Chapter 33: Officer Bredden (To Boost Read Rate)

Early the next morning, Lans saw today’s Jincheng newspaper; Alberto had bought fifty copies to ensure everyone at the company could see it, and Lans received one too.

On the front page of the lifestyle section was a photo occupying one-fifth of the page: outside a restaurant, a manure cart had tipped over onto the roadside, feces splashed onto the sidewalk, and even the restaurant’s glass facade facing the sidewalk was covered in excrement!

The restaurant’s name was clearly visible, and the neon sign of the chef modeled after Mr. Anderson showed a frying pan swinging with motion blur.

The article’s headline read “Drunk Driving Endangers Public Safety,” and it spent its entire length discussing the dangers of drunk driving, casually mentioning at the end that a restaurant had been affected when manure flooded inside, forcing it to close.

It looked like just another article warning of public safety threats, but no one cared about its content—they were only interested in the unlucky restaurant.

Everyone knew Alberto had been furious with old Anderson for half a year, and now he’d finally gotten his revenge; everyone was genuinely pleased.

After all… if the boss was happy, the subordinates would benefit too—at least they wouldn’t be sent out to work under the scorching midday sun!

“The boss wants you,” Fodis knocked on the door. Lans, who had been playing pool with others, set down his cue and said to his opponent, “Don’t forget you owe me a dollar.”

Yes, they were betting—twenty-five points per game, and he’d lost four games.

His opponent handed him a dollar and muttered “shit,” still dissatisfied and demanding another round.

Lans ignored him and followed Fodis to the manager’s office; Fodis opened the door for him, then left.

“He just called me, calling me ‘Mr. Cotty’ in a humble tone, and swore he’d put five thousand dollars on my desk by Friday!”

“Lans, you did excellently—you helped me recover this money and gave me my revenge. So I’ll pay you as agreed.”

On the desk lay an envelope, visibly full. He picked it up, walked around the desk to Lans’s side, and placed it in his hand. “Count it.”

Lans merely pinched the thickness, then slipped it into his coat pocket—it was likely twenty-dollar bills, five hundred total, twenty-five notes; not new, so not too thin.

But not too thick either.

“Mr. Cotty, your golden character deserves my trust—I would never do anything to damage our mutual trust.”

Lans’s words were pleasing; Alberto listened with satisfaction. Everyone liked being flattered. He raised an eyebrow, walked to the bar, poured two drinks, and handed one to Lans.

He added curiously, “What if I’d given you less?”

Lans raised his glass and tapped it against Alberto’s. “That’s impossible, Mr. Cotty. I don’t believe you think you’re worth less than five hundred dollars.”

Alberto was slow to catch on, but quickly realized Lans was still flattering him. He laughed, raised his glass, and took a sip. “Talking to you is truly pleasant!”

“So, what are you planning to do next?”

Lans made small gestures to emphasize his tone. “Rent a house, then resolve my identity issue.”

“Illegal immigration is always an unstable factor. I must fix it before it becomes a problem.”

Alberto shook his head. “That won’t be simple. The Lianbang Immigration Bureau only has a few channels to issue permanent residency cards quickly.”

“Either you’re a world-famous scientist, or you control millions in wealth to invest in the Federation, or some high-up thinks your identity might be useful to them.”

“For example, if some distant relative of yours shares blood with your emperor.”

Top talent, investment migration, political asylum—these were the easiest ways to gain legal status in the Federation. Alberto’s expression and gestures made it clear to Lans: he met none of these criteria.

But Lans wasn’t discouraged. He’d once handled an even harder identity problem.

Looking at human societal development, justice is nothing but patchwork.

Many revere the law, treating every word as sacred, yet they don’t realize the law has always had loopholes.

Some have been found and exposed; others have been quietly exploited, unknown to all.

Seeing that Lans already had a high-probability plan, Alberto didn’t press further. Whether it would succeed? Time would tell.

“So… for now, I won’t assign you any work. And this money should let you live comfortably for a while.”

Renting a standalone house in a less prosperous area cost at most ten dollars a month. With five hundred dollars, Lans could live very well in this city!

They clinked glasses again. Alberto still extended his tentative invitation: “I hope we’ll have more chances to work together. Working with you is truly comfortable!”

Lans neither accepted nor refused. “If the chance comes, I will!”

After finishing his drink, Lans bid Alberto temporary farewell. He found Fodis and asked for a small favor: “Do you know any officers?”

“I can get him some easy, low-risk jobs—no danger, half an hour, not much pay, just pocket money.”

Fodis studied Lans carefully. “So we won’t be colleagues anymore?”

“There’ll be chances,” Lans didn’t shut the door.

Fodis looked disappointed. He liked Lans—sharp, measured, and most importantly, skilled and capable.

He pulled a notepad from the front desk, wrote a number, and handed it to him. “Officer Bredden. We’re good friends. Call this number.”

Lans tucked the number away, hugged Fodis, and left.

None of them were the sentimental type… so parting wasn’t sad, and it wasn’t final.

In the afternoon, Lans took Merro to look at houses. Merro seemed more mature, steady—he spotted problems Lans missed.

After viewing several places, they finally rented a standalone three-story house near the outer ring, with a private yard and three garages, at twenty dollars a month.

The price was slightly high, but the house was clean—no cleaning needed, ready to move in—and the landlady showed Lans her clean utility records.

She owed no fees, so no one would hassle them, and utilities wouldn’t be cut off randomly.

Seeing the large garage and spacious house, he rented it.

He then brought all his companions over. The house was spacious—over three hundred square meters—easily housing over twenty people.

Not everyone could have their own room, but it was far better than sleeping in a drain tunnel.

Someone even complained that lately, at night, someone kept touching his private parts—everyone was startled!

But thankfully, as the elders always said, everything would get better—and it already was.

Moving, buying new clothes, furnishing—it took three days. Lans also had the two girls among his companions bake pastries and deliver them to neighbors.

The most important thing when joining a new community is getting along with neighbors—otherwise, they’d call the police constantly, driving you to despair!

On Friday, Alberto called Lans to say he’d received the money; Mr. Anderson had completely bowed his head, no trace of his former temper.

Alberto didn’t humiliate him—he even offered a loan: ten thousand dollars, but repayment of at least twenty-two thousand five hundred over nine months.

Mr. Anderson refused—it meant taking all his profit. He’d be mad to agree!

And he never wanted to deal with Alberto or Lans again—he hated them both. Though he’d surrendered, the hatred hadn’t vanished, only hidden.

Meanwhile, in the morning, Lans found the officer Fodis had recommended: Bredden.

They met on the street, in a small restaurant—Bredden’s patrol zone, his chosen ground.

When the police car pulled up outside the restaurant, Lans knew the man had arrived.

Officer Bredden had the classic Lianbang traits… well, “Lianbang people” weren’t an ancient race, not even a race—they were a spiritual type.

He had the classic features: reddish-brown hair, thick reddish-brown beard, pale skin, clean-shaven chin, and oversized sunglasses.

He glanced toward the restaurant a few times, then entered with his partner.

He sat across from Lans; his partner stood in the aisle, blocking others’ view.

He casually ordered coffee and a burger, leaned back, and rested his hand on the booth’s headrest. “So… what do you want?”

Lans placed an envelope on the table and slid it over. “Mr. Fodis sent me.”

Officer Bredden raised an eyebrow, stared at the envelope for a few seconds, then picked it up. “I hate this. We both know I’ll count it.”

He pulled out the cash in front of Lans—hundred dollars. He whistled softly, grew warmer, but slipped the money back into the envelope and placed it on the table.

“First meeting, and you give this much…”

“Lans.”

“Lans, I’m not sure what to do. Why not tell me what problem you can’t solve? Maybe I can offer advice.”

A hundred dollars was a lot—Officer Bredden earned only forty-two dollars and fifty cents a month, plus minor allowances, under fifty total.

This job seemed decent?

But you must understand how dangerous policing is in the Federation: gang members, criminals, arrested thugs might shoot you—and even your own partners might shoot you from behind.

So a hundred dollars equals two months’ worth of risk—his life sold for that sum.

Of course, real income can’t be measured this way—it’s just the official pay—but even so, it’s no small amount.

“I have two things needing your help, Officer Bredden. I guarantee: first, these tasks aren’t illegal; second, you face zero danger or risk!”

“And I believe this… connection can lead to a long-term partnership.”

Officer Bredden didn’t answer immediately—he grew serious. “Go on.”

“I want to know if there are any poor families in Jincheng whose children went missing as kids, and who now have children around my age…”

No matter what the lords do, update, tap a few times, flip to the last page, and it’s done—please.