Alberto crossed one leg over the other as he lit a cigarette. Lowering his head, he inhaled deeply before leaning back and exhaling a plume of smoke toward the ceiling.
“So…”
Lance picked up where he left off. “So, I plan to find some locals with legal status—maybe some homeless folks—pay them a few bucks, and have them dine at Mr. Anderson’s restaurant. Then, I’ll involve a few journalists to frame it as a human-interest piece. Something like… ‘The Restaurant Most Loved by Homeless People.’”
Alberto froze for a moment, then slowly nodded in approval. “That’s a brilliant idea, Lance.”
“No one wants to share a dining space with a bunch of stinky homeless people. It won’t take long before his restaurant’s reputation is ruined.”
He tapped the desk enthusiastically. “What about using our own people?”
Lance politely declined. “Mr. Coti, it’s not that I don’t want to give our guys something to do, but I’m certain Mr. Anderson will call the police. If we use our own people, it might cause complications.”
Alberto thought it over seriously before a smile spread across his face. “You’re absolutely right, Lance. This is why I admire you so much.”
“You think and act far beyond your years.”
He pulled open a drawer, counted out $200, and slid it across the table along with a business card.
“I don’t believe in making others spend their own money to get things done for me. Consider this your new budget.”
“And that card—reach out to the guy on it. We have some dealings with him. See if he can help.”
“My only demand is to make Anderson furious yet completely helpless. I want him to call me, begging.”
Lance glanced at the money, then smiled confidently. “You’ll see him raging and groveling, Mr. Coti.”
—
The next morning, Lance appeared at St. Naya’s Cathedral.
On the lawn outside, there were at least 400–500 people gathered. While this was far fewer than the 30,000 Imperial immigrants Bolton had mentioned, these individuals represented at least 200 families. Through these families, the influence could reach thousands more, accounting for a significant portion of the legitimate immigrant population.
Though the number seemed small, their impact wasn’t. Most of those attending these gatherings were relatively successful.
Bolton noticed Lance. Initially, he didn’t plan on interacting with him—he didn’t particularly like gang-affiliated individuals. But when he saw Lance arrive in a car, Bolton reconsidered.
He walked over and, speaking loudly enough for others to hear, greeted Lance warmly. “Lance, have you parked your car properly?”
Lance, who had been preparing to find a way to break the ice, turned back, puzzled. His car was parked perfectly fine in the lot. But he quickly caught on and responded just as warmly, “Uncle Bolton, I made sure it’s locked.”
Bolton was pleased with Lance’s reaction. Almost immediately, someone nearby leaned in and said, “Bolton, why not introduce us to this young man? Where are you from, lad?”
“Balman State,” Lance replied, stepping forward to shake the man’s hand.
Bolton quickly took over the introductions. “This is Lance, a young man new to the Federation. He currently has a very flexible job.”
He then introduced the man to Lance. “This is Mr. Jobav, considered a pride of Imperial immigrants in Jingang City!”
“If you have extra money and want to store it somewhere safer than the Federation banks, with better interest rates, Mr. Jobav is your best choice!”
“Over 40% of Imperial immigrants trust him with their savings.”
Hearing this, Lance enthusiastically extended both hands to shake Mr. Jobav’s. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Jobav. Are you a banker?”
Jobav laughed heartily, retrieving a cigar from an associate and taking a long puff. “Not quite. I just try to do what I can for our people.”
“With me, you don’t need an immigrant card, a residence permit, or a work card. As long as you’re from the Empire, you can entrust your money to me.”
His eyes subtly darted toward Lance’s car in the parking lot. Though it was an old model, likely worth only $400–$500 from a secondhand dealer, the fact that Lance owned a car at all, paired with his decent attire, marked him as a young man with potential.
And who wouldn’t want to expand their network with someone promising?
After a brief chat, Jobav excused himself to let others meet Lance.
He shook Lance’s hand again before leaving. Soon, other people approached, facilitated by Bolton’s introductions.
In the Empire, wealth alone wouldn’t have drawn this much attention. But after years of living in the Federation, many Imperial immigrants at the bottom of the social ladder were desperate for a way up.
While Lance’s car wasn’t new, it set him apart from those who arrived on bicycles or buses.
Most of those who came to meet Lance were in their 30s and had been in the Federation for 7–8 years.
Though some hesitated about Lance’s work, most exchanged contact information or business cards with him.
Half an hour later, having dealt with these introductions, Lance asked, “Did Gerald come today?”
He wasn’t keen on continuing as Bolton’s “trophy” for social bragging. While he found the bragging childish, he also knew some people couldn’t resist the urge to flaunt their connections.
Bolton, who had been enjoying himself thoroughly, replied, “Of course. Youngsters like him don’t enjoy hanging out with us older folks. He’s over by the side lawn—shall I take you?”
Lance quickly declined, jogging toward the side of the cathedral where the younger crowd had gathered.
There, about 40 young men and women were chatting in groups. As Lance approached, Gerald spotted him immediately.
“Lance!” Gerald shouted, waving his arms excitedly. This drew everyone’s attention toward Lance.
“Is that the ‘best friend’ you were talking about?” Gerald’s cousin, Rob, sized up Lance critically. “He’s dressed so old-fashioned—not at all youthful.”
Rob’s jealousy was poorly concealed. Most of the group wore outfits costing $2–$3, at most $4–$5. Lance’s $10+ attire instantly outclassed them.
And for people their age, appearing more mature was often a goal, which Lance had clearly achieved.
Gerald ran over and gave Lance a warm hug. Lance felt slightly awkward—Gerald was so pretty that the hug felt odd. Fortunately, it was brief.
Gerald then introduced Lance to his friends.
“This is my cousin Rob…”
“This is my cousin Nancy…”
“And this is Rob’s girlfriend, Selena…”
Lance greeted them all warmly, shaking hands as other eyes lingered on him.
His demeanor was markedly different, carrying an intangible “toughness” that set him apart from the crowd.
“Lance, do you have family here?” Rob was the first to ask, his jealousy flaring as Selena continued to glance at Lance.
“No, I’m alone here,” Lance replied casually.
Rob’s expression softened slightly. “So, you haven’t obtained permanent residency yet?”
“Not yet,” Lance admitted openly.
Hearing this, Nancy lost interest. For her, a man without legal status lacked long-term potential.
Rob, sensing Selena’s waning interest in Lance, felt his jealousy subside, replaced by a smug sense of superiority.
“So, what kind of work do you do?” he asked.
“I work for a company that assigns me tasks. I complete them and earn commissions based on the job,” Lance explained straightforwardly.
Rob smirked. “So, a salesperson?”
“More or less.”
Rob pressed further. “What do you sell? Maybe we could help you earn more commissions.”
Lance smiled but didn’t elaborate, prompting Rob to try again. “Does your work even pay well?”
“Recently, I earned $200 from a single job.”
Rob fell silent, while Gerald exclaimed in surprise, “That much?”
“Is it a lot?” Lance shrugged. “That was just a small job. You’ll see bigger ones eventually.”
Rob’s emotions grew complicated, his face reflecting the same inner turmoil. “Look, if you’re not earning much, no one will think less of you.”
“But if you’re lying just to impress us, that’s not cool at all!”
“Do you really think an illegal immigrant without legal status can make that much from one job? You should be more grounded—”
Before Rob could finish, Selena pulled him away, scolding him for his behavior.
As Rob walked off, more people approached Lance, eager to meet him…