"I'm leaving." William Carter said, and after speaking, walked toward the end of the street.

Passing through this stone-paved street, then through several more crowded and narrow alleys with hardly any people coming and going, the view suddenly opened up. Before his eyes were rows of brand-new high-rise buildings, bustling with people and traffic, a world completely different from what he had just seen—as if the difference between heaven and hell.

Looking at the dazzling lights and bustling nightlife before him, it all felt so distant.

William Carter's gaze swept over every passerby. Every tiny detail, every small movement on these people, could not escape William Carter's sharp eyes. Watching the stream of people weaving back and forth, William Carter seemed a little absent-minded, walking aimlessly.

"William Carter." A clear voice sounded behind him, with a hint of surprise.

William Carter turned his head, his gaze falling on the newcomer—a young man of about eighteen or nineteen, dressed in a tattered undershirt and a pair of ripped jeans, who knows where he picked them up, but at least they were washed clean.

"It's you." William Carter said indifferently, his gaze shifting back to the street.

"Looking for sheep?" George's eyes fell on the passing crowd as he asked.

William Carter shook his head, then nodded, even he himself felt conflicted.

Looking at George's face, William Carter recalled the first time they met. George had been beaten half to death for stealing on the street, and it was William Carter who carried him to the Red Cross Hospital. From then on, the two became acquainted, but only just that—acquaintances.

"You have all these skills, but you never use them. What are you waiting for? Why don't you teach me a trick or two? If you teach me, I'll split everything I get with you fifty-fifty." George pleaded.

William Carter shook his head and said, "George, even if I were willing to teach you, you wouldn't be able to learn."

"Why?" The youth called George asked, unwilling to give up, his gaze falling on William Carter's fair and slender hands. It was hard to imagine that someone living on the streets like them could have such hands. If these hands were used to play the piano, they would probably be perfect, George thought, as if he understood something.

"Forget it, if I can't learn, then I can't." George sighed. If it were someone else with these skills, George would stop at nothing to get them, but William Carter was different. William Carter was his friend. Even if William Carter didn't see him as a friend, he still considered William Carter his friend—a friend worth risking his life for.

George's gaze shifted from William Carter to a slender woman in her thirties who had just walked by. She was tall, wearing a miniskirt, her long, beautiful legs wrapped in jade-colored stockings exuding a deadly allure. But what caught George's eye was not her legs, but the fashionable black backpack on her back.

"Sorry," George muttered, then hurried in the direction of the woman.

George was a thief. What he was about to do was to take what he wanted from that backpack without the woman noticing.

It's just for survival, nothing to apologize for. A trace of gloom flashed in William Carter's eyes, and he smiled self-mockingly. Wasn't he the same, making a living from other people's pockets?

William Carter was a thief too! The same act of stealing, no different from George, but William Carter believed his thievery was different from others.

William Carter walked forward, somewhat dejected, spending three or four hours crossing most of the city. A rabbit doesn't eat the grass by its own burrow—William Carter didn't dare steal near home.

Sometimes he would squat in a corner for a while, sometimes walk a short distance, but he never found a suitable fat sheep. William Carter was used to it; sometimes he could go more than half a month without finding a mark. In fact, with William Carter's skills, he could pick many pockets just by walking down a street, but he would never do that.

William Carter's right hand twitched, and a cold glint flashed between two flawless, jade-like fingers, only to disappear instantly, as if it had never appeared.

William Carter raised his right hand, spreading his fingers. Sunlight streamed through the gaps between them. What a pair of perfect hands! Yet these hands were used for stealing. William Carter looked up at his fingers, glowing rosy under the rising sun, and suddenly felt a surge of loathing for them.

William Carter wandered up and down the street for over an hour. Sometimes, he could walk like this all day, only to return home empty-handed.

As William Carter passed a street corner, two shady-looking men in their thirties approached. One had a head of white-dyed hair, the other wore a suit jacket on top and a pair of ripped jeans on the bottom, not unlike George's pants.

These were street thugs. As a thief, it was best not to mess with this kind of people. If you steal from ordinary folks and get caught, at most you'll get cursed out. But if you steal from these guys and get caught, you'll definitely get beaten badly—sometimes even half to death.

"That bitch is really stubborn. Tried to cheat and ended up with nothing but trouble. What bad luck," the white-haired one spat and said.