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... resist the urge to throw his coffee in his face. He sat there, arms crossed, slouching in his chair, legs propped up on the table, every inch the picture of a hoodlum.
“I seem to remember the last time you had a gun to my head, you didn’t call me that, my dear Night Hawk.” Zheng Qing’s lips curled in mockery.
The server came over, about to ask the guests what they’d like to drink, when he suddenly froze.
The gentleman said calmly, “A warm glass of water, please.”
...
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