The middle class may not be the happiest group in the Federation, but they are certainly the most fulfilled.
Because while the wealthy often find themselves consumed by bouts of emptiness, the middle class knows how to fill their lives—richly and tastefully.
From the first task after waking up to the last thing before sleep, they manage their days with full schedules, elegance, and a touch of style.
Mrs. Lawrence had just wrapped up a… middle-class women’s community social gathering.
These women, whether employed or not, regularly gathered every other weekend for an activity that was equal parts entertaining and affirming.
No men were allowed—just women from the same neighborhood who were familiar and on good terms.
If a woman wasn’t invited, chances were she and her family were being socially excluded from the community.
Federation citizens always talked about bullying as if they were righteous saviors, but in reality, bullying was everywhere—from kindergarten to the presidential palace.
In schools, workplaces, politics, and yes, even in neighborhoods.
Rumors like “that family had to move out because of constant social pressure” were all too common.
Each time, the gathering had a theme. The one Mrs. Lawrence attended today was themed “flower arrangement.”
Flower arranging was a pastime reserved for the middle class. Women would bring vases to the venue, and someone would supply fresh flowers—usually from shops outside the neighborhood.
Then an instructor would teach them how to make their arrangements look full and elegant.
The working class had neither the time nor the resources for such “pointless” luxuries. The wealthy wouldn’t bother to do it themselves.
So flower arranging became something only the middle class would truly try and learn.
Though it looked simple, creating a beautiful, balanced bouquet was no easy task.
As they worked, the women discussed both private and public matters, ranging from neighborhood gossip to broader societal topics.
The ones with better family status always remained at the center of the conversations.
Class distinctions were everywhere—this was the Federation.
Thanks to the Lawrence family’s many civil servants and corporate employees, Mrs. Lawrence belonged to the upper tier of this community.
They talked about election fraud, criticized politics, discussed the upcoming spring fashion show, and even shared some bedroom secrets.
Women’s conversations about sex could be far more unfiltered than men’s.
All in all, those two hours brought the women immense satisfaction. It achieved everything a middle-class social should: leisure, art appreciation, information exchange, and strengthened bonds.
If you weren’t part of this? It wasn’t because you were too busy—it was because you were being isolated.
When Mrs. Lawrence returned home with a short, round vase in her hands, the first thing she noticed was the luxury car in the driveway.
She glanced up at the window, then deliberately slammed her car door—just to alert her daughter.
She didn’t want to tiptoe and risk walking into something inappropriate or awkward.
She even pretended to fumble for her keys at the door, waiting ten or twenty seconds while the sounds of frantic footsteps upstairs settled down, before finally inserting the key into the lock.
“Darling, did someone drop by?” she called out as she opened the door.
Lance and Patricia came down the stairs. Her cheeks were flushed. “Yes, Mom. We just came back from Cousin Barbara’s place.”
She walked up to her mom and took the flower vase, setting it on the living room table. Mrs. Lawrence gave Lance a half-smile. “Thank you for bringing her back. I thought she might spend the night out.”
But she didn’t push the teasing too far. After shaking Lance’s hand, she asked, “Did her uncles and aunts make you feel uncomfortable?”
Then she remembered something. “Probably not—after all, you showed up in a nice car. They’d only smile at you.”
She knew William’s siblings well—typical self-proclaimed elites of the Federation.
They would question everything they viewed as beneath them. But they’d never question a $20,000 car—or the person inside it.
Lance nodded in agreement. “Everyone was very warm.”
Mrs. Lawrence chuckled. “Thanks to the money.”
Then she paused and added, “Sit for a bit, read the paper, or turn on the radio. I’ll go make dinner.”
She headed to the kitchen and waved Patricia over. “Sweetheart, come give me a hand.”
The two of them cooked a rich, delicious meal.
The three chatted and laughed during dinner. When it was over, Mrs. Lawrence offered—formally—that Lance could stay the night. He could sleep in Patricia’s room, and she would sleep with her mother.
But this was more of a polite gesture—like when someone says “Why not just stay the night?” at 11:30 p.m. when you’ve already picked up your coat.
Lance politely declined and headed out.
Later, Patricia excitedly recounted every detail of the party at Barbara’s. She was clearly very happy.
Mrs. Lawrence stroked her smooth hair and suddenly asked a question that made her daughter choke on her own saliva. “Did you two… do it before I got home?”
“Mooom!” Patricia’s face turned crimson.
But Mrs. Lawrence remained composed. “I’m your mother. I just want you to protect yourself, that’s all.”
Seeing Patricia shake her head, she relaxed a bit. “Wait until you’re sure it’s love, not just youthful passion. And try not to get pregnant.”
“But before all that—make careful choices.”
After leaving Patricia’s house, Lance drove to see Alberto. The luxury car, though comfortable with its walnut trim and soft leather—like touching a girl’s skin—still wasn’t his.
Coincidentally, Alberto was just about to leave when Lance arrived. He told Lance to stay in the car, then got in with Fordis.
“Got plans tonight?” he asked.
Lance shook his head. Alberto handed him an address. “Go here.”
Lance glanced at it—it was in the Bay Area. As he drove out of the alley, he asked curiously, “You bought a new place?”
He’d heard before that Alberto’s home was in the Summurian District, where all their people lived.
Alberto seemed cheerful. “Not a house. A new bar. Just opened. You know—your drinks…”
Lance honked the horn, cutting him off. Alberto quickly corrected himself. “Right, right. They’re my drinks.”
“Bars have been booming lately. The boss wanted to try opening one too. If it works, he might open more.”
“Making money—that’s the only truth. Everything else is nonsense.”
Lance nodded while driving. “You’re absolutely right.”
A dozen minutes later, they pulled up outside a building that didn’t really look like a bar—
It was a red-brick building, like a warehouse or something else. This style was rare in the Bay Area, and it wasn’t on the busiest street—but not too far off either.
The brick building was square, without windows. If not for the bright streetlights, most people probably wouldn’t approach it. But in the back lot, as Lance parked, he saw plenty of nice cars.
The kind that cost thousands.
After parking, the three approached a small door. Fordis stepped up and knocked loudly.
Click. A small peephole opened. Suspicious eyes peered out. A light above the door flicked on.
As soon as the light came on, the guard’s expression softened—he’d seen Alberto.
“Damn it, Fordis. Next time, knock softer. I thought it was a raid!” Two bolts slid back, and the door opened.
A man in a white shirt and brown vest, sleeves rolled up, came out and hugged Fordis. Then he turned to Alberto. “It’s packed tonight. Might not be a table for you.”
Alberto raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean by raid?”
The doorman shrugged. “Ask Leonard.” He glanced at Lance, then back to Alberto.
“This is Lance. The boss knows him too.”
The doorman stared at Lance for a few seconds, then held out his hand. “Larry. Welcome, my friend. Hope you have a great night.”
After they entered, Larry slammed the door shut, then sat down beside it and picked up a book.
Lance gave it a curious look. Fordis explained, “He says he’s studying for college.”
“Shut up, Fordis!” Larry snapped.
Fordis raised his hands in mock surrender. “I shouldn’t make fun of college students!”
Then he burst out laughing and ran off. Larry scowled and slumped back into his chair.
Alberto draped an arm around Lance’s shoulder and led him further inside. “Don’t mind them. They’ve been bickering since our days in Summurian.”
Behind a metal fence along the hallway, a nearly topless girl in heavy makeup, seemingly chewing something, called out, “Alberto, want to spare some change?”
(End of chapter)