C91 I Can't Disobey!

After Westley pressed the trigger, he didn't even blink.

But there was no gunshot.

It was as if nothing had happened at all.

The long-haired man's face quickly settled back into a calm expression as he asked icily, "Aren't you scared?"

"Why should I be scared of a fake pistol?" Westley replied.

"How did you figure it out?" the long-haired man inquired, his curiosity piqued.

"Magnum Company's products might not be top-notch these days, but your gun could probably only deceive someone who's truly blind," Westley said with a slight smile.

"You're right."

The long-haired man nudged the gun, and suddenly, an abrupt burst of music filled the overpass.

It was a nursery rhyme, familiar to all.

"I picked up this toy gun for a few bucks at a small market. Fooled plenty of gullible folks with it before," the long-haired man said with a smirk, tossing the fake gun off the bridge. He then asked with a hint of mystery, "Interested in seeing a real gun?"

"Not particularly," Westley shook his head.

"That won't do! You spotted the fake, which means you've got an eye for this," the long-haired man said with a sinister grin. He gestured and commanded, "Ahmad, bring out the good stuff, show him."

Ahmad, standing behind him, nodded and brought a package to his chest.

He unzipped it to reveal an arsenal ranging from handguns to automatic and sniper rifles, even grenades.

Westley wouldn't have believed it had he not seen it with his own eyes. In the heart of the city, these four were armed to the teeth.

They were either madmen or desperados, likely the latter.

"What do you think?" the long-haired man asked, licking his lips with a smile.

"Not bad, these are definitely the real deal," Westley acknowledged.

"You're quite the connoisseur. We went to great lengths to get our hands on these," the long-haired man said, pulling a pistol from the bag. With a flick of his wrist, he expertly snapped the magazine into place.

He then aimed the gun at Westley, his gaze turning icy.

"Just who are you?" the long-haired man demanded.

"How about you tell me who you are first?" Westley replied with an unfazed smile.

"Do you really have no fear of death?" the long-haired man scowled.

"I fear death! But I won't meet my end at your hands. You might be dead long before I am."

"Are you that sure of yourself?" The long-haired man's gaze turned fervent.

"Yes, I'm that sure," Westley affirmed, as though he was stating an undeniable truth.

"Fine. Let's see if you can outrun my bullets."

The long-haired man's finger crept toward the trigger, his grip on the gun rock-solid—a testament to his relentless practice.

Westley's face remained composed, yet his body was primed for action.

Concealed in his hand was a silver needle, ready to be deployed in a split second should the long-haired man fire.

The tension was palpable, suffocating even.

The long-haired man's finger was poised on the trigger, steady and unflinching.

His pupils shrank, eyes bloodshot, his visage twisted into a grotesque mask of zeal.

The first to shatter the silence would trigger a swift demise.

In the thick of this nerve-wracking standoff, a languid voice cut through.

"Stop!"

The voice was deep, resonant with a magnetic quality.

Instantly, the long-haired man relaxed his finger, slid the magazine back, and stowed the gun in his bag—a display of remarkable discipline.

"What a drag, I was only trying to spook him."

He shook his head, clearly unenthused.

"I'm afraid this gentleman is not one to be trifled with," said the man in the cap, approaching.

Westley felt an unexpected pressure just from observing his approach—a pressure greater than when the long-haired man had him at gunpoint.

The man appraised Westley, his narrow eyes glinting with an enigmatic allure, prompting one to ponder the face concealed beneath his mask.

"Apologies, my man was merely having a bit of fun," he said, his smile reaching his eyes.

And those eyes smiled too, with a voice so magnetic it felt like a cat's paw gently teasing your heart.

"I'm aware," Westley replied.

"I'm Adrian," the man in the cap introduced himself, extending a hand as pale and refined as that of a pianist's—graceful and delicate.

"Westley."

Westley extended his hand as well.

Their hands briefly touched before swiftly parting.

"Well then, I won't impose any further, farewell!" the man declared.

"Goodbye!"

Westley gave a casual wave and headed in the opposite direction across the overpass.

Watching him walk away, the Longhaired Man asked with a hint of bewilderment, "Boss, why don't we just take this guy out?"

"Recklessly killing someone only invites unnecessary complications," Adrian replied, his gaze turning icy.

"The way he treated Callie was downright disrespectful and arrogant. I really wanted to take him down," Crazyman grumbled, twisting his mouth.

"You'd likely be the first to go down," Adrian countered, shaking his head.

"Seriously? Could he be quicker than my gun?" The Longhaired Man asked, unconcerned.

"Take a look over there."

Adrian gestured towards the spot where Westley had been standing moments earlier.

Upon closer inspection, the Longhaired Man gasped in shock.

There, deeply imprinted on the concrete guardrail, was the mark of Westley's step.

To leave such a deep mark in concrete...

Was this guy even human?

"It seems we've encountered a true master. We need to keep a low profile with our next moves. Everyone clear on that?" Adrian instructed.

"Understood."

The trio responded in harmony.

For Adrian was their unwavering leader.

His commands were not to be defied.