Reeves lowered his head and ate the burger in his hand calmly without even raising his eyelids.

The homeless man quickly finished his food and drink, patted his stomach in satisfaction, and looked at the almost untouched glass of Coke in front of Ribs.

Ribbs saw it.

He slowly finished his burger and pushed the unfinished Coke to the homeless man.

When the homeless man was completely satisfied and burped against the wall while patting his stomach, Reeves put down the empty wrapping paper and his eyes fell on his tattered outfit - the greasy and heavy coat, the torn trousers stained with unknown stains, the crooked old sneakers, and the woolen hat that was also shiny dirty.

"Hey, man," Reeves said, his voice low and hoarse, deliberately imitating a bit of rudeness, "Your clothes... look pretty warm. How about selling them to me?"

The homeless man was stunned for a moment, as if he suspected he had heard wrongly: "What? My broken thing?"

"Well," Ribs nodded, reaching into his pocket and pulling out two crumpled fifty-dollar bills, stuffing them directly into the homeless man's greasy hands, "Here, buy your coat, pants, shoes, and hat."

One hundred dollars! That's a windfall for a homeless person.

How much could his junk be worth? Even if he searched through the trash for a whole day, he wouldn't be able to scrape together ten dollars.

His eyes widened instantly, and he clenched the two bills tightly in his hands as if he had been electrocuted, fearing that Reeves would go back on his word.

"Gift crabs! All for you! Haha! I'm so lucky today!" The homeless man was ecstatic, and without saying a word, he began to take off his coat and hat. His movements were so agile that he didn't look like a drunk.

Soon, he took off all the "equipment" and piled it at Reeves' feet. He was only wearing a torn T-shirt and autumn trousers inside. He shivered in the cold weather and repeatedly checked the banknotes in his hand.

Ribs picked up the pile of clothes on the ground that smelled strongly of sour and sweat, and walked into the small bathroom of the fast food restaurant.

A few seconds later, the bathroom door opened and a "brand new" homeless man walked out.

When the homeless man saw Ribs in his new clothes, he was stunned for a moment, then burst into laughter: "Haha! Okay! Like! He really looks like a homeless man!"

Ribs ignored him, turned around and left the fast food restaurant.

He was wrapped in a dirty, greasy coat, emitting a strong, sour smell. His tattered trouser legs dragged over his muddy shoes, and his woolen hat, whose color was almost unrecognizable, was pulled down low, covering most of his face, which was covered with coal dust.

Ribbs, once the local tyrant of Chicago, is now a foul-smelling homeless man on the edge of the railway town who is avoided by everyone.

When pedestrians on the street saw him from afar, they would subconsciously frown, hold their breath, quicken their pace, or simply take a big detour, for fear of being contaminated by his foul smell.

There was no pity in his gaze, only disgust and disdain. This was exactly the effect he wanted—complete invisibility.

No one would be willing to take a second look at this "walking dead" who exudes the breath of hell, let alone associate him with the cold-blooded villain who stirred up the country and killed governors and military-industrial giants.

He was like a walking garbage dump, automatically excluded from perception by this operating social machine.

As the setting sun painted the town a dim yellow, he came to a dilapidated, sparsely populated small freight train station on the edge of the town.

There are no spacious and bright halls here, only a few dilapidated warehouses and a section of weathered railroad tracks. The air is filled with the unique smell of oil, coal and rust.

A rusty, paint-chipped mixed-type train (several passenger cars attached to freight cars) was parked on the platform.

A slightly fat, yawning train conductor, wrapped in a greasy uniform jacket, was leaning against the door of the duty room, impatiently tapping the old-fashioned timetable hanging on the wall.

The conductor's eyes casually scanned the platform, and his focus fell on a few workers moving goods in the distance.

The timing is perfect.

Ribs moved naturally and slowly towards the shadowy area at the rear of the train where debris was piled up.

In the split second of darkness when the conductor lowered his head to light a cigarette and a match shone - he slid silently into a car with a half-open door.

God knows nothing, and ghosts know nothing.

Without a ticket or identity check, he boarded the train to New York like a ghost.

The wheels rolled over the joints of the rails, making a heavy and regular "clang...clang..." sound, and the train slowly started in the twilight.

The connection between the carriages was cold and damp, and Ribs leaned casually against a corner filled with sacks and curled up.

Next! Target New York! Harold, your time has come!

…

On the other side, Harold's Manor, Long Island, New York.

The luxurious manor had now become a heavily guarded fortress, and Harold was lying in the study, feeling extremely uncomfortable.

There were several photos spread out on the mahogany desk in front of him - the ruins of the Governor's Mansion in Chicago, the burning wreckage of a helicopter at a resort on Lake Michigan, Governor Morgan, who died with his eyes open with a rough wooden board pierced through his throat, and Eberhart, who was smashed into a pulp and looked horrible.

Every photo brings a suffocating fear.

"He...he really did it..." Harold's voice was hoarse and trembling unconcealably.

All his previous composure, calculations, and contempt for Ribbs as a nouveau riche were completely crushed by this bloody reality in just a few days.

"Morgan, Eberhardt... next! I'm the next one! That madman! That devil crawling out of hell! His next target will definitely be me!"

My dear, there is more to this chapter. Please click on the next page to continue reading. It will be even more exciting later!