In the United States, black workshops were often just family-run workspaces. The workers were typically family members or undocumented laborers, situated in large warehouses in remote areas with few people around and minimal personnel turnover.

According to clues provided by Harry's friends, a small black workshop, nicknamed 'Vienna' by locals, operated out of a warehouse not far from the victim's family. Vienna was also the name of the black workshop's owner. This man had some influence, primarily making a living by wholesaling high-quality counterfeit furniture. However, if the demand arose, he could also handle car modifications, firearm alterations, and even perform simple gunshot wound treatments.

Overall, this black workshop's business was quite extensive, and it was the location that most closely matched Dean and his team's deductions. Such a place was the enemy's home turf. For safety, the team donned bulletproof vests and armed themselves before driving to the provided address.

「At this moment.」

Their destination was Vienna's warehouse.

A weathered, silver-haired elderly man in denim overalls sat pensively in his executive chair. He lit a Cuban cigar, staring at a family photo in his hand for a long time until his eyes grew dry, then sighed with resignation.

His name was Vienna, an old man in his seventies.

Normally, at this time, he would be with his family in Hawaii, enjoying the beautiful beaches, sunshine, and the company of rich and generous young beauties. But an unexpected complication had arisen in his business, and he had to stay behind to deal with it.

Vienna was an old-timer. He had served in the military in his youth and worked as a police officer in his middle years. He had lived through Los Angeles's most chaotic era and participated in some unspeakable illicit dealings. Eventually, he managed to retire unscathed and, using some connections, started this black workshop.

Thanks to his cautious attitude and extreme care to avoid businesses like "powder"—thus sidestepping competition—he and his family had always lived comfortably, sustained by his reputation.

But as he grew older, the new generation in his family no longer heeded Vienna as their forefathers had. They had their own ideas. Compared to safety, the youngsters were more interested in the thrill of numbers. They craved breakthroughs in their achievements, aiming to surpass their fathers and grandfathers, at least to prove they were grown and independent.

This was a normal mentality. However, such individuals often possessed a mismatch between their thinking and abilities. They weren't shrewd enough in handling matters, which led to mistakes and accidents, and that's precisely what happened this time.

Upon learning what his grandsons had done, Vienna arranged for his family's immediate relocation overnight and swiftly eliminated any traces within the workshop. But that wasn't enough. As long as any hint remained, it couldn't be hidden from determined eyes. Some things could exist, but they could not be exposed to daylight. For his family's safety, Vienna, this patriarch in his seventies, head of a family with over thirty members, had to make some sacrifices.

I knew those little rascals would cause trouble, but I didn't expect them to be this foolish, Vienna thought as his mind raced.

Suddenly, his mobile phone on the desk rang. He picked it up, a smile touching his lips when he saw the caller, and answered, "Old friend, I never imagined the last voice I'd hear in my life would be yours. It seems we haven't had a drink together in over a decade."

"..."

After a long silence, a voice, punctuated by a cough, came from the other end, "We're getting old. The people who used to listen to us don't care what we say anymore. No one wanted things to reach this point, but I still have to remind you: time's almost up."

Hearing this, Vienna walked to the warehouse's large plate-glass window and looked out at the road leading to the building. Under the dim streetlights, several cars were rapidly approaching. Although they weren't flashing police lights, Vienna knew them all too well.

The time had come.

With a flick of his wrist, Vienna sent his cigar tumbling to the ground. "Understood," he said calmly into the phone. "This matter will end with me."

He hung up.

Vienna picked up a lighter, set the photograph on his desk aflame, and then tossed the still-burning lighter toward the floor below.

BOOM!

Flames erupted with a SIZZLE and CRACKLE, like oil splattering and igniting.

Hearing the commotion downstairs, Vienna felt a sense of reassurance. He placed a long-prepared letter into his breast pocket, straightened his collar, and slipped a noose fitted with sharp gears around his neck. He pushed open the window and leaped.

Dean sat in the back seat, eyes closed, resting. Carlo drove, while Harry, in the passenger seat, was on his phone, babbling childishly amusing things to his daughter, who was just starting to talk. The two men had returned after dropping off Dean's sister.

Suddenly, a loud THUD came from the car's roof.

The next moment, a sharp SCREECH of brakes tore through the air. Harry, who found seatbelts a nuisance and hadn't buckled up, was sent sprawling by inertia, his head smashing hard against the windshield.

Dean reacted instantly. He braced himself against the front seat, a gun already in his right hand. "Carlo, what happened?" he asked.

Carlo shrugged apologetically. "Boss, the car ran over something. Plus, it looks like something fell on us from above!"

"The tallest warehouse here is only three or four stories, maybe fifteen meters high. Besides..." Dean glanced at the window, now stained blood-red, and said, "If I'm not mistaken, there's a corpse gushing blood directly above us."

He had the good habit of keeping his window closed. Harry, on the other hand, wasn't so fortunate. Already a crumpled heap from the sudden stop, he was struggling to sit up when he felt something viscous and foul-smelling drip from the top edge of his open window onto his face and clothes, making it impossible to open his eyes.

It wasn't until some of it got into his mouth that Harry realized what it was. He let out a strangled cry, inadvertently swallowing more.

Behind them, Hawk and his team, alerted by the sudden stop of Dean's car, also pulled over. Their headlights illuminated the entire scene.

They had watched it all unfold. Just as Dean's car was arriving at the warehouse and about to park, a figure leaped from an upper story. In mid-air, the person's head separated from their body. The head landed in front of the lead car and was pulled underneath, while the headless torso slammed onto the roof of the vehicle carrying Dean and the others.

"Wow, a special delivery from above," Hawk muttered, his pupils contracting as he and his men exited their car. They had just reached their destination, only for someone to jump. This couldn't help but stir some ominous premonitions in the veteran officer.

Dean had also climbed out. Harry was in a far more wretched state. Carlo dragged him from the car, and he lay prone on the freezing ground, face smeared with blood, dry heaving violently. He was much less composed than Carlo, who merely wiped the blood from his own face before crouching down to shine a flashlight under their vehicle.

Dean stepped onto the hood of their car, first looking up towards the third floor of the warehouse. From an open window, a peculiar, gear-toothed contraption dangled, somewhat resembling a "flying guillotine."

Looking down, he saw a headless corpse sprawled on the car roof. Due to the relatively short fall, the body was mostly intact, apart from the stump of the neck, from which blood still gushed.

Dean was about to examine the corpse when, suddenly, a deafening RUMBLE shook the ground.

From within the warehouse, a massive explosion erupted, spewing countless tongues of fire, shrapnel, and shattered glass in all directions, bathing half the night sky in a fiery red glow.

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