Jingang City, also known as the “City of Angels.”
The world’s third-largest port and the top in daily throughput in the Northern Hemisphere, this city has earned countless praises!
It’s like a blessing sent from above, basking in divine glory, everything seemingly perfect…
Yeah, right.
While the Federation’s citizens like to call it the City of Angels, to others, this place looks no different from hell.
Take Lance, for example. That’s exactly how he feels right now.
The City of Angels is dangerous.
Almost every day, there are several, if not dozens, of shootings in this city.
When gang wars break out, sometimes they need trucks just to carry away the bodies.
With the rapid economic growth, the city has also attracted an influx of criminals and crime syndicates. Corrupt officials, bought by money and bribes, look down on the city from above.
They only care about how much their bank accounts increase each month—not whether the people at the bottom starve or get into trouble.
All anyone seems to care about is the city’s non-stop economic miracles. Few care to know who is struggling for survival behind the glamorous facade.
They don’t want to know, and they won’t let anyone else find out.
After all, this is the City of Angels, the economic engine of the Federation!
Lance looked absentmindedly at the girls on the street, feeling momentarily lost. It was like an old-time warmth drifted through, covering everything in a natural, vintage filter.
The whole world seemed to have taken on a sepia tone, with spots here and there where overexposure had left blemishes.
The scratchy sound from an old record player came through a speaker, adding to the nostalgic atmosphere.
The summer sunlight warmed the city—and ignited the hearts of its young women.
Two young girls in sleeveless tops and short skirts walked past a bakery, their lively, joyful smiles momentarily brightening this old, photograph-like city.
“Smack!” A sharp slap brought Lance back to reality. The bakery owner was standing behind him, glaring angrily.
“I hired you to work, not to lean on the counter gawking at girls!”
The slap was loud and forceful. “Get moving, get moving, you lazy maggot who’s practically rotting. Don’t let me catch you slacking off again—I’m paying you, damn it!” Ɽ𝘼Νo͍ＢƐṣ
Lance scratched his head and picked up a rag to start wiping the display window.
Business was slow today. Bakeries like this, away from bustling streets and the city center, were like the mom-and-pop dumpling shops in other neighborhoods.
Their business relied mainly on regulars from nearby apartments, with the busiest times before 9:30 in the morning and after work in the evening.
During other hours, hardly anyone came in.
The bakery owner was the typical small-time capitalist, pressing down on himself while exploiting his workers—and trying to control them, too.
Besides Lance, there was an apprentice in the bakery who didn’t get paid a penny each month and even had to pay the owner ten bucks as a “tuition fee” to learn the trade.
The apprentice had been there for over six months and, so far, all he’d learned was kneading dough.
The bakery owner was obese, likely weighing around 230 to 240 pounds, and was a highly skilled baker.
The local residents were loyal customers, especially fond of the bakery’s main product—a dense whole-wheat bread that filled them up for longer and kept hunger at bay.
Lance had caught him sneakily adding extra bran into the bread to make it drier, harder, denser—and more popular among the poor.
For those struggling financially, filling their stomachs was the priority.
He didn’t care much for the owner, whose sharp tongue and stinginess grated on him.
Lance earned fifteen bucks a month, whereas the average wage in the City of Angels was around sixty. They’d even added a subject called “Statistics” in universities just to keep track of this average.
Most workers actually only earned forty-five to fifty a month.
Lance’s pay was barely a third of the standard. He didn’t want to do all this never-ending work for so little pay, either.
But he had no choice—he was undocumented.
Somehow, he’d ended up on a ship that docked here.
According to the people onboard, they’d all paid handsomely to be smuggled into the Federation.
Despite all the talk of automation, the Federation’s rapid growth still demanded labor, and factories often had people working alongside oxen and horses.
Sometimes it was hard to tell which was which.
The economy was booming, and the labor shortage was massive. The president was pushing a “Non-Regular Immigrant Legalization Act.”
In plain terms, it was about giving undocumented immigrants a chance to become legal citizens, complete with voting rights.
This move had gained considerable support among the undocumented, and using illegal workers was becoming more common. Everyone seemed to understand what was happening, but nobody said it out loud.
Because he had no legal status, Lance had no choice but to work here, earning less than half of what others made.
This situation was common in Jingang City. People loved hiring undocumented workers—if you obeyed, these up-and-coming capitalists might even cut your pay by two bucks next month.
If you didn’t behave, they’d just call the cops and claim you harassed them.
This trick worked very well on undocumented workers.
One of Lance’s hometown acquaintances, who came over with him, was already getting free meals behind bars.
He spent the entire afternoon working around the bakery.
The smell of baking bread made his stomach growl as the hours dragged on, but he had to wait until the day ended to get his hands on any leftovers.
The boss refused to keep unsold bread overnight, as it turned rock-hard. While reheating it made it edible, it wasn’t as good as fresh bread, so leftovers became their food.
Around a little after six, the bakery started to get busy. The boss stood at the counter handling payments, while his daughter packed bread for customers.
The apprentice was constantly shoving dough into the oven or kneading more.
Lance handled miscellaneous tasks.
Though the boss’s daughter wasn’t very attractive, she was plump and… flavorful.
A kind of… rancid flavor. If she hadn’t reeked so much, Lance might have braced himself to become part of the family.
But her overpowering scent was simply unbearable.
By eight-thirty, the bustling business finally wound down. Exhausted, Lance cleaned up the bakery. He wasn’t allowed in the kitchen, so most of his work was out front.
The hefty boss sat at the table counting the day’s earnings, a warm, relaxed smile on his face.
It was hard to imagine such a stingy, bitter man smiling so gently, but money had a powerful effect.
After ensuring everything was clean and all tools were properly stored, Lance walked over to the boss.
The boss looked up, sensing someone approaching, a wary look on his face. “What do you want?”
Lance forced a small smile. “It’s been a month now, boss. About my pay…”
The boss, who’d looked wary, nearly jumped up as if he’d been poked with a hot iron. “Pay?”
“What pay?”
“You weren’t feverish from that rain the other day, were you?”
“No fever,” Lance replied, looking a bit puzzled, “We agreed on fifteen bucks a month.”
The boss glared at him. “Yeah, sure. But did you consider how much you’ve cost me, staying here and eating my bread every day?”
He flipped a page in his notebook. “The cheapest inn around charges twenty-five cents a night, but I let you stay here for twenty.”
“Thirty-one days in a month…”
“February only has twenty-eight days, boss.”
“Shut up and listen!”
“Thirty-one days, at twenty cents a night…”
Lance, seeing the boss freeze up mid-calculation, quietly helped out, “That’s six dollars and twenty cents, boss.”
The boss nodded, “Right, six-fifty. And every morning and evening, you eat one of my bread rolls.”
“You know, I sell each one for fifteen cents, so that’s…” He looked at Lance, waiting for an answer.
Lance didn’t disappoint, “Nine dollars and thirty cents, boss.”
The boss scribbled another number in his notebook, “Yep, nine-fifty. Plus your rent, six-fifty, means you’ve cost me… ten… eighteen dollars a month.”
“But your pay is only fifteen. So, tell me, how do you think you’ve earned any wages?”
“You actually owe me three bucks. I’ll deduct it from your next paycheck—if you get one.”
Lance was at a loss for words. He’d only read about this kind of thing in “stories” and “history,” but now, after an entire month, it was hitting him for real.
It was like he was just a passerby in the grand tide of history, impressed but unattached.
Until now—
“You’re… you’re not joking, are you?” he asked.