"That's him! He's that rich white kid!"
As the shout rang out, a group of Black men turned their gazes in unison, their eyes filled with greed.
Wentworth Miller finally realized where his sense of unease was coming from.
It was Martin's bodyguards.
In this situation, shouldn't the bodyguards' job be to prevent their employer from getting into danger?
Yet, instead of stopping Martin from approaching those gang members, his bodyguards followed him right in.
They didn't act like bodyguards at all. Instead, they seemed more like... like... right, soldiers following the orders of their commanding officer.
Of course, these bodyguards had been thoroughly indoctrinated by Martin and were utterly obedient to him.
They followed closely behind as he strode toward the Black gang members. There were only four of them in total—including Martin—but they exuded an overwhelming sense of pressure.
"Hey, stop right there, kid! Hand over anything valuable on you!"
The Black man who had been selling drugs pointed a gun in Martin's direction, shouting menacingly.
His tone was firm, yet his hands trembled slightly for some reason.
"F*ck, what the hell is going on? Why do these guys feel so terrifying?!"
"Didn't you hear me? Stop right there! We've got four guns—we have more firepower and more people than you!" the Black man barked, as if trying to convince himself rather than intimidate Martin.
By now, Martin had already closed the distance. With a swift motion, he snatched the gun from the man's hand and, in just a few quick moves, disassembled it into a pile of useless parts, scattering them onto the ground.
Meanwhile, Gordon and the two bodyguards made their move, effortlessly disarming the other three Black men.
Martin removed his sunglasses, revealing a pair of deep blue eyes. He glanced at the gang members with a playful smirk and said casually, "Now we have two guns. And you... have none."
"So, who was it that said they had more firepower?"
"W-We still have more people!"
"Oh? Then let's see how many of you actually have the guts to charge forward under gunfire."
Martin scanned them one by one, his gaze carrying an almost magical force. As his eyes swept over them, the gang members suddenly felt an overwhelming fear rising from deep within, instinctively retreating.
In the end, they couldn't resist the terror gripping their hearts. Someone let out a panicked shout, turned, and bolted. The rest followed in a chaotic scramble, fleeing in all directions—except for the Black man who had been standing right in front of Martin.
It wasn't that he didn't want to run.
He just couldn't—his legs had gone weak!
Being closest to Martin, he had been subjected to the strongest psychological pressure. He was on the verge of wetting himself.
His sphincter was failing, yet his body was frozen stiff, too scared to move a muscle.
Only when Martin uttered that one word did the man react as if receiving a royal decree, rolling and crawling away in sheer panic.
Wentworth Miller was dumbfounded.
He had just witnessed another side of Martin—both terrifying and awe-inspiring.
Martin's smooth, decisive movements when snatching the gun had left him utterly stunned.
He had seen the video of Martin taking down the bank robbers before, but watching it on TV and experiencing it in real life were two completely different things.
Hiding behind Wentworth Miller, Chelsea was also mesmerized. She gazed at Martin with infatuation in her eyes.
This guy is so strong... even stronger than Charles! If only I could sleep with him...
A dangerous thought crept into her mind.
Martin's voice snapped both Wentworth Miller and Chelsea back to reality, making them realize that everyone else was already inside the vehicle.
Chelsea hurried ahead of Wentworth Miller, slipping into Martin's car and claiming a seat in the back.
Wentworth had no choice but to take the front passenger seat.
Chelsea, still staring at Martin in a daze, was momentarily confused.
Martin frowned. "Charles' address!"
"Oh, he lives at *** Street. I've been there once!"
Soon, the two Mercedes pulled up in front of the apartment where Charles was renting a unit.
The neighborhood was significantly better than where Chelsea lived. At the very least, drug dealers and gang members weren't openly roaming the streets.
The building's security door was broken and left wide open.
Martin and his group walked straight in and made their way up to the third floor.
Outside Apartment 306.
Martin and his men took cover to the side while Chelsea stepped forward to knock.
Knock, knock, knock. Knock, knock, knock!
Chelsea knocked harder.
The door swung open under the force of her knocking.
It hadn't even been locked.
Gordon immediately pushed Chelsea aside and rushed inside.
The furniture was still there, but any personal belongings that should have been present were completely gone.
"That bastard ran!" Gordon said.
"Search the place," Martin ordered.
The bodyguards scattered to investigate, and even Wentworth Miller took the initiative to check one of the rooms.
Meanwhile, Martin turned to Chelsea. "Besides this place, does Charles have anywhere else he might go?"
Chelsea shook her head. "I-I don't know."
"You better know. Otherwise—the deal is off, and you can sleep on the street."
"You—Who the hell are you?"
Martin chuckled. "You don't need to know that. You only need to know that I can help you—if you're useful."
"Damn it! You lying bastard!"
"Heh, we never signed a contract. And I've already helped you once."
Chelsea fell silent, lowering her head in deep thought.
A short while later, Gordon and the others finished searching the apartment.
Gordon shook his head at Martin—clearly, they had found nothing.
Just then, Chelsea suddenly brightened up and raised her head.
"I remember now! Charles rented a warehouse in the suburbs! Let me think, let me think... I caught a glimpse of the contract—I can recall the address..."
Of course, Charles never intended to show Chelsea his private documents.
But Chelsea had a nasty habit of stealing money or valuables from her clients.
Unfortunately, Charles, despite his flashy appearance, was actually poorer than she was.
She hadn't found any cash or valuables, but she had caught sight of a warehouse lease agreement.
Curious, she had taken a closer look and memorized the location.
"I got it!" Chelsea exclaimed, driven by the urgency of her situation.
"It's in El Monte, on the east side of Los Angeles, near Monterey Park! But... I don't remember the exact warehouse number."
She then looked at Martin with pleading eyes. "That's all I can recall... What about the housing deal?"
"Let's check the warehouse first."
On the way, Martin made a call to the LAPD Chief.
The LAPD Chief then called the Hollywood Division Chief.
The Hollywood Division Chief, in turn, called the officers handling the case.
And just like that, the slow-moving officers suddenly kicked into high gear.
By the time Martin and his crew arrived at the warehouse, the police were already there.
Along with them were Lindsay, red-eyed with rage, and a visibly exhausted Rachel McAdams.
But the moment Rachel saw Martin step out of the car, her exhaustion vanished—instantly replaced by excitement.
Seeing Martin in person? Oh, hell yes!