Awakening the Daily Intelligence System

"Tell your Russian boss," Lin Mo stuffed the blood-stained blade into Jack’s mouth, "next time send some decent trash my way." As he stood, his tactical boots intentionally crushed a severed hand, the sound of bones shattering was exceptionally clear amidst the blood-scented darkness.

Catherine struggled to express her gratitude, but saw the man examining an EMP device. A string of digits faintly visible on his neck revealed a tattoo: 011235813. This Fibonacci sequence reminded her of words from a medical school professor — some secret forces use mathematical sequences as identity codes.

"You..." She barely started speaking when interrupted. Lin Mo pressed a tiny device against her collarbone, its icy touch sending a shiver through her body. "Nano tracker," he adjusted the focus of his lens, "it will last for 72 hours. If the scum’s accomplices come looking for you..." his words cut off by the sudden vibrating of his encrypted satellite phone.

As police cars surrounded the building, blood-stained tactical gloves were left on the fire escape. Catherine clenched the metal USB in her palm — a parting gift from the man, loaded with evidence of the Hell’s Angels Gang colluding with city councilors. Meanwhile, on a rooftop three blocks away, Lin Mo was observing the scene through a sniper scope. The moment he removed his lens, his amber eyes gradually returned to their normal brown, and an encrypted electronic voice reached his ears:

"Judge, a new target has been uploaded. Lower Manhattan, child pornography ring, average Judgment Points 82."

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New York City, Brooklyn District, November 23, 2003, 20:47

Jason Wilson flicked his spring knife, its rust-stained blade tracing a dangerous arc under the emergency lights. This gang member, with his lemon-yellow dyed hair, suddenly lunged, his grease-stained utility pants scraping against concrete steps noisily, the blade aiming straight for Lin Mo Hawk’s right shoulder deltoid.

In the 0.3 seconds of surging adrenaline, Lin Mo’s tactical boots crushed the glass shards on the ground. Like a jaguar pouncing on its prey, he leaned forward, his SWAT-trained reflexes turning his right hand into a blur. The sound of metal striking and agonized screams erupted almost simultaneously; Jason clutched at his bleeding throat and staggered back, his right wrist fractured eerily.

"My God..." tucked behind a fire door, Allison Clark witnessed this unilateral crushing. The sixteen-year-old, braces-wearing girl clutched at her Saint Maria Middle School’s emblem, watching Lin Mo stir up a metal storm in the cramped safety passage. Twelve members of the Hell’s Angels Gang fell in succession, their groans echoing between the concrete walls like a demonic symphony’s finale.

As Lin Mo pulled off his sweat-soaked tactical vest, the click of a lighter’s gear tore through the darkness. The flickering flame illuminated his angular jaw, and the smoke from his Cuban cigar swirled in the eerie glow of the emergency light. This quarter Native American mixed-race individual used the tip of his boot to kick aside a baseball bat blocking his path, and the moonlight piercing through the shattered window cast shadows on his tribal tattoo on the left side of his face.

"This is fucking Devil!" Emily Carter, slumped next to an electrical box, muttered under her breath. This Hell’s Angels Gang leader watched her makeup smudge, her carefully applied smoky-eye turning into black smears. She saw her most capable subordinates scattered across the floor — Ryan Dalton’s collarbone was dislocated at a right angle, Marcus Jones clutched his knee, swollen like a purple balloon, and Jason, using his uninjured left hand, scraped blood marks on the concrete floor.

Lin Mo took a deep drag from his cigar, letting the harsh smoke tumble through his lungs. His gaze swept over these thugs, all younger than twenty, his memory suddenly flashing back to three months earlier in Queens—a girl’s body, throat slit by a spring knife, another innocent victim of abuse. As his military boots crushed the trident dagger dropped by Jason, the crunching sound of shattered bones made everyone hold their breath.

"If I see you guys in Southern Brooklyn again..." Lin Mo gestured with his cigar towards the corner’s destroyed surveillance camera remains, which they’d preemptively sabotaged as a crime cover, "losing limbs will be the least of your punishments."

Emily’s Chanel earrings jingled tremblingly. Known as a ruthless femme fatale, she now resembled a frightened chihuahua, recognizing the true murderous intent in the other’s eyes—a cold luster only present in eyes that have reaped lives on the battlefield. When Lin Mo dragged Allison, who was hiding behind the ventilation duct, her faded canvas shoes scraped two grey streaks across the floor.

"Apologize," Lin Mo commanded, slapping the confiscated Butterfly Knife on a fire hydrant. The metallic clang made Emily’s body convulse. "Give this lady a proper apology, using the manners your mother taught you."

Twenty-three gang members expressed their regret in various distorted postures. Some kissed Allison’s shoe tips with their swollen lips, others wept with their foreheads pressed against rusty iron railings, and Jason even attempted to write "SORRY" on the concrete with his broken right hand. Lin Mo watched this absurd repentance ceremony coldly. He knew these scumbags’ tears were worth less than the sewage in East River—they had doused a homeless man with gasoline for fun just last week.

When the sound of police sirens approached from three blocks away, Lin Mo took off Jason’s jacket and threw it to Allison. This motion caused a faint metallic sound from his tactical belt, and the outline of the concealed Glock 43X pistol on his lower back was faintly visible. As a top student of the New York Police Academy, he shouldn’t have been in this gray area. However, the figure crouching behind the trash can reminded him of his sister, who died in a gang shootout.

"Take this," Lin Mo reversed the direction of the blood-stained Butterfly Knife. "Next time, aim for the carotid artery, not the shoulder."

Allison’s trembling fingers brushed the skull carving on the knife handle, as the odor of cheap hair dye suddenly filled her nostrils. As she watched her rescuer turn and head towards the safety exit, moonlight streamed over the wolf tattoo on his back, with the interlaced scars resembling mysterious tribal totems. The girl, often labeled as a "freak" bookworm, suddenly rushed forward, her worn canvas shoes slipping on the greasy ground, and she collided into Lin Mo’s solid back muscles.

"Sir!" Allison’s voice was filled with sobs, her round glasses hanging crookedly on her nose, "Could you... my apartment is five blocks away..."

Lin Mo’s muscles tensed instantly, his conditioned reflex from Counter-grappling Technique halted his hand blade just 0.5 inches above the girl’s collarbone. Seeing the chemical burns on her school uniform, he frowned and pulled out money from his tactical pants pocket—three crumpled Franklin notes with a metro card, which was his meal budget for the month.

"Taxi fare." Lin Mo stuffed the cash into Allison’s tote bag printed with the periodic table and stopped a yellow taxi. Its tires rolled over broken wine bottles. "Don’t let me see your photo in the criminal records room."

As the taillights disappeared around the corner of Seventh Avenue, Lin Mo slipped into the dark door of the subway vent. This abandoned air raid shelter, located fifteen meters underground, was his secret base. The map of New York gang territories on the wall was pinned with twenty-three red pins, each representing a criminal den he had dismantled. He pulled off his tactical vest, with the bullet graze on his shoulder blade still bleeding—a memento from two weeks ago in the Bronx District.

"Nosy habit..." Lin Mo muttered to the rusty military mirror while bandaging his wound. Reflected in the mirror were the medals on the honor wall: SWAT Tactical Assessment Winner, Close-Combat Champion, Perfect Score Dissertation on Criminal Psychology. These achievements seemed so ironic now. When he discovered that the police academy instructor had financial dealings with the Hell’s Angels Gang, the so-called justice had long become nothing more than a pawn in the game of power.

Meanwhile, the New York Police Department’s Major Crimes Office was enveloped in harsh fluorescent light. Captain Jennifer Wu slammed the ballistic report collected from the scene onto the conference table, splashing coffee stains over "Jason Wilson’s" file photo. This Chinese-American detective, just seconded from the FBI, was unaware that the key witness in the serial murder case she had been chasing for three months was currently disinfecting a wound with vodka in the air raid shelter.