong? You know him?”

She tensed, watching his reaction. Ian was the best—if he refused her assignment, she didn’t know who else could handle it.

“Remember what I told you last time? My next move—I’ll eliminate my greatest enemy. He’s the decision-maker of the Kaida Group. They’re planning to invest here, to control hotels and entertainment. They plan to open several large casinos…”

No need for her to continue. Feng understood. “They’re trying to take over. You, the queen of the underground, wouldn’t allow it.”

He remembered why the name Kaida sounded familiar. Of course he should know them: the internationally renowned Kaida Group, with interests in real estate, finance, tourism, film, clothing, cosmetics, jewelry—their subsidiaries were everywhere. But he’d never associated them with Feston Kaida.

“The person I want you to kill is him: Greg Kaida.” Madame Marble whispered, her grip loosening slightly, her voice lighter.

“You mean the man in white casual wear?” He looked past Feston, noticing another figure behind him.

“Yes. Look at his eyes—Kaida family’s signature gray. They’re killers in the business world, ruthless and unyielding.” She slid a slip of paper with target information into his pocket.

Feng knew why he had mistaken the target. Among the crowd, Feston stood out. His presence formed an invisible barrier. Even as women’s gazes followed him, no one dared approach.

“Watch him closely. Greg hired bodyguards—hard to handle.” Madame Marble’s instincts were sharp. Feng nodded.

“The check’s in your room. He’ll be here for three days—don’t miss the chance.” A farewell kiss, brief yet lingering. She moved on, mingling with other elites.

“One top-tier escort, also your client?” Feston approached the moment she left. He raised a glass, toasting lightly, friendly as if meeting anew.

“Am I?” Feng asked. Her departure seemed to irritate him slightly. Feston’s gaze held something different now—not as aggressive as before.

Over ten days since their last encounter, Feston noticed subtle changes. The Ghost was pale, yes, but no longer sickly. His physique was more defined, the air around him charged with masculine energy enough to command attention.

He smiled at passing women, teasing just enough to flatter—but his eyes… they were curious. “I’m going to try my luck. Interested?”

Feng set down his glass and moved inside. Feston followed, passing several open private rooms where gambling was underway. The Ghost pressed on. Ahead, the destination unknown. Derrick’s voice came faintly in the earpiece: “Boss, be careful—he’s carrying a gun.”

Feston didn’t ask where they were going. Feng said nothing.

Finally, in a quieter area, the footsteps behind him stopped. Just as he turned, a force shoved him into a room.

“This is perfect.”

Feston pinned him against the wall. Feng hadn’t spoken yet when two voices cried out. Two naked men leapt from a bed. The messy sheets and pillows, lubricants lingering in the air—they’d just finished a violent encounter.

The scene was absurd—but Feston’s expression never changed. He drew his gun, gesturing at them. “Out.”

They scrambled, gathering their clothes, mumbling curses, and left. Feng waved. “Next time, lock the door.”

“We meet again, Ghost.” Feston twisted his wrist. Feng didn’t resist.

“You didn’t reach for ID, you reached for a gun. Personal matter?”

His instincts sharp, Feston’s eyes narrowed. Before he could respond, an attack came low. Feng dodged—it was expected. A brutal right fist followed with cold precision. Feston’s skills were formidable. He didn’t need full force to neutralize, and the man before him was the biggest obstacle in these three days.

Feng’s style was unpredictable—strikes from every angle, sudden kicks—but Feston’s were precise, efficient, lethal. Every hit counted; a single strike could leave him powerless to stand.

Feston was the toughest opponent. Feng admitted it was exhausting to counter. Feston didn’t like opponents like him, either. His brows knit, tense.

“Who’s your target this time?!”

“Nervous? Who’s Greg to you?” Feng twisted away from a body strike, gritting his teeth. Feston’s tone was sharp.

“Don’t touch him.”

Warning flashed in his eyes. Feng decided he didn’t care. So far, it had been hand-to-hand. Guns would cause chaos and lose his chance.

Feston read the weakness. The gun leveled at Feng’s forehead; fists paused mid-air. They leaned against the wall and bed, knocked-over objects everywhere. The bed—luxurious, sheets messy—scented with lubricant, oddly potent.

A special kind, perhaps with aphrodisiac properties. Feng’s body was heating up. Feston’s expression shifted slightly. The fight quickened blood flow, the air thick with tension.

It wasn’t a stimulant strong enough to turn them feral—but desire was undeniable. Both were attracted to men.

The elegant killer, lips pressed, eyes half-lidded with sapphire sparks. From Feston’s perspective, it was temptation—but likely physiological illusion. Time seemed suspended. Ambiguity hung heavy between them.