Chapter 36: Substitution

Mr. White is one of those typical middle-aged federal men with a somewhat gloomy demeanor.

His skin is very pale, making his under-eye bags and dark circles highly noticeable; his golden-brown hair is unkempt and hangs loosely over his head, and he wears a short-sleeved white shirt, washed until slightly yellowed.

He wears light blue pants, with visible mending at every seam and corner.

His wife, Mrs. White, appears ill and is very… perhaps timid, perhaps anxious; she dares not look up at Lans or the two officers beside him, keeping her head lowered the entire time.

Even when Officer Bradden asks them questions, it is always Mr. White who answers.

“This man says he has vague memories of going missing around age five, being taken onto a wagon and covered with hay.”

“He was sold to an ordinary family and worked for them for free.”

“Recently his adoptive father died, so he hopes to find his biological parents. I was moved by his desire to return home, so I reviewed the missing persons cases from Jincheng during that period.”

“Among them was your report. I compared your… appearances, and they look somewhat similar.”

Mr. White’s half-closed eyes scanned Lans up and down, then nodded. “Yes, he does resemble me in my youth, but that doesn’t confirm he’s Steven.”

“And… as a father, though I hate to admit it, I believe my child is likely dead.”

When speaking of his child’s death, Mr. White showed no great sorrow—perhaps sorrow had long since been worn thin by countless previous sorrows.

He stated his belief in the truth calmly, but Officer Bradden had no interest in hearing it.

“Mr. White, I know suddenly gaining a family member might be overwhelming, but I must tell you this child inherited a sum of money from his adoptive father…”

At this, Mrs. White suddenly looked up at Lans—her features were ordinary, but her face was pale.

For three or four seconds, she lowered her head again.

Mr. White’s expression shifted slightly. “Excuse me, may I ask… how much money did you inherit from your adoptive father?”

“Two hundred.”

Two hundred isn’t much, really—on paper, an average person earns thirty-five to forty per month, so two hundred equals half a year’s income.

But when you factor in taxes and all daily expenses, saving ten per month might be proof of their hard-won survival.

Two hundred—twenty months—two years’ savings.

To the wealthy, this sum means nothing; to a poor family, it could change everything.

“I’d like to speak with Mr. White alone,” Lans volunteered. Mr. White considered it, then agreed.

They walked to the side of the house—a single-family home with a “C”-shaped yard: front, side, and back.

The back yard held low shrubs, thick and lush, with small rose-red flowers; Lans didn’t recognize them.

But the yard was clean, with no fallen leaves—clearly well-maintained.

The side yard had a swing set, old and worn; even without sitting on it, one could imagine the rusty metal parts creaking as someone swung.

But since this was the suburbs, even a detached house with a garden held little value.

“You can tell I’m an imperial citizen,” Lans stated bluntly—this was a transaction, and it should be treated as nothing more.

Mr. White nodded. “Yes. So I know you’re not Steven. He’s not imperial.”

Lans pulled out a pack of cigarettes—filtered, boxed. Not all cigarettes in the federation had filters.

Tobacco companies denied cigarettes were the primary cause of lung disease, and found “witnesses” from all walks of life—people with severe lung disease who never smoked.

This allowed them to overturn medical institutions’ claim that “smoking is the primary cause of lung disease.” To ease public anxiety, they began adding filters.

At this time, filters were crude—barely useful, just compressed cotton—and hard to draw through.

But undeniably, when people pulled out the cotton after smoking and looked at it, they felt it was damn effective.

Filtered cigarettes cost significantly more than unfiltered ones.

“Want one?” Lans offered one. Mr. White stared at it for a few seconds, then took it.

Lans lit it with a lighter, noticing Mr. White’s hand trembled slightly as he held the cigarette.

“No different from rolling our own,” he remarked. “Taste is weak.”

Lans smiled, saying nothing. “We were saying I’m imperial, and your son Steven is federal.”

Mr. White nodded. “Yes.”

“I have no legal status. I can’t register a company or do anything that requires legal identity.”

“Mr. White, I deeply regret and mourn what happened to Steven, but life moves forward—we must too.”

Mr. White raised his hand. “Just say what you want. My mind isn’t sharp—I sometimes can’t grasp how you…,” he gestured vaguely, “…rich people communicate.”

Lans didn’t take offense. “I want to use Steven’s identity to register a legal federal identity.”

Mr. White took a deep drag, growing accustomed to it. After a moment, he said, “Two hundred.”

Lans, fearing he might hesitate, added, “No more than two years. Then I’ll sever Steven’s identity—it was a police mistake. Steven’s records remain his, and I get what I need.”

He confirmed he was federal. As for who he truly was—if Lans didn’t care, neither would the police.

Mr. White took another deep breath, his trembling hand steadying slightly. “Four hundred.”

Lans shook his head. “Officer Bradden found over seventy families matching Steven’s age. Someone will take two hundred, won’t they?”

Mr. White tried to push further. “My wife is ill. My daughter needs money.”

“Twenty more.”

Mr. White took his last drag, crushed the cigarette underfoot, and shook Lans’s hand firmly. “Deal!”

His hands were rough—clearly from years of farm labor.

“Let’s go tell Officer Bradden. Then we’ll need to go to the police station for some paperwork. Any issues?”

Mr. White’s expression had lightened considerably. “For two hundred and twenty, I’ve got no problems!”

They returned to the front yard. From Lans’s face, Bradden could tell the deal was done—he beamed. After a quick glance, he began his duties.

“Mr. White, you need to come to the precinct for registration, confirm your original report, sign two forms, and it’s over.”

“I have no issues.”

“Neither do I.”

On the way, Officer Bradden floored the accelerator, reaching the police station in record time. He had already prepared the original report filed by the Whites and filled out the case withdrawal form.

In truth, no one cared about this—according to Bradden, who the hell cared whether some lower-class person’s old report was withdrawn or closed?

But Lans cared. And Lans told him client experience mattered—he remembered.

With the two hundred and twenty dollars, Mr. White left. Officer Bradden told Lans he’d receive his identity documents and social security number within a month at most.

But after Lans gave him another fifty, the time dropped to within a week!

“Lans, if you refer someone to me, I charge them half the fee. That’s my thanks to you!”

Thanks a fucking lot.

Of course, Lans didn’t say it. He shook Bradden’s hand. “You’ve solved a major problem for the President!”

Bradden blinked, then burst out laughing. “Hope he doesn’t send me to prison for it!”

“Alright, I’ve other duties. If you run into trouble in my patrol zone, call the radio—I’ll be there immediately!”

Outside the precinct, Lans took a deep breath. The few clouds in the sky drifted slowly, like the people’s moods at this moment.

Lazy, calm, undisturbed.