Dai Bo looked up from his magazine. “Did you kill him?”
He threw a scissor blade like a boomerang. It sliced the first assassin’s gun in half. The second lunged—Seven spun, kicked a trash can lid into his face, then used the second scissor blade to pin the third’s sleeve to a wooden crate.
“Excuse me, sir,” Seven said, holding up a crumpled photo. “Are you Old Chen? The one who makes the bland wonton soup?”
“It’s a good standard.”
“…No.”