Chapter 3: If You Don

The fat police officer standing at the door, blocking the bakery entrance with his bulky body, turned around, his small eyes glinting with malice as he stared at the fat owner.

Sometimes, the police of Angel City were more vile and less human than gang members.

Between an unspecified but terrifying threat and two hundred dollars, the fat owner chose to sacrifice the two hundred to protect himself.

This bakery earned about four hundred dollars a month in profit, and after normal expenses, roughly three hundred and fifty remained.

The monthly bribe paid to the gang was fifty dollars; the amount paid to the police was about sixty-five, but now the gang’s fee had risen to sixty.

That left only two hundred and twenty-five dollars in monthly profit; if wages for his daughter and himself were counted, the net profit dropped to just one hundred.

This figure might still be unattainable for many in the working class, but for a shop owner, it was hardly much.

Still, it was money earned.

The fat owner took a deep breath. “No problem. I’ll get it right away.”

Not long after, he reluctantly pulled two hundred dollars from a hidden money box and placed it on the table, his face twisted in pain.

The officer glanced at it casually, picked it up, and shoved it into his coat pocket. “Johnny, don’t worry—I’m a man of rules.”

“You’re not losing anything. For the next six months, I won’t collect from you again. You weren’t extorted—you just paid early.”

This explanation seemed to ease the fat owner slightly, but Lans, watching silently from the corner, knew clearly: the sudden early collection wasn’t because the officer needed cash now.

More likely, he was being transferred.

So he planned to squeeze one last payout before leaving.

But he had no obligation to warn the fat owner—even if he did, the owner had no power to resist.

Someone had once tried reporting corrupt cops, but the case vanished without a trace.

The officer glanced at the fat owner, then at Lans, then tossed his handkerchief into the trash beside the table. “If you run into trouble, call the radio station for me.”

He adjusted his cap, patted the fat officer on the shoulder, and walked out through the door.

The “Closed for Business” sign flipped back to “Open for Business.”

Lans watched through the display window as they moved to the next shop—he clearly had a big appetite.

From the front of the street to the corner, there were at least thirty shops; if each paid him four hundred, that totaled twelve thousand dollars.

In an era where average wages were only forty to fifty dollars, twelve thousand was an astronomical sum for the lower class!

“These dog-shit bastards, sons of bitches…” Johnny muttered under his breath, whispering even his curses as if afraid to be overheard—Lans found it laughable.

He suddenly looked up at Lans, his eyes bloodshot. “You think I’m a joke?”

Lans stepped back in confusion, waving his hands. “No, not at all.”

But the fat owner had already decided it was true. “You can laugh at me—you saw me humiliated—but fine, dinner’s canceled!”

Without another word, he turned and stormed into the back room, where the sound of things being smashed followed.

Lans stared at the half-open door and listened to the curses from within; the apprentice stood smirking by the kitchen entrance, watching him—everything gave him a clear understanding of this era.

Power was the foundation.

He, the young men coming to collect protection money, the police officer in his thirty-something uniform symbolizing justice—all of them, stripped of their outward trappings, were no different.

What made him work a whole month for free and still owe the capitalist three dollars? What made those others earn a fortune without lifting a finger?

Power. The order created by power.

Those without power obeyed the order.

Lans was not a rule-follower—at least, he likely wasn’t.

That afternoon, as he pondered how to make the fat owner pay for his arrogance, a short man in a baseball cap ran up to the bakery’s entrance.

He stood with hands on hips, panting as he peered inside; Lans spotted him at once and stepped out.

On the ship, he’d met many peers—seventeen, eighteen, nineteen-year-olds were easy to bond with.

No need to know each other—just exchange a few words, ask if they wanted to “play” together, and a small group formed.

Most of these refugees from the same homeland stayed to work locally, many doing hard labor at the docks—

The very place where undocumented workers appeared most often; the heaviest, most exhausting, filthiest jobs always fell to them.

Locals looked down on such dirty, grueling work; capitalists refused to hire more expensive locals; undocumented workers were always the optimal choice.

Even now, “job rentals” had emerged—posted on the dock’s bulletin board—

Under federal law, ostensibly to protect the rights of the lower class, but in truth, merely to give capitalists better tools for exploitation: workers needed at least one of two documents to work.

A Federal Citizen Social Security Number, or an Immigrant Work Permit.

Whether native or legal immigrant, you needed one.

Undocumented workers had neither a social security number nor a work permit, yet they needed jobs—what could they do?

Some locals rented out their own jobs to undocumented workers—for instance, the most common: ship cleaners.

The port office didn’t care who the hell wiped the ships down; they only cared whether the job was done on time.

Ship cleaners earned thirty-five dollars a month; undocumented workers paid the official fifteen dollars and did all the work.

The remaining twenty dollars became their own income.

Twenty dollars was already considered high pay; many work cards had risen in price, some now costing eighteen.

That meant a person officially barred from working, impersonating someone else, labored all month for just seventeen dollars.

Living in concrete pipes, eating the worst, cheapest food, they saved only a few dollars a month.

Clever locals often held two or three jobs—or more—and rented out these positions to undocumented workers.

Earning fifty or sixty dollars a month without doing a single task had become a way of life for locals.

A lifestyle unique to a few cities.

The short man before him was Elvin, Lans’s hometown companion; on foreign soil, such ties bred an unspoken trust.

This trust came from shared pasts and living in the same area, creating a sense of safety—but many exploited it for vile ends.

Yet Elvin could be trusted—he’d arrived in the Federation with Lans from the Empire.

He looked desperate.

Lans stepped out, wiping his hands on his apron. “What’s wrong?”

Elvin was frantic. “Eisen’s in trouble!”

Lans’s expression shifted slightly. “What happened?”

Among this group, Lans, with his more mature perspective, was respected by others; they came to him for advice.

After all, as an adult with years of experience, even if unfamiliar with this world, he was still steadier and more suitable than these half-grown kids.

Elvin took a deep breath, forcing his breathing to steady. “Today’s payday. You know our work cards are rented—so…”

Lans already guessed the rest. “So the dock paid the person who rented you the card, and Eisen’s guy refused to give him his share, right?”

Elvin nodded frantically. “Exactly. That bastard told him he wouldn’t get a cent, and insulted him.”

“Then he lost his temper and punched the idiot—and that son of a bitch called the cops…”

Such things were common at the docks, common across Angel City—someone always watched, waiting to steal your wealth and everything you had!

This also stemmed directly from the Federation’s refusal to recognize undocumented workers legally; the cost of reporting far outweighed the loss of a month’s wages, so even when cheated, most chose to pretend nothing happened.

This emboldened these local maggots to grow even worse—they knew no one would report, because the cost of reporting was too high for undocumented workers to bear.

And with Jincheng’s current labor demand, there was no shortage of people willing to try for these work cards.

Lans frowned. This was messy. “Where’s Eisen now?”

“I told him to hide under the bridge’s culvert.”

“What did the guy say?”

“He said two hundred dollars, and he’ll drop it. If not, he’ll keep harassing Eisen.”

“If he does, Eisen might be sent back.”

Being sent back to the Empire now wasn’t just about being sent to the front—the Emperor’s gone mad; he’ll hang every deserter!

In other words, Eisen’s odds of returning to prison—or death—were extremely high.

The Federation’s arrogance in threatening and exploiting them had its root here.

But two hundred dollars was too much—these people had only been here a month; most saved only a few dollars after food and expenses.

They couldn’t possibly raise two hundred.

Elvin admitted it: “We seven or eight of us scraped together sixty-three dollars—we’re still over a hundred short.”

Lans sighed. “I didn’t earn a single cent this month—I owe the boss three.”

Elvin’s voice dripped with hatred. “These damn vampires!”