**Fengning City!**
Located in Yuanhai Province, Fengning is a thriving mid-sized city benefiting from rapid national development. Though it doesn’t quite match the population and size of major capital cities, it enjoys a relatively high standard of living and flourishing economy.
In the heart of this bustling city stands an old, three-story building, two streets away from the main road, nestled beside a vegetable market. The only greenery is a few creeping vines clinging to the back wall. Welcome to Aijia Apartments!
The first floor of this building houses small shops—a noodle stand, a spicy hotpot vendor, and a grain and oil store. The upper two floors consist of apartments, with a long corridor running down the middle, doors facing each other on both sides. Altogether, there are about thirty rooms.
“Knock, knock, knock!”
Russell, the landlord, stood in front of Room 213, knocking with a blank expression. Today, he was here to discuss the tenant’s lease renewal. If they weren’t interested, he’d end the contract and post the listing online. Five minutes passed, and Russell continued to knock, knowing full well that someone was inside. The tenant was a night-owl streamer, usually asleep during the day.
Sure enough, after he refused to stop knocking, a string of muttered curses echoed from inside. Finally, the door creaked open, and the sleepy-eyed female streamer, wearing a flimsy nightgown, appeared. Her gaze focused slowly, but once she recognized him, her expression changed in an instant.
“Well, well, if it isn’t the handsome landlord. What brings you knocking today?” she asked sweetly, wrapping her arms around his in an exaggeratedly flirtatious manner.
Sugar level: very high.
“Wow, solid arms!” she teased. “You know, if you come by at night, we could have more fun. There are some ‘positions’ I haven’t unlocked during the day.”
In her flimsy attire, she managed to reveal quite a bit, but Russell simply pulled his arm away and took a step back, keeping a polite distance. It wasn’t that he found her unattractive; in fact, she had a perfect internet-star face, complete with a razor-sharp chin and a set of, well, strategically enhanced assets. But Russell remained unfazed. He knew her looks were purely synthetic; her face was a construct of “modern miracles.”
Straight to the point, he said, “Your lease is up next month. Are you planning to renew? If so, you can pay six months' rent today.”
“Oh, don’t be so cold,” she cooed, batting her eyes. “How about a discount? You know, we could work something out if you’re satisfied.”
Used to flattery from her online fans, she found Russell’s indifference intriguing. Winning him over would be a new level of validation for her beauty.
But Russell smiled casually and replied, “No thanks. Not really into your type—too much plastic.”
She rolled her eyes and, pulling her nightgown strap back over her shoulder, leaned against the door. “To be honest, the toilet here gets clogged all the time. I’m moving out at the end of the month. My sugar daddy’s got a new place set up for me.”
“Alright,” Russell nodded. “I’ll pick up the keys at the end of the month. Just remember to clean up before you go, or pay a hundred bucks, and I’ll call someone to do it. By the way, if your sugar daddy ever dumps you, feel free to come back anytime.”
She took a deep breath, clearly annoyed, but Russell’s stone-cold demeanor didn’t faze her entirely. “Handsome landlord,” she retorted, “when you pick up the keys, make sure it’s in the evening. I don’t want my beauty sleep interrupted. And please, send me a message first. I don’t want to be interrupted mid-stream; my fans might get the wrong idea, you know?”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“No problem, let’s add each other on WeChat for easy contact.”
She looked at him, confused. “Don’t you already have my WeChat? We added each other when I first moved in.”
Russell shook his head, completely unapologetic. “I deleted you after you sent me a selfie in the middle of the night.”
She clenched her fists, barely containing her irritation. “Fine, no need to add me again. Just call me.”
“Deleted that, too.”
“...”
After re-adding his WeChat, she flipped him off as he turned away and slammed the door shut. Tonight, she’d definitely have material for her stream—about a ‘pure-hearted’ tenant nearly driven to ruin by her greedy landlord, in need of donations to console her wounded heart.
…
Russell, 25, single, with no particular vices…
He owned this building, a three-story complex in the city. Despite its age, it was a considerable asset for someone his age, and he certainly hadn’t earned it through hard work.
It all happened one afternoon, about six months ago. Russell, then just a rookie cop, felt a strange premonition after work, went out, and bought a lottery ticket. Not long after, he received a call: his parents had died in a car accident.Russell’s parents passed away abruptly, leaving him the apartment building as an inheritance.
The driver responsible for the accident was a locally renowned entrepreneur who had won an award for his business achievements—a “celebrity” of sorts. The incident happened after he and a client sealed a deal over drinks. Driving with his secretary beside him, he became drowsy and lost control of the car, veering into Russell’s parents' vehicle and causing the fatal collision.
Russell’s parents were gone, as were the businessman and his secretary. The investigation concluded quickly, assigning full responsibility to the businessman. His family, wanting to keep things quiet, compensated Russell generously to avoid any damage to their reputation. It’s likely that the businessman’s family cooperated so readily due to Russell’s position as a police officer.
Looking at the man’s elderly father, who knelt in tears to save his son’s legacy, Russell felt there was nothing left to say. After all, the people were already gone, and what could words accomplish?
While sorting through his parents' belongings, Russell found a peculiar diary hidden in a secret compartment on a bookshelf. The pages were filled with nonsensical notes, newspaper clippings, and jumbled numbers. Most people might have thought it strange, but as a police officer, Russell instantly recognized it as a codebook.
This discovery baffled him. His father, Luo Hantang, was an ordinary middle-aged man—balding, overweight, with an unrefined manner. Aside from collecting rent and playing mahjong, he had few activities. His mother, Fang Yanqing, was similarly simple. How could two ordinary people possess a secret codebook?
It took Russell three days to decipher it, methodically comparing each number to the first book on each shelf. The result left him speechless: his parents had been assassins!
Russell was floored. He’d never suspected that his parents, seemingly common people with low-key lives, harbored such a hidden identity. If they were truly killers, then they were masters of disguise—no suits, no sunglasses, not even a bottle of hair gel.
His father’s daily routine involved carefully combing over his balding head, brushing his remaining hair to the center in a futile attempt to cover it. The idea that this “average Joe” was a killer was absurd. And what kind of parents raise their child to become a police officer when they’re in the business of assassination?
Life, as Russell saw it, was far stranger than fiction. During his decoding, he unearthed additional unsettling information: many of the blind dates his mother had arranged for him were with “industry insiders.” Even his ex-girlfriend, who had left him for a job transfer abroad, turned out to be in the field.
“I hate assassins!” Russell muttered, face in his hands. It seemed his whole family was in the business, with him as the sole exception.
After a period of depression, Russell resigned from the police force, unable to expose his parents' secrets or wear his uniform with dignity. Instead, he took over the apartment building and became a landlord, picking up mahjong as a new hobby.
Initially, he thought this would be the end of it. But curiosity got the better of him. He hacked into his father’s messaging account and began observing conversations in a chat group of assassins. The password had been laughably easy: his mother’s name in pinyin and “520.” Russell suspected his father’s compliance in setting this password had been reluctant.
The chat group was lively, often with dozens of unread messages every hour. Members discussed work in code but mainly engaged in small talk. Their identities were diverse: comic artists, film critics, photographers, scriptwriters, and even social welfare recipients. Remarkably, six out of ten members were full-time web novel authors.
Initially, these assassins had freelanced for publishers. But as print media declined, they switched to writing online novels, where their storytelling skills were well-received. Russell found their claims absurd, yet somehow plausible. If they were to be believed, a staggering 80% of certain web novelists were assassins.
Through this chat group, Russell gradually uncovered the reality of his parents' and ex-girlfriend’s lives. They held no romanticized notions of their identities as assassins; they resented it. Yet, in this line of work, it wasn’t easy to exit. Unless their leader, who knew everyone’s true identity, disappeared, they were trapped.
His father, Luo Hantang, had been a poor, retired soldier. To raise enough money to marry Fang Yanqing, he’d been drawn into the assassination world by an old comrade. By the time Russell was born, there was no escaping. His mother handled ticket arrangements, gathered intelligence, planned assassinations, and managed finances.
Since then, Russell lurked in the group, observing the assassins’ banter and picking up rare bits of knowledge. This chat group was where he learned most of his unconventional skills.
...
On the top floor of the apartment, in the room where his parents had lived, Russell now resided. It was where he had discovered the codebook. He’d cleaned out anything incriminating but suspected some secrets remained, which kept him on edge.
Just as he was scrolling through his father’s account on his computer, a mechanical voice echoed in his mind, audible only to him.
“Host, please prepare. The third mission world is about to begin. Countdown: ten minutes.”
The voice repeated the message three times. Russell lit a cigarette from his desk, calmly waiting. He didn’t smoke, but in moments like these, it helped him relax.
Russell: male, 25, single, no vices… with a system!(PS:The "system" is designed as a multi-dimensional entity, similar to an artificial intelligence within a computer—or perhaps, it could be seen as the soul of the universe itself. Ultimately, its nature is open to the reader’s interpretation.)