Chapter 3 Subconsciously Aiming at the Little Black Dot on the Urinal While Peeing

Why can I instantly tell that I’m now in the role of a killer, and not a special ops officer on a mission? The reason is simple: in this face-value era, looks say it all.

All four renovation workers looked fierce and brutish, their faces full of menace, as if daring you to stare at them one more time. They might as well have the word ‘villain’ written across their faces.

Whatever those thugs who don’t survive two minutes in a TV drama look like, that’s exactly what they look like.

This was not good news for Russell. He was now in the same group as these four. If they couldn’t last two minutes, then Russell’s own situation was also very dangerous.

“System, where is this? What exactly is my identity? And what’s the mission?”

Russell silently asked in his heart, but the system was as if it had gone offline, not making a single sound.

With no response from the system, Russell had no choice but to play it by ear. In fact, he was mentally prepared for this. In the previous two mission worlds, the system also hadn’t revealed where he was at the start.

The only difference was, in the previous two mission worlds, everything was obvious at a glance. Even without the system’s hints, he could guess where he was.

But now...

Russell looked at the photo of the middle-aged man with a red X over it. His facial features were pronounced: high nose bridge, deep-set eyes, broad forehead, slicked-back hair—a typical Western face.

A black-and-white photo couldn’t provide many clues. Other than deducing that the target man had the aura of a big shot in the underworld, there was nothing else to go on.

Russell looked through the scope. In the office one floor lower in the opposite building, the target man—the one with the slicked-back hair—was clearly visible. Of the three floors above and below, only this office was occupied, making him easy to spot.

The slicked-back man was highly alert, perhaps out of habit, or maybe he sensed something. He kept his body hidden behind the office cabinet, making the shot very difficult.

Russell gently shifted the muzzle. In the scope appeared an Indian woman, the red bindi on her forehead so conspicuous that Russell couldn’t help but center the crosshairs on it.

It was like the emblem on Japanese helmets during the war—a perfect sniper’s bullseye. Anyone would subconsciously aim at it. Just like how, when men are peeing, if they see a little stain in the middle of the white porcelain, they can’t help but try to hit it with their stream.

According to the UN Bureau of Statistics, 250% of men have done this—even if some of them have split streams and are using a shotgun!

Bang!

A gunshot rang out. The woman in the scope was instantly shot dead, the bullet entering her forehead, her head exploding like a burst balloon... splattering everywhere.

“Cool!”

“Nice shot!”

“Boss, bullseye! You’re too accurate.”

Russell took a shallow breath, put down the sniper rifle, his stomach churning, and listening to the four’s cruel conversation made his skin crawl even more. He was now certain that his current identity was definitely not a good guy, because the woman who got her head blown off wasn’t the target. She was killed to force the slicked-back man hiding behind the cabinet to reveal himself.

“Target’s out, take him down!”

Just as planned, the slicked-back man pushed open the office door and fled into the corridor. At that moment, it was as if he had a cheat code—four guns fired in quick succession, but not a single bullet hit him.

Russell actually found this normal. The sharpshooters in movies who never miss are a lie. Training a top sniper costs almost as much as training a pilot. And these four around him were clearly not top snipers. Trying to snipe a moving target? They’d be better off just spraying and praying.

“Damn, he got away.”

“That guy runs fast. I only saw a blur, and then he was gone.”

“Hey, Russell, why didn’t you shoot?” Amid the complaints, the squad leader with the bushy beard questioned him. He was the one who had just blown off the woman’s head.

The bearded man wore a level-three helmet like in PUBG, which looked like a welder’s helmet but was actually a titanium alloy helmet used by special forces.

Russell didn’t answer. He couldn’t find a reason to shoot—he didn’t even know the slicked-back man’s identity. Besides, even if he had fired, given the situation just now, there was no way he would have hit.

The bearded man’s question gave Russell a useful piece of information: in this world, he was using his real name. Whether or not he had replaced someone with the same name, at least he wasn’t an unregistered nobody.

“Russell, I’m asking you—answer me! Why didn’t you shoot?” The bearded man asked again, this time sounding very displeased.

Russell didn’t move, maintaining his previous posture, then suddenly spoke while looking through the scope: “Wait, he’s coming back!!”

“Who!?”

“Our target. He’s running down the corridor—he’s fast... really fast.” Russell looked up in astonishment at the opposite building.

He’d just barely escaped with his life, and now he was coming back on his own? Was he tired of living?

Hearing this, the bearded man instinctively turned around, as did the other three. Then they saw a scene they’d never forget. The slicked-back man sprinted down the corridor, charged straight into the office, then smashed through the tempered glass, and, as if he’d hit the nitro, flew into the air.