The apartment was in the city’s central ring.
In Jingang City, there were two main hotspots: the city center, where high-end hotels, restaurants, bars, nightclubs, and casinos attracted crowds, and the port area, catering to the working class with affordable entertainment.
Whereas a private show at a downtown strip bar cost at least fifty dollars for thirty minutes, similar services at a lively port bar only cost ten dollars, with an extra five for an additional “hands-on” experience. This wasn’t technically illegal; according to Federation law, specific “actions” had to occur for something to qualify as illicit. For the sailors, hard-earned money was spent with ease, while the girls worked openly, earning a decent living without shame.
Outside of these busy areas, other parts of the city were quiet, meaning rent was more affordable.
Eyeing the apartment building, Lance began laying out the plan before they even got out of the car.
“Elvin, you and… (Friend A), stay outside. Watch for anyone leaving the building, especially our guy. If he bolts, stop him—there’s a crowbar in the trunk.”
“Ethan, you and… (Friend B) come up with me. Your job is to keep the door secure and chase off onlookers.”
“Remember, look intimidating,” Lance added. “If this job goes smoothly, I’ll ask Mr. Corti to throw in some bonuses. This work’s legal, and it pays faster than a regular job.”
He gave Elvin a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Hold down the fort—it’s not as easy as it sounds.”
Elvin chuckled, “No need to comfort me. I know my job.”
Lance gave him a playful punch, then grabbed the baseball bat from the trunk and headed toward the building with Ethan and the other friend.
As they entered, the middle-aged security guard at the lobby desk hesitated, unsure if he should do his job. Lance made the decision easier—he lifted the bat, and the guard quickly raised his hands, staying seated. “I don’t know anything, sir.”
Lance nodded toward Ethan, signaling him to call the elevator. “We’re just here for someone. Nothing in the building will get damaged, and if we break anything, leave a bill, and I’ll settle it. But don’t do anything beyond what I tell you.”
“A thirty-dollar job isn’t worth dying for a capitalist,” Lance added.
The guard seemed thoughtful and nodded. “You’re right, sir.”
Lance lowered the bat, and the three of them stepped into the elevator, pressing “4.” The rattling old elevator always made Lance a bit uneasy, and Ethan’s slight trembling could have been excitement or fear.
The other friend seemed more thrilled. “Will I need to fight?”
“Should I go for his jaw or his… you know?”
“If I break his head open, will we get in trouble?”
Lance rolled his eyes. “Just watch what I do. Don’t touch him unless I say so.”
They reached the fourth floor and stopped outside the apartment. Lance knocked loudly. “Anybody home?”
Silence. But Lance could hear footsteps inside—clearly, the occupant wasn’t planning to answer.
Switching tactics, he pounded harder. “Hey! You didn’t pay this month’s cleaning fee! Open up, or I’ll lock you out, you freeloader!”
Ethan and the other friend exchanged astonished glances as the footsteps inside got closer. “Damn it, I already paid the cleaning fee!” The door swung open, but instead of seeing a guard or the manager, White, the debtor, found himself face-to-face with Lance. ꞦΆΝÔʙĚ𝙎
Realizing the trap, White tried to slam the door shut, but Lance was quicker. He shoved the door open, and White grabbed anything nearby—a green moldy fish tank, a vase, books, and other objects—and threw them at Lance. Lance dodged as best as he could until he got close enough, landing a solid bat strike on White’s back.
White hit the floor with a thud, letting out a howl as Lance shook his shoulders and stepped forward.
White’s cries caught the attention of neighboring tenants. Lance turned to Ethan and the other friend, “Tell them to get back in their rooms. If anything comes up, shout for me—I need a word with Mr. White.”
With that, he shut the door, muffling the sound of White’s screams.
The bystanders, seeing Ethan’s scowl, quickly retreated into their apartments. In a place like this, nobody cared if their neighbor was in trouble—as long as it didn’t affect them.
Inside, White lay on the floor, moaning. Lance lit a cigarette, ignoring the pungent smell of fish tank water now soaking his clothes and the cut on his arm from broken glass. With a menacing look, he approached White, who crawled back in terror.
“I don’t know you!” White stammered, inching back four or five feet.
Lance held up the contract. “Thirty-five hundred. Remember?”
White’s eyes darted away. “I was forced to sign that! I can’t pay it back!”
Lance glanced at the contract. “But you had no problem taking that thousand, did you?”
“Mr. White, I don’t work directly for the Finance Company. They pay me to settle debts. If you have a problem with the contract, sue them.”
“But don’t let your issues keep me and my friends from eating.”
“I’m giving you a choice. Cooperate, and I’ll leave with thirty-five hundred, and you stay here. If you don’t… I’ll take you with me.”
“Mr. Corti told me that even if I don’t collect the money, I need to bring you back. The big shots sometimes care more about respect than cash.”
“If I take you to them, I can’t guarantee you’ll survive or escape without lasting damage.”
“So, tell me—what’s it gonna be, Mr. White?”
White looked petrified. He’d owed the debt for two years, and Alberto had long stopped charging interest. He knew guys like White wouldn’t care if interest piled tenfold—they never planned to repay from the start. People who took high-interest loans signed without a second thought, knowing repayment was unlikely.
Many borrowers harbored delusions, believing collectors wouldn’t go so far for just a little money.
Seeing White’s hesitation, Lance held the bat in both hands, raising it high.
White’s face turned white as he cried out, his voice breaking. “I don’t have it!”
“Liar!” Lance roared, bringing the bat down on White’s thigh. There was a sickening crunch as White’s thighbone cracked, sending him rolling on the floor in agony, nose dripping.
Lance watched him writhe, then glanced at the kitchen and fetched a dinner knife, intensifying White’s terror.
“I’m an Imperial—an undocumented immigrant,” Lance said. “If Immigration drags me back, I’d rather take my chances with murder. Are you prepared to die, Mr. White?”
Watching Lance spread out a bedsheet on the floor, White’s body trembled uncontrollably; even his fractured leg seemed to hurt less as panic took over.
“On the balcony… in the flowerpot!” he finally screamed, breaking down.
“Get out of here! I’m going to sue you!”
Lance smirked, “That’s your right, Mr. White.”
On the balcony, Lance smashed the pots and found two packets wrapped in brown paper—five thousand in total.