Chapter 919: Self-Paid 66619

Sirens wailed endlessly from police cars, and the once chaotic port area fell silent in an instant.

Police were everywhere, arresting rioters.

Actually, “arresting” wasn’t quite right—it was more like driving them off; police cars were dispersing the striking workers, preventing them from regrouping.

Reporters stared in stunned silence at the sudden outbreak of violence and the abrupt scattering of the protest, knowing clearly that “power” had intervened.

A mysterious force had destroyed everything here.

Watching the injured on the ground—some cuffed, others with broken legs or arms, or unconscious—reporters frantically snapped photos, ecstatic.

They could have done something—helped those lying critically wounded—but now they only cared about gathering usable material for their news.

“My leg’s broken!” a worker in his forties sat on the ground, pale and desperate, seeking help—but passing police didn’t even glance at him.

At first, his pain hadn’t been this intense, but as time passed, the agony in his leg grew worse.

Around him were others like him, or lying face-down; he tried calling out to the police, but they just stood there watching him.

A reporter hurried over—he thought he’d come to help—but quickly realized he’d been naive.

The reporter stood right in front of him, snapping photos nonstop, capturing his agonized expression!

He cursed, “Get the fuck away, you son of a bitch!”

It had no effect—the reporter kept shooting, and many others nearby suffered the same fate.

Those reporters were cold, bloodless machines, devoid of any human compassion!

“Fuck!”

“I’m dying! Someone, please, help me!”

A man in his forties began sobbing uncontrollably, tormented by excruciating pain and terror.

After what felt like an eternity, the sound of an ambulance arrived—he finally exhaled in relief.

Soon he was placed on a stretcher and loaded into the ambulance.

There were already two people inside; he was the third.

Clearly, the doctors prioritized those with the most severe injuries, loading them first.

This worker’s leg was bent at an unnatural angle, swollen and discolored purple-blue—so he was chosen.

After getting on the ambulance, perhaps during the stretcher transfer or from the jolting ride, his broken leg was jolted again—intensifying the pain.

He screamed in unbearable agony—he swore this hurt more than death itself!

“I have a special painkiller here—one injection costs only three yuan and fifty fen, refundable. Want one?” the doctor asked.

The worker nodded frantically, “I need it, I need it so bad—give me one right now!”

The doctor told the nurse to bring a form, “Before I give you the painkiller, I need to register you—it’ll be quick.”

“Your name?”

“Og…”

“Where do you live?”

“I live…”

“Your own house?”

For a fleeting moment, Og’s mind cleared—he froze—but at that instant, the ambulance hit a pothole and lurched violently.

Those who’ve never broken a bone can’t understand how, in a jolt, the broken part feels weightless—then slams down with crushing force!

That crushing sensation obliterated Og’s thoughts in an instant: “Yes, yes, my own house!”

“Just give me the damn painkiller!”

The doctor smiled, injected the prepped painkiller—within thirty seconds, Og exhaled deeply, his whole body relaxing.

He’d never realized how comfortable it could feel to simply… not hurt.

Everything causing his pain was suppressed; the unprecedented relief made him nearly fall asleep.

Seeing he stopped screaming, the doctor smiled and withdrew the needle.

These custom stainless-steel needles were expensive—they had to be reused; the syringes were glass too, sterilized and recycled.

The ambulance soon arrived at the hospital; Og received full medical care—he got an X-ray, several surgeons analyzed it, and eventually he signed away his consent, confusedly approving the surgery.

When he woke, it was past eight at night; he stirred from unconsciousness to find his wife and daughter, eyes swollen from crying, sitting beside his bed.

Seeing him awake, the mother and daughter lit up with relief; his daughter rushed out to call the doctor.

Og looked at his wife and daughter, flooded with endless guilt—he really shouldn’t have come.

What did this have to do with him?

The union?

The labor federation?

Every year he paid extra dues just to keep his membership recognized—he gained no real benefit from them, only lost more.

After enduring such torment, he felt he’d grown.

“Sorry,” he croaked, voice dry and sore.

His wife’s eyes filled with tears again; she cupped his hand in both of hers, “It’s over.”

Her gaze shifted to his leg, braced and casted, “How do you feel now?”

Og lifted his head slightly to look at his injured leg, “I feel great!”

He wasn’t lying—he felt no pain at all. Had painkillers become this powerful?

His wife smiled, about to speak, when his daughter entered with the doctor.

The doctor approached the bed, checked the surgical site for leakage or bleeding, listened to his heart and lungs, asked a few questions, confirmed he had no fever, then left.

Og lay still, staring at the ceiling, “It’s all like a dream.”

He still remembered how he’d waved his arms in the crowd, screaming with a furious face.

Then someone swung a club as thick as an arm, smashing his shin—he lost balance instantly and fell.

They beat him a few more times with sticks and steel pipes before leaving him.

Those people… were terrifying!

“Did they catch the ones who beat me?” he asked his wife, turning his head.

She nodded, “They caught them.”

Og’s expression shifted slightly, “Were they Lans’s men?”

His wife shook her head, “Some refugees. I don’t know the details, but there was a clash—many refugees were arrested.”

“Refugees?” Og’s face showed surprise, then turned to contempt, “They’re still Lans’s people—he’s too cunning!”

The surgery drained his strength; after eating a little at night, he fell into a drowsy sleep.

Just as his wife was about to go home to gather things, the doctor found her.

“Madam, you owe the hospital nine hundred yuan. Further treatment will cost another three to four hundred.”

“You need to figure out how to pay this.”

The woman stared at the doctor in panic—she’d never handled such a sum in her life, disbelief etched on her face, “This money… shouldn’t be paid by…”

She froze, unsure who should pay—she only instinctively felt it shouldn’t be them!

The doctor watched her, unable to say more, and waited for Og to wake to discuss it: “I’ll speak with your husband, but prepare yourselves—this is a large sum.”

Og’s wife returned home burdened with worry, packed some clothes, then came back to the ward to stay the night.

Their daughter went home—she had school tomorrow.

At midnight, Og jolted awake from searing pain—this wasn’t a private room with one bed.

This was a regular ward: one large room with nearly twenty beds.

The moment Og screamed from pain, others with light sleep woke up; their curses mixed with his cries.

Soon doctors and nurses arrived, checked his wound, confirmed the surgery remained successful, and said, “Pain is inevitable—after the painkiller wears off, everyone hurts.”

“You must learn to endure and overcome it. In two or three days, the pain will lessen.”

Og was drenched in sweat, “I can’t take it, doctor—give me another shot!”

The pain of a broken bone was unbearable—especially since both bones in his shin were shattered.

The doctor didn’t mind—he just had to state one thing: “Mr. Og, nearly all effective painkillers are addictive. I must warn you before administering.”

“Also, you must pay for any additional painkillers yourself.”

Og nodded frantically, “Fine, I accept!”

The doctor nodded; soon the nurse brought the painkiller, and he injected it into Og.

Seconds later, Og’s eyeballs trembled, then rolled back.

After over ten seconds, he came back to himself—so blissful!

The doctor confirmed he was fine and left; the ward fell quiet again, but some awakened patients couldn’t sleep.

Everyone was chatting.

His wife watched her husband anxiously, hesitated, then asked, “Darling, the doctor asked me today—who will pay for your treatment?”

“We already owe the hospital over nine hundred yuan…”

(End of chapter)