Therefore, Troys, with his gun in hand, turned and fired two shots directly toward the direction of the wine glass.
He couldn’t confirm the other person’s location and was only instinctively shooting at the last known position.
Of course, firing his gun was also a signal.
A signal to the residents of houses 221 and 223 that he was in danger.
On Potato Street, houses numbered 221, 222, and 223, excluding 222 which was officially registered, 221 and 223 were registered under names unrelated to him but were in fact his properties.
Moreover, in houses 221 and 223, three disguised bodyguards lived respectively.
If there was the slightest abnormality here, six bodyguards would swiftly come to his aid and resolve his troubles.
This was Troys’s design.
The bullets were lodged in the wall.
Troys looked at the position that was behind him and then, hurriedly turned around again.
Troys furrowed his brows.
He believed that someone had to be there; he just hadn’t seen them.
And what’s more, why hadn’t his bodyguards arrived yet?
"Are you waiting for those bodyguards?"
A voice came from behind him.
Troys immediately turned around, raising his gun and aiming at the spot behind him.
In the sofa chair that he had just vacated, a well-dressed man in a black suit was sitting there.
The man’s cane stood to one side, leaning against the arm of the sofa, and on the index finger of his right hand, which was holding a wine glass, was a Ruby ring.
Upon seeing the man, Troys felt a sense of familiarity but couldn’t recall when he had seen him before; however, that didn’t stop Troys from pulling the trigger.
As for answering the man’s question?
Dead men didn’t need to hear responses.
This time, having seen the target, Troys repeatedly pulled the trigger.
Then, his eyes involuntarily widened in shock.
The bullets... disappeared!
The bullets that were shot out slowed down abruptly as they closed in on the man in front of him, became visible to Troys’s eyes, and then, after ripples appeared in the air, the bullets vanished one by one. 𐍂𝓪ΝÒВƐṨ
The gun in his hand was ineffective, causing Troys to involuntarily gulp down a lump in his throat.
He nervously tried to swallow, but found his throat to be inexplicably parched, devoid of any moisture.
"Is this how gentlemen behave nowadays?"
After sipping his wine lightly, Edward set down his glass and looked at Troys in front of him.
At that moment, Troys finally remembered who the person in front of him was, when he heard the word "gentleman."
Findelter’s former employer!
Findelter often used one word to describe his former employer: gentleman.
"You, how are you here?"
"Weren’t you supposed to be dead?"
Troys asked with a slight twitch in his cheeks.
He wasn’t genuinely concerned about the other’s well-being; he only cared about his own.
After all, he had killed the man’s Butler.
Although their agreement had ended, the two had nearly thirty years of friendship, a well-known fact in the high society of Cherry City.
And now, the man had come seeking him, but why?
Almost subconsciously, Troys started to back away.
Despite not being sure of the man’s methods, keeping a distance was undoubtedly the right move.
But Troys had barely retreated when he found his vision spinning wildly.
He saw the ceiling, then the carpet, and then... his body.
Troys’s eyes bulged, and his mouth hung open, as though he couldn’t accept the reality, but the breath of life dissipated, and his soul faded silently into nothingness.
Edward held the severed head in his hands.
Bizarrely, not a single drop of blood was shed.
Neither from the head nor from the body that lost the head was there any blood spillage.
Speaking so, Edward placed Troys’s head on a side table, then, he opened his palm towards the still-standing body.
Suddenly, he squeezed hard.
With the sound of flesh and bone tearing apart, Troys’s body was crushed to pieces.
Then, these shattered remains were stuffed into a box.
This was a box Edward had prepared in advance, a perfect fit for the purpose. Having sealed the box with Troys’s head at the very top, Edward carried the box with the head out to the street before he attached a note to Troys’s forehead.
On the note was written: Boring, not fun.
The night breeze whisked past the note.
The note made a crisp sound.
As if a starting pistol had been fired, blood suddenly burst forth from the wounds of Troys’s head and the chunks of his body in the box.
In a few breaths’ time, the middle of the road was bathed in crimson.
After glancing at his handiwork, Edward pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped his palms, which were completely clean.
"Findelter was a good man."
"So, I should avenge him."
A voice came from not too far away.
McCaul coldly stared at Edward; having just gleaned the general details of the incident from his phone, this principled and upright private detective was already burning with rage.