I've been in Pennsylvania for a week now.

There's really no mess here, every day is nothing more than going to the lobby downstairs of the hotel to watch TV and write poems in the room. I want to be a poet, it's my lifelong dream.

I don't talk to anyone, I write all my communication in poetry. It's not that I can't speak, it's just that I don't know when it became a luxury.

Except for her. If I have the chance, I must speak to her, no matter what she says.

The damn circuit board hadn't been ringing since I got out of the car, but okay, I enjoyed the peace and quiet. Although I know that sooner or later it will ring again, for the simple reason that there will never be a shortage of bad people in this world, because there will always be poor people.

I put down the newspaper in my hand, and there was no valuable information today except for the unexpected death of a certain department head. I took a sip of coffee and let the bitter taste leach out the beauty of life. That's enough to keep me satisfied.

Just as I was thinking, there was a rapid vibration in my coat pocket.

It's not a coincidence.

I sighed, took out the circuit board, pressed the green button, and quickly took it to the public telephone in the lobby and connected them together with the wires on the circuit board, which was invented by the man who taught me the technique, he called it the "magnetic phone".

"Hey, hey!" was a relatively flat male voice, which sounded slightly familiar. But I heard so much through this board that I kept listening - they all knew I wasn't talking anyway.

"Milley, I'm Kevin. The male voice over there became slightly quicker: "We've worked together, Kevin Mueller!"

I was shocked to myself, it was him! I was about to hang up the phone -- what a joke! Once our cooperation was over, we should never contact each other!

I put the coffee in my hand on the table with a loud noise, and the sound startled even me. No matter what the situation was, I did what I had to do. His call again will only make us both more dangerous!

I tried to hang up immediately, but the words "What I stole that day was fake!" I know this has nothing to do with you, but I wish we could work together again!" didn't appeal to me. He said it in a very embarrassed way, and it looked like he was hit hard.

He seemed to realize that I wasn't talking, so he continued, "I know you're in Pennsylvania, and we're waiting for you at the Verdey Bar next to Penn State Park!"

I hung up.

Originally, theoretically, I was resolutely not allowed to go again, but there was an unspeakable and irresistible force that caused me to constantly change my psychology of refusal. It was as if a familiar name appeared in my heart, but when I thought about it, I couldn't remember anything.

Why is that?

I was so lost in the name of the place that I went back to my room, stuffed the leather bag under my pillow, took all the seven hundred dollars I had left, and sent the ghost out of the door.

Soon, I took a taxi to the front of the Verdi Bar. It was noon, and there were not many people, but there were still five of them standing or squatting at the door of the bar, which was very conspicuous. The white man at the head smoked a cheap cigarette — it was Mueller, and Seth stood beside him, his green shirt stained with a lot of stains.

"You're here. When Mueller saw me, he snuffed off his cigarette and walked over to me almost with a forced smile. The white shirt that used to be decent has become very dirty. I couldn't have a hard guess that they probably celebrated at this bar for a long, long time, only to find out a few hours ago that something was fake.

Thinking about this, I felt a hint of mockery in my heart.

"You're going to leave that day, and we have a lot of money. Mueller seemed to think for a moment, but then said, "But it's fake, and we need to go again." It was windy outside, he said, brushing his hair.

I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I want to say maybe I didn't do that.

I didn't look at him any longer, not interested in what he was saying. When I looked up, I saw the concave plaque of "Fudi Bar". The words seemed to have a magical power, and they wanted to suck me in whole.

My head began to dizzy unconsciously, and I immediately turned my gaze.

To be honest, I don't like to act with such brainless people, but since I'm here, I can't find any good reason to leave. Besides, they won't let me go.

The five of them stared at me in unison, and even Seth, who usually talked a lot, didn't open his mouth.

Well, then go again. I waved my hand helplessly. Take a risk for that "Verdi Bar"!

I nodded at Müller, who seemed to smile and walked to a black Ford parked across the street. A guy in a Bulls jersey came over and opened the door for me.

I thought about it a little, and it wasn't very close to that villa. So I learned everyone's name through their conversations.

The nickname in the jersey is Bulls, and the other two are Zebra and Zach. The Bulls are very strong, and they are the main fighters in this small team. They were frantically discussing what to do after getting the money, as if they had already taken the things in their hands.

It seems that this theft is only for money and has no other purpose, so it will be much easier. I was secretly relieved.

And I was thinking about the bar, and I didn't listen to them carefully.

The four of us were crammed into the back row of three, and I felt like I had come across some kind of hard ironwork. Is it a steel pipe? I smiled at the thought of this, what a bunch of fools.

After about two hours of suffering, I finally returned to the villa. The villa has not even repaired the broken glass last time, and it seems that the owner is out on vacation.

Entering the villa, the chandelier in the hall was shaken by the wind a few times, giving me a very dangerous feeling. Muller came over and tapped me on the shoulder and signaled me not to be nervous. He seemed to be laughing at my feelings, causing the other four to laugh as well.

I forgot to mention that they didn't know where they got the key to the gate.

I remember last time we went upstairs to a room on the left, and this time we didn't go upstairs right away.

"Zach, get your stuff upstairs!" said Mueller to Zack, who somehow found a shovel and rummaged through the ashes that had been sitting for an unknown amount of time.

"Take something to the second floor, it's safer there. ”

I didn't know what he was doing it, but I just followed him upstairs. He didn't bring that noisy generator today - whatever he carried, I just had to do my technical work. That's the only thing I'm more confident in.

Accidents always happen at the most relaxing time. The four of us had just reached the upper floor, and stopped at the top of the staircase, when we heard a loud noise of wind piercing the downstairs.

"Phew!"

I'm all too familiar with it! It's the sound of gunfire!

Mueller realized something, too, and almost sat down on the ground in fright! His white face seemed to be even whiter at this time.

"There's a cop!" we're in ambush!" Zebra shouted.

Could it be that they are ambushed here after the fakes are lost, and what is it that makes them sure that the losers will "come back"?

I didn't have time to think, I had heard rushing up the stairs from the second and a half floors!

"Run, run!" cried Müller, trying to rush down the stairs on the other side. That's when I saw something dangling in the hands of the other three people - it was a gun! They didn't want to run! They had guns too!

I was taken aback by their actions. I heard a burst of gunfire coming from the staircase on the other side!

When I turned around, I saw a pool of blood splattered on the yellow wall. Mueller is still on standing, but half of his head is gone!

Mueller was shot in the head in front of us!

I left the bull alone and the three of them, opened the door of a room and ran in frantically, trying to jump through the window to escape.

Run to the windowsill and take a look, it's at least three meters away!

When I looked back, I saw a black figure, and suddenly, a cold iron object against my head, even made me shiver. It was even more oppressive than the bloody glass on my hands