Chapter 17: Everyone Just Wants to Live

A apartment building, located in the city’s central district.

The two most bustling areas in Jincheng City are simply these: first, the commercial street in the downtown core, where Jincheng’s most thrilling money-sinking dens gather.

From the most upscale hotels, restaurants, bars, nightclubs, to the most famous adult industries, strip clubs, and casinos—all are concentrated here.

“An inch of land, an inch of gold”—that’s what downtown Jincheng is like.

The other area is the port and its surrounding districts, which lean more toward the “working class.”

If you rent a private room at a downtown strip club and hire a dancer for thirty minutes, it’ll cost you at least fifty credits.

But in the cheap, lively bars near the port, you can get all that for just ten credits—and if you add five more, you can enjoy an excellent service—

It’s not illegal, because according to federal law, illegal erotic transactions require actual physical acts; this doesn’t count.

Sailors casually squander their hard-earned money; girls busily earn theirs through labor—nothing shameful about it.

Beyond these two areas, nowhere else is considered lively.

Where there’s no bustle, rent stays low.

Looking at this mid-range apartment, Lans hadn’t even stepped out of the car before he began assigning tasks.

“Elvin, you and… (Partner A), stay downstairs and watch for anyone coming out. If you spot that idiot running off, stop him—the trunk has a crowbar.”

“Ethan, you and… (Partner B) come up with me. Your main job is to guard the entrance. If anyone gathers to watch, scatter them.”

“Remember, act brutal.”

Lans emphasized, “If this job goes smoothly, I’ll mention it to Mr. Cotty—we might get a cut. This work isn’t illegal, and it pays faster than a regular job.”

He clapped Elvin on the shoulder. “Hold the door tight—your job isn’t easy.”

Elvin laughed bitterly. “No need to comfort me—I know what I’m supposed to do.”

Lans grinned and punched him lightly, then opened the car door and grabbed the baseball bat from the trunk.

The three walked toward the apartment. At the entrance stood a reception desk, where a security guard, around forty, froze upon seeing them enter.

He hesitated, as if weighing whether to fulfill his duty—but Lans helped him decide—

He raised the bat toward the guard, who immediately raised his hands and sat down. “I know nothing, sir.”

Lans told Ethan to press the elevator button. “We’re here for someone. We won’t damage anything. If anything breaks, leave a bill—I’ll pay.”

“But don’t do anything else I didn’t order.”

“Thirty credits a month? Don’t sell your soul for the capitalists.”

The guard’s face darkened with serious thought. “You’re right, sir.”

Lans lowered the bat, and the three stepped into the elevator, pressing the button for the fourth floor.

The old elevator always made Lans feel unsafe. Ethan’s hands trembled—whether from excitement or fear, he couldn’t tell.

Partner A, however, seemed more excited. “Will I have to hit someone?”

“Should I punch him in the jaw or kick his balls?”

“What if I crack his skull? Will that cause trouble?”

Lans rolled his eyes. “You just watch me. Don’t move until I give the order.”

On the fourth floor, they stood outside an apartment door. Lans banged hard. “Anyone in there?”

He knocked for a long time. No answer. But he heard footsteps inside—the man clearly wasn’t opening up.

He changed tactics immediately, pounding harder. “You haven’t paid your sanitation fee this month! Open up or I’ll lock you in and starve you, you son of a bitch!”

To Ethan and Partner A’s shock, footsteps stirred inside. “Fuck! I just paid that fee!”

The door yanked open violently—but what greeted Mr. White wasn’t the guard or the manager’s annoying face.

Mr. White instantly realized his mistake and shoved hard to slam the door shut—but Lans was faster.

He slammed forward. As the door burst open, Mr. White grabbed the nearest thing—a fish tank, already covered in green mold—and hurled it at Lans.

Then came the vase, books, and other objects.

Anything he could grab, he threw. Lans dodged and weaved until he closed in.

As Mr. White tried to bolt into the inner room, the bat cracked across his back.

A dull thud. Lans rolled his shoulders, then walked toward Mr. White, writhing on the floor, screaming.

His screams had drawn attention from nearby tenants. Lans glanced back at Ethan and Partner A. “Send them back to their rooms. If anything else happens, call me. I need to talk to Mr. White.”

He shut the door. The screams inside instantly dulled.

Those nosy neighbors, who’d been peering out to watch, now saw Ethan’s grim smile—and within a second, every door slammed shut.

Who the hell cares if your neighbor’s in trouble, living here?

As long as the trouble doesn’t touch you.

Inside, Mr. White still howled on the floor. Lans pulled out a cigarette, lit one, and took a drag.

He looked down at himself—drenched in the stench of that rotting fish tank water, sharp and foul.

A bloody gash ran along his arm—from the fish tank. His eyes darkened as he stepped toward Mr. White.

Mr. White, now recovered from shock and pain, scrambled backward four or five meters. “I don’t know you!”

Lans pulled out the contract and showed it to him. “Three thousand five hundred credits. Remember?”

Undoubtedly, Mr. White remembered. His eyes darted away. “I signed under duress—I can’t pay this back.”

Lans studied the contract. “But when you took the first thousand, you didn’t look so troubled.”

“Mr. White, honestly—I have no direct tie to the finance company. They pay me; I collect the debt. If you have a problem with this contract, sue them.”

“But you can’t let your dispute with them cost me my job—and starve me and my brothers.”

“Here’s your chance: don’t make this hard for me, and I won’t make it hard for you. I just need to take back three thousand five hundred credits to settle the account—not drag you and your money out of here.”

“Before I came, Mr. Cotty told me: the money’s optional—but you must be brought to him.”

“You know how these big men are—sometimes they’d rather lose the money than let their anger go unavenged.”

“Once you’re there, whether you live or die, whether you’re crippled—I can’t predict.”

“If you think three thousand five hundred credits matter more than your life and health, nod now. I’ll walk away and never ask for a cent.”

“Tell me your choice, Mr. White.”

Mr. White’s face twisted with terror. This debt had been unpaid for two years—interest had stopped accruing a year ago.

Albert knew people like this: even if you told them the interest was ten times the principal, they’d shrug. They never intended to pay from the start.

All these high-interest borrowers were the same. When desperate for cash, they’d sign their names even for a hundredfold interest—without blinking.

Whether they could repay? Who the hell cared?

If they truly cared, would they even take out a loan like this?

Some people just hold onto false hope—thinking these people won’t harm them over a few credits.

Mr. White stayed silent. Lans, cigarette dangling, gripped the bat’s handle and raised it high.

His face twisted in panic, voice cracking. “I don’t have the money!”

“You’re lying!”—the bat cracked hard against Mr. White’s thigh bone. The bone was tough, but it had cracked—sound dull, fragmented, not solid.

He rolled on the floor, clutching his leg, unbearable pain forcing snot from his nose.

Lans glanced at Mr. White, then at the kitchen, walked over, and picked up a dinner knife.

Mr. White’s terror deepened.

Lans wiped the blade. “I’m an imperial citizen. An illegal immigrant. Who knows when immigration will drag me back?”

“To survive here, Mr. White, I’m willing to risk murder. But are you ready to die?”

As Lans entered the bedroom and pulled out a bedsheet, spreading it on the floor, Mr. White trembled violently—even the pain in his leg seemed to fade.

His face twisted in agony, struggling—then he screamed as if crying out: “In the flowerpot on the balcony!”

“Fuck! Shit!”

“Take the money and get the hell out of my apartment—I’ll sue you!”

Lans grinned. “That’s your problem, Mr. White.”

He walked to the balcony, smashed the flowerpots onto the floor, and found two bundles of chips wrapped in brown paper—five thousand credits total.