Chapter 118: Friends, Brothers, Kin

The atmosphere was oppressive.

In fact, bullets are also a gift; any gift carries, during its giving, something akin to a “message of the gift.”

Giving chocolate, for instance, is a disguised confession.

So giving a bullet carries meaning too—it means “you will die by a bullet,” and most often it’s used as a death threat.

When Lans placed the bullet atop the bills, Officer Ferren snapped back to his senses; greed was crushed by reason, and he even felt a pang of horror!

“Lans...” His expression darkened. “I’m a police officer!”

Lans gave a slight shake of his head. “Yes, but you’ve ignored some issues.”

“You are first a man, then a family member, and only after that a police officer.”

“You’re threatening me?” Officer Ferren found it unbelievable; though federal officers were often threatened, he still found it astonishing.

Lans remained as calm as ever, showing no trace of emotion. “You can see this as a threat—or as a warning.”

“You can take the money, and we remain friends. I believe you can get more from me.”

“Friendship—or something else.”

“Or you can let me put these away and leave.”

“I want to be friends with you, Ferren, but you don’t seem to feel the same.”

The two stared at each other without yielding; from Lans’s calm, composed gaze, he saw something hidden—something foul.

People always weigh many things when facing grave danger: family, wife, children, and their still-pleasant lives.

The more they weigh, the more they feel... some things don’t need to be pushed to the point of no return.

When a man’s resolve no longer moves forward unshakably, even a moment of doubt leads to concession—and continued concession.

He opened his hands, avoiding direct confrontation, and looked away, no longer meeting Lans’s gaze. “You might misunderstand me—I just thought... we’re friends, no need to...” He waved his hands in front of him. “You know, friends help each other.”

Lans smiled, tucked the bullet away, then counted out two more ten-dollar bills to make a hundred, and pushed them over. “You deserve this friendship, Ferren. May I call you that?”

“Of course, Lans—just like I call you that. That’s what friends call each other.”

Lans added another twenty dollars. Though a small unease still lingered in his heart, it had already lessened considerably from before.

He could keep sixty for himself and give forty to his partner. Is sixty dollars a lot?

His legal monthly income barely reached that. He typically received around three hundred dollars a month from the precinct’s dirty money system.

Sixty dollars might seem like only a fifth—but he’d already received something from Lans, and now with this sixty, it was a substantial sum!

Watching him slip the money into his pocket, Lans nodded in satisfaction. A cop willing to be friends was far better than one unwilling—or greedier.

“So tomorrow morning?”

People often, after making a compromise, cling harder to it to convince themselves it was right—and walk further down that path. “I’ll come to you at eight, and we’ll go together.”

Lans stood and shook his hand, then signaled the ready takeout owner to bring the food. “Good. I’ll wait for you in the office. These are for you and your partner to eat during breaks.”

Looking at the paper bag, Officer Ferren’s expression was strange. He’d been threatened, yet he had to admit—Lans had handled it with dignity.

He added money. He gave extra takeout. Though these things held little high value, they did stir some goodwill.

“Thank you.” The words came without hypocrisy.

As Lans stepped out of the café, he nodded to another officer inside the police car; the officer smiled back.

After Ferren used the restroom and returned to the car, he handed the paper bag to his partner.

His partner asked curiously, “What did you two talk about?”

In the police system, a partner is the most vital ally—it determines whether you survive sudden emergencies.

He gave a simple explanation. “So we’ll need to wake up early tomorrow morning and come over.”

His partner stared at him. Ferren pulled out sixty dollars, counted out thirty, and handed them over. “Your share.”

His partner whistled. “Mr. Lans is generous!”

Ferren lit a cigarette and shifted gears. “Who says otherwise?”

Whether it was true or not—he alone knew.

After a night’s spread, many learned that Jamie had been bullied at the docks—robbed of his money and stripped of his clothes by a man named Johnny and his crew.

Many, upon hearing this, became furious and wanted to do something to vent their anger. The Federals were damn bastards. They were all from the bottom—why couldn’t they look out for each other instead of tearing each other down?

When they learned Lans intended to seek justice for Jamie, they gathered—unanimously—at his office door the next morning.

Of course, not everyone—but at least seven or eight hundred people were there, and others were said to be gathered outside the docks.

When Officer Ferren’s car slowly rolled in and he saw so many dressed in uniform, some with hostile stares fixed on him, he suddenly felt those few dozen dollars burning in his pocket.

Hiram met him at the door and led him inside. The office was not yet operating. If the blue-clad workers outside had been troublesome,

then the twenty-odd men inside—wearing tailored suits, trench coats, pure red pocket squares, and identical slicked-back hair—filled him with dread.

These men had killed.

The instant Ferren saw them, he recognized in their expressions and eyes that utter indifference to life.

He’d seen this look on many murderers. Whether a man has killed his own kind—some things cannot be hidden.

A disregard for life, even a faint sense of superiority over others, leaks out from within.

His palms were slick with sweat. He quickly looked away. In his perception, only the fool guiding him seemed decent.

Lans sat in the innermost office. Hiram knocked once, then pushed the door open. “Lans is waiting for you inside.”

Officer Ferren nodded, even muttered, “Thank you.” “Appreciate the escort.”

Hiram flicked his hair, sending his long bangs tumbling behind his ears—only for them to slowly slide back down. “No trouble.”

Ferren stared at the half-open door, removed his cap, and stepped inside.

“Sit down!” Lans gestured. He obediently took a seat.

He added, “I’ve informed the radio station—I’ll be patrolling the docks this morning. If anything happens, they’ll contact me immediately.”

“I’ve also arranged things at the precinct. I told my colleagues a relative of my wife might run into trouble and come in—they’ve promised him a safe room.”

Lans listened, then said sincerely, “Thank you.” Seeing Ferren’s urge to speak, he cut him off: “I’m not being polite, Ferren.”

“To me, every one of them is my brother. If anything happens to them, I will stand by them unconditionally—even if it costs me everything.”

“I hope we can be more than friends—we can be brothers. But we don’t know each other well. We need opportunities to understand each other better.”

“I’m grateful for everything you’ve done for me and my brothers. I hope one day, the same will happen between us.”

He paused, picked up his hat from the desk, and stood. “Come on. Don’t keep the brothers waiting!”

Officer Ferren jumped to his feet. “Yes, we should go.”

As Lans opened the door and stepped out, followed by Ferren, the men in the office—uniformed, seated or standing—rose as one. They fell into line behind Lans and walked out with him.

When the group stepped outside the office onto the street, the previously noisy thoroughfare fell silent. Ferren felt a slight prickling on his scalp—and an indescribable emotion surging inside him.

Excitement. And fear. His gaze at Lans no longer held condescension for his youth—he now saw reverence for power.

Lans glanced at Jamie, standing nearby, and waved him over. “You ride with me. Now, let’s go get your justice!”

The crowd began to disperse—but it gave the impression that strength was coalescing.

At 8:40 a.m., the peak of dock labor, Johnny walked toward Pier One with his close friends.

Their fathers had all been dockworkers too. They left no inheritance—only the identity of laborers.

But it was a decent legacy. At least it meant a job.

Johnny, strong and muscular since childhood, had always been a school bully—and still was.

One of his friends wore Jamie’s work uniform. They’d removed the name tag and walked toward the gate, chatting.

“At lunch, come with me to the ship cleaners. We’ll get a few more uniforms.”

“Yesterday... (a local worker) talked to me. He wants ten of these uniforms—he’ll pay eighty cents each.”

“I think this is a chance to make money.”

“There are at least two or three thousand workers here. That’s two or three thousand dollars.”

One of his companions worried. “If we do too much, won’t we attract trouble?”

Johnny shoved his shoulder, raising his voice. “Hey, this is Federal Jincheng. We Federals call the shots here. Worst case, we stage another protest.”

“As long as they want to survive here, they’ll have to swallow it!”

“A while back, we... didn’t we? Aren’t those people still working here?”

During the protests, they’d done nothing but harm. No one came after them. The men they beat simply vanished.

Doing evil cost them nothing. That’s why they grew bolder.

Just yesterday, they robbed Jamie, stripped his clothes—what happened?

The dock office didn’t come after them. The police didn’t come after them. Instead, some coworkers offered to buy uniforms from their pockets.

On this dock, where the strong devour the weak, fists are truth.

The group arrived at the docks, changed clothes, and prepared to work—when suddenly, a large crowd of blue-clad workers approached from afar. Leading them was Jamie.

Johnny wasn’t afraid at all. He laughed and joked with his friends, even walked toward Jamie himself.

He stared at Jamie’s brand-new uniform and the men beside him—his eyes gleamed with greed.

“So you brought all these people? Thinking of beating me?” He laughed loudly, unafraid. “Listen, you imperial scum—if I get so much as a scratch today, I guarantee you’ll all go to prison and get kicked out of the Federation!”

Federal law, in some ways, emboldened such evil. Right or wrong—it was always the illegal immigrant’s fault. That’s why he dared be so brazen.

Especially imperial subjects.

If they’d been Sumuli or others, he might not have dared—many of them were ruthless. But imperial subjects? They were docile as lambs of God—only bleated, nothing else.

Johnny’s loud laughter, and Jamie’s group’s inaction, made his companions laugh too.

They loved this feeling—thrilling, exhilarating!

After two laughs, seeing Jamie say nothing, Johnny’s laughter faded. “If you just wanted to look at me, you’ve seen me. Now get lost.”

“Oh, and come find me at lunch. Don’t make me come looking for you!” He continued threatening Jamie in front of the crowd.

The entire crowd fell eerily silent, so silent that he sensed something was off. Just as he was about to utter a few threats and leave, the crowd parted.

More than twenty men in long black trench coats stepped forward, dressed in tailored suits, dark vests, red ties, and hats.

The atmosphere pressed down with terrifying weight. Johnny swallowed hard and took two steps back.

He glared fiercely at Jamie. “Is this the help you brought?”

Lans walked forward, holding the Sailboat Team’s bat, stopping before Johnny. Johnny stared at him with a menacing expression—the same one he’d used to scare off many men.

“You wanna hit me?” He sneered, thrusting his head forward, tilting it to present one cheek to Lans. He pointed at his face. “Go on. Hit this.”

As he turned his head, he glanced at his coworkers beside and behind him, wearing a brazen grin. He didn’t believe Lans would dare strike!

But then, suddenly, he felt as if he’d been thrust into a fierce baseball game—he heard the crack of a swinging bat.

The wind was shoved aside by the force of the bat, humming—“whzzzz”—then ending in a dull, heavy “thud!”

Home run!

Cheers erupted all around him!

Then his world tilted. He crashed hard to the ground, his head still ringing.

The world had tilted ninety degrees, yet his body and mind seemed frozen in the moment before.

His companions tried to help him, but were quickly pinned down and pounded. Dazed, deafened, his mind blank, Johnny—like all those he’d bullied before—felt a sudden, crushing helplessness.

“Do something!”

“Do something fast!”

He told himself—but his body refused to move.

After a moment, searing pain jolted his body into reaction. He screamed in agony—his arm was broken.

He tried to rise, but Lans stomped on his head, pressing down hard, crushing his lifted skull back to the ground.

The rough dock surface, corroded by wind, rain, and saltwater, was pitted and uneven. He felt intense pain and discomfort.

The Sailboat Team’s bat tapped against his face. A glob of spit landed on his cheek. “You’re not as strong as you think, Johnny.”

More and more men in blue work uniforms gathered around. Voices in the crowd began chanting, “Kill him!” When those shouts coalesced into a single roar, Johnny—who had still been struggling—suddenly felt fear.

Lans lifted his foot, handed the bat to someone beside him, and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe the sweat from his palms. “If you want to retaliate against me—or anyone—come ahead. I’ll show you what happens when you make the wrong choice.”

“For now, this is just repayment for hurting my brother Jamie. Apologize to Jamie, and it ends here. Or let it escalate. The choice is yours.”

He tossed the handkerchief at Johnny—it landed squarely over his face. Others involved in the fight were also pinned down and beaten until their faces were bruised and swollen.

From the moment the two sides met to the outbreak of violence, only two minutes had passed.

Someone on the dock had already called the police. Outside the dock, two men were eating donuts and chatting.

The Sailboat Team would face a worthy opponent, the Duke Kate Team, this weekend. They were debating who had the better chance of winning when the radio crackled, then spoke.

“Report of a brawl at Dock One. Anyone available to respond?”

Officer Ferren immediately grabbed his radio. “This is Ferren. I’m near Dock One—I’ll go.”

“Understood. Ferren, you’re assigned. Maintain radio contact…”

Ferren handed his donut to his partner. “Let’s go.”

He blared the siren, slammed the gas, and the patrol car roared into the dock.