The old man in the wheelchair before him had a broad face, a hooked nose, and slightly jowly cheeks. It looked like he was holding something in his mouth. His gaze was calm and dignified.
He had a bit of a Godfather vibe—a man with real presence.
Lin Chu stared at him, his face an expressionless mask. He'd seen photos of the man through public channels, but now, seeing him in the flesh, Lin Chu suppressed the rage boiling inside him and forced himself to remain calm.
The gun in his pocket felt cold, its metallic texture a stark reality against his skin.
"Hello, young man."
Liszt spoke slowly, his voice magnetic. His Chinese was flawless, the enunciation perfect.
Lin Chu's brow twitched. He was rather surprised. 'This old man learned Chinese?' Judging from his accent, he had clearly been practicing for a long time; it was remarkably standard.
