Chapter 16: Fiona

Xin Yidunweier Shequ, like the former Guohui Shan Zizhiqu, was an anarchic, police-free autonomous community.

But Guohui Shan Zizhiqu was not abandoned by the government—it was seized by the left-wing group ANRIFA to oppose the Republican Party, through armed struggle, burning bottles, and direct confrontation with police.

Add to that the Democrats' willful blindness and attempts to appease everyone, and Guohui Shan Zizhiqu gained massive political visibility, making headlines worldwide.

But Xin Yidunweier Shequ was the opposite: no political group backed it; it remained obscure.

It was purely because the community was so poor that its tax revenue couldn't cover public service costs, so the Seattle government and police system withdrew voluntarily.

Later, they discovered that by handing the community over to gangs, the IRS could collect more taxes from the gangs themselves.

This was, undeniably, a bitterly ironic joke.

Of course, that didn't mean Xin Yidunweier Shequ had no one in charge at all.

If you reported a crime inside the community, the police would still come.

But you might have to wait hours—and that depended on the police's conscience.

So after Roger learned the full scope of the community, he clicked his tongue, finding it extremely troublesome.

Yet though the investigation was hard, the community's mix of all kinds of people made it easier to blend in than a single-race neighborhood.

Thus, after confirming Xin Yidunweier Shequ's address on the map, Roger planned to visit during the day first.

Of course, first he needed to rent a car.

In Meilijian, if you tried to travel on foot—especially through bad neighborhoods—you'd randomly trigger incidents of racial discrimination, theft, and extortion.

But if you drove, it was much simpler.

You only had to worry about whether some black guy would rush over, yank open your rolled-down window, and rob you at gunpoint.

But a cheap car like Roger's, renting for just thirty dollars a day, wasn't worth targeting.

Everyone knew someone driving such a car couldn't be rich.

Even the prostitutes walking past in sexy outfits didn't spare Roger a glance.

"What a fucking reality!"

Roger expressed deep outrage.

He'd been waiting at a red light when a white girl in a micro-miniskirt, showing most of her ass and wearing high heels, walked by—he got excited—but she immediately turned and pressed her upper body against the window of another Jeep.

The next person approaching Roger was unmistakably a middle-aged black prostitute.

Roger immediately stomped on the gas and pulled away from the curb.

Half an hour later, he finally drove into the vicinity of Xin Yidunweier Shequ.

Located in Nan Xiya, this was a notoriously chaotic area.

Compared to the bustling downtown, it looked especially desolate and dilapidated, filled with crumbling three- and four-story houses. There were no commercial streets, no pedestrians.

Only a corner convenience store remained, long shut down, its sign half-falling, swaying in the wind.

Roger drove down the main road into the community; the atmosphere grew even quieter.

Houses stood in silent rows, their faded walls peeling to reveal blackened wooden boards. Windows were nailed shut with planks, glass shattered and never replaced. Rust-covered steel security doors stood before sunken front steps, where stubborn weeds grew from the cracks.

"Damn, does anyone even live here?"

He drove slowly, peering into the houses—but saw not a single soul, as if the community's residents had vanished into thin air.

Yet noticing the relatively tidy lawns in some yards, Roger guessed the residents had likely gone to work.

He figured that by nightfall, the community would become slightly livelier.

But correspondingly, the danger would multiply.

Just as Roger was about to continue patrolling the community, his phone suddenly received several text messages.

Vanessa: "You'd better not enter Xin Yidunweier Shequ. It doesn't welcome outsiders."

Vanessa: "I once had an Informer who lived there. He disappeared."

Vanessa: "But if you insist on going, do me a favor."

Vanessa: "1021 South 158th Street. Remember the address. Find this resident and give her my phone number."

Roger hadn't expected Vanessa to voluntarily give him a resident's address inside the community—it was an excellent breakthrough.

He turned the car around on the spot, drove to the left side of the road, parked, and walked along the street searching for house 1021, his crossbody bag slung over his shoulder.

Just as he passed a certain house, he also passed a few young black men idling, their arms covered in tattoos, smoking cigarettes.

Their eyes were sharp as hawks, fixed on Roger, clearly recognizing he didn't belong.

Then they dropped their cigarettes and followed behind him.

"Shit, it's the community's gang."

Roger hadn't expected such bad luck—his first visit, and he ran into these guys.

But he didn't try to flee; running now would only make him look guilty.

He simply kept walking, pretending calmness, continuing to search for the house.

Luckily, 1021 wasn't far—he quickly found the two-story wooden house.

Walking up the creaking wooden steps, Roger turned his back to the gang members, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.

"Hey, anyone home?" He tried to sound calm.

The gang members stood behind him, silent but exchanging glances.

When they saw no response from inside, they tilted their heads, then immediately moved toward Roger.

"Anyone home?" Roger checked the house number again—confirmed it was 1021.

Feeling the footsteps drawing closer behind him, he swallowed hard and knocked again, shouting: "Vanessa sent me. Open the door."

Perhaps the name Vanessa worked—the floorboards inside suddenly creaked.

"Creak."

After ten seconds, the door opened, revealing a fat, big-haired black woman standing before him.

"Come in." Her voice was piercingly thin, wildly mismatched with her physique.

Roger exhaled in relief and was just about to step inside when the gang thugs called out to him.

"Wait."

A curly-haired Black man stepped forward, pointing at Roger. "Fiona, who is he?"

Fiona sneered, "Robbie, are you trying to become the master of this house?"

"He's not from our neighborhood," Robbie said, his tone less confrontational than before—evidently wary of Fiona—yet he emphasized: "We don't welcome outsiders here."

"Robbie, this is my home. I decide who comes in. Don't think joining the Crips gives you the right to order me around—I used to feed you when you were two."

"The neighborhood isn't safe, Fiona. I'm looking out for your safety."

"Thank God—if you truly cared about my safety, my husband wouldn't have died. And this neighborhood wouldn't have a murder every other day."

Robbie shrugged, helpless. "Ain't I watching over the neighborhood?"

"Murderers don't stroll into the neighborhood in broad daylight and commit crimes right under your noses."

"Alright, alright." Robbie, speechless, spread his hands and stepped back two paces.

He could only glare fiercely at Roger as a threat.

"Clang."

Once the gang thugs had left, Fiona shut the door, arms still crossed, and stared at Roger. "Now speak. Who is Vanessa? Why are you here? Say your piece and leave—this isn't your place."

"You don't know Vanessa?" Roger froze.

"Of course not. I just didn't want you dying on my doorstep and staining my house—ruining the sale." The Black woman rolled her eyes.