Early the next morning, Lance picked up a copy of the Jingang Daily. Alberto had bought 50 copies to ensure everyone in his company saw it, including Lance.
The front page of the lifestyle section featured a photo taking up nearly a fifth of the page: a restaurant with a septic truck overturned on the roadside, sewage flooding the sidewalk, and the glass walls of the restaurant visibly smeared with waste.
The restaurant’s name was crystal clear in the photo, along with the neon chef sign modeled after Mr. Anderson himself, frying pan in hand. The caption read, “Drunk Driving: A Public Safety Threat,” and the article discussed the dangers of drunk driving.
Toward the end, it casually mentioned that a restaurant had been affected by an unfortunate incident of sewage flooding, forcing it to close temporarily.
While the article focused on public safety, readers were far more interested in the ill-fated restaurant.
Everyone in Alberto’s circle knew he’d been furious with Anderson for months. Now, it seemed he’d finally gotten his revenge, and the whole office was delighted. After all, a happy boss meant easier days for everyone—no getting sent out on errands under the blazing midday sun!
—
“Boss wants to see you,” Fordis said, knocking on the door.
Lance, who was playing pool with a few others, put down his cue and turned to his opponent. “Don’t forget the dollar you owe me.”
Yes, they were playing for money—25 cents per point. After four rounds, Lance had earned a dollar from his opponent, who muttered “bulls” under his breath, clearly itching for a rematch.
Ignoring him, Lance followed Fordis to the manager’s office.
Inside, Alberto was visibly satisfied. “He just called me, groveling, and addressed me as ‘Mr. Coty.’ He promised to have the $5,000 on my desk by Friday.”
“Lance, you did an excellent job. Not only did you recover the debt, but you also gave me a much-needed release of frustration. As promised, here’s your payment.”
Alberto handed Lance a bulging envelope. Lance felt its thickness but didn’t bother counting the cash. It was likely $500 in twenty-dollar bills—25 notes in total.
“Your golden reputation, Mr. Coty, ensures my complete trust. I would never jeopardize the bond between us,” Lance said, his words dripping with flattery.
Alberto, like most, enjoyed being praised. Smiling, he poured two glasses of wine, handing one to Lance.
Curious, he asked, “What if I’d shortchanged you?”
Lance clinked glasses with him. “That’s impossible, Mr. Coty. I refuse to believe you’d think your integrity isn’t worth $500.”
For a moment, Alberto was confused. Then, realizing it was another compliment, he burst into laughter. “Talking to you is always a pleasure!”
“So, what’s next for you?” Alberto asked.
Lance swirled his glass lightly. “First, I’ll rent a house and sort out my immigration status. Being an illegal immigrant is a ticking time bomb—I need to fix it before it becomes a problem.”
Alberto nodded. “That’s no small task. The Federal Immigration Office only grants permanent residency through a few channels: you’re either a world-renowned scientist, sitting on millions in investment capital, or politically useful to someone in power. Maybe a distant relative of your emperor?”
Lance smiled but said nothing. Though he lacked those credentials, he had successfully navigated similar challenges before.
Law, he believed, was full of loopholes—patchwork fixes to human flaws. While many revered it as unbreakable, Lance saw opportunities others couldn’t.
Alberto noticed Lance’s thoughtful expression but didn’t pry. Whether he succeeded or not would be clear in time.
“For now,” Alberto said, “I won’t assign you any more work. This cash should let you live comfortably for a while.”
In less affluent areas, a standalone house could be rented for as little as $10–$15 a month. With $500, Lance could live quite lavishly in Jingang City. ℝаƝO͍𝐁Ě𝒮
After another toast, Alberto extended a probing invitation. “I hope we’ll work together again someday. It’s always a pleasure.”
Lance responded with a polite non-commitment. “If the opportunity arises, I’d be happy to.”
—
After leaving Alberto’s office, Lance approached Fordis for a small favor. “Do you know any officers who might take on some light work? No danger, just half an hour, and it pays a little extra.”
Fordis studied him for a moment. “So, this means we’re not coworkers anymore?”
“There’ll be other chances,” Lance reassured him without closing the door completely.
Fordis sighed, clearly disappointed. He liked Lance—sharp, tactful, and resourceful. Grabbing a notepad, he jotted down a number and handed it over. “Officer Brayden. We’re on good terms. Call him.”
Lance tucked the number into his pocket, hugged Fordis, and left.
Goodbyes weren’t emotional. Neither of them was that type, and it wasn’t a permanent farewell.
—
That afternoon, Lance and Mello scouted rental properties. Mello, more level-headed, spotted issues Lance had overlooked.
After visiting several homes, they settled on a three-story standalone house near the city’s outskirts. It featured a private yard and three garages, costing $20 a month.
Though a bit pricey, the house was clean and ready to move into. The elderly landlady assured them that all bills were current, so there’d be no unexpected interruptions in water or electricity.
Spacious at over 300 square meters, the house could comfortably accommodate Lance’s group of 20 people. While everyone couldn’t have their own rooms, it was a significant upgrade from sleeping under bridges—especially with recent rumors of nightly “unwanted touches” that had left the group uneasy.
Within three days, they moved in, bought new clothes, and furnished the home. Lance even had the group’s two girls bake treats for the neighbors—a gesture to foster goodwill.
In a community, good neighborly relations could prevent nuisance calls to the police—a lesson Lance took seriously.
—
On Friday, Alberto called Lance to confirm the payment had been received. “Anderson’s completely broken—no fight left in him. He even promised to repay the interest. Of course, I offered him another loan: $10,000 repayable at $22,500 over nine months.”
Anderson had refused outright. Such terms would wipe out his profits entirely, and he was done dealing with Alberto and Lance. His hatred for them burned strong, even if he’d chosen to submit.
—
Later that morning, Lance met Officer Brayden at a small diner within the officer’s patrol zone.
As the police car pulled up, Lance recognized Brayden instantly. The officer epitomized the “classic Federal type”: reddish-brown hair, a thick mustache, fair skin, and a clean-shaven chin. He wore oversized sunglasses and exuded confidence.
Brayden approached the diner, glanced around, and entered with his partner, who stood in the aisle to block the view of onlookers.
Relaxed, Brayden ordered a coffee and burger, leaning back against the booth with his legs crossed. “So… what do you need?”
Lance slid an envelope across the table. “Fordis sent me.”
Brayden raised an eyebrow and stared at the envelope for a few seconds before picking it up. “What I hate most is knowing I’ll have to count this.”
He emptied the envelope onto the table—a neat stack of $100 bills. Brayden whistled softly, clearly impressed, before stuffing the money back into the envelope and placing it on the table.
“Generous for a first meeting,” he remarked. “Lance, was it? Tell me, what’s the issue you need solved?”
Lance leaned forward. “I have two favors to ask, Officer Brayden. I promise both are completely legal, with no risk or danger to you.”
Brayden’s expression turned serious. “Go on.”
“I want to know if there are any slightly impoverished families in Jingang City who lost a child years ago—someone about my age now…”