Chapter 952: There Will Always Be a Time to Fill, and Oge

A quiet night.

General Diaz did not call Lans, and Lans knew this man would grow greedier.

If General Diaz were not a greedy man, he would most likely have arranged for the items to be returned rather than kept them.

As long as he kept them, he was certainly no moral saint.

In this world, there are no moral saints at all; the more polished someone appears, the more vile their inner corruption, far worse than anyone imagines.

Some people’s evil is surface-deep—they might bully others, rob, or do other bad things.

Others’ evil runs deep in their bones, hidden where no one can see.

Their evil has evolved into “wickedness.”

Lans did not yet fully understand what kind of man General Diaz was, but he would find out.

He did not call Lans about the model, which meant this money could still move him.

When morning sunlight filtered through the curtain’s seams into the room, Lans slowly opened his eyes.

Six o’clock.

Summer days dawn early; reason told him he should rise from this cursed, seal-imbued bed, clean himself, go out for exercise, and return before breakfast.

But his body told him he could not.

He shifted position and dozed again—just for a moment—then, after another bout of idle thoughts, it was nearly seven.

It was too late to exercise now; he rose and went to the window, drew back the curtains, letting the sunlight flood in.

Bathed in the light, he stretched, another bright, beautiful day.

After a simple wash and grooming, he went to the dining room.

Out of safety concerns, Emily and Patricia remained at Lawrence Farm, while William had gone to Hucheng; no one was left here except Lans.

The cook who prepared breakfast was hired—rumored to have once served imperial nobility.

Despite appearing forty or fifty, she was an absolute master at her work!

Lans sat at the table and picked up today’s newspaper; they were arranged in order according to his habits and preferences.

The butler had done it.

Lans picked up the top paper, *Today’s Jingang*, and was immediately drawn to the front-page headline.

“The Working Class Is Not a Bargaining Chip”—a compelling headline.

He had a rough idea of what had happened, then unfolded the paper and read carefully.

Oge was dead.

The skilled tailor from the garment factory who had joined the Labor Union strike—he was dead.

His leg, deprived of follow-up treatment due to lack of money to afford hospital care, had developed a severe cascade of complications.

Pain constantly tormented him until he could no longer tell whether it was his leg or his soul that ached; he could only increase his painkiller dosage.

He had been reduced to a wreck by painkillers and pain, spending his days paralyzed in his wheelchair.

He could still move, but he had given up struggling.

In July—just a few days ago—the hospital came to him demanding payment for this month’s installment. He had no money.

After the bank staff left, his wife secretly followed them and paid the first installment.

She did not know that Oge, afterward, had gone to every length to somehow obtain the money for that first installment.

He sold his blood and borrowed from former coworkers.

Then he went to the hospital to pay them—but the staff told him the payment for last month had already been made.

Confused, Oge insisted on confirmation, tracked down the person who had contacted him, and learned his wife had paid last month’s installment.

Where had a woman like her gotten such money?

To the wealthy, a few dozen coins might be a trivial expense, but to ordinary people, it was wealth they might not save even by going hungry and frugal for a whole month.

And now, his wife had simply handed it over so easily?

Countless thoughts churned in his mind. He returned home, sat in the living room, and waited silently.

That evening, his wife entered with a basket of groceries, surprised to see Oge seated directly facing the door, but quickly smiled and lifted the basket. “I bought some beef mince, onions, and a tomato today.”

“We can make tomato beef soup—your favorite, right?”

Oge said nothing, only stared at his wife. Only then did he notice her complexion had improved, and… her gestures and bearing seemed more confident.

He did not know what had caused this, but he knew something had happened to his wife.

He sat there, staring at her. Unable to bear it, she turned to him. “What’s wrong?”

“Is there something wrong with me?” she asked, uneasy.

Oge tilted his head; fresh waves of pain surged through his body—as if they had sensed his anger and erupted suddenly.

In silence, he pulled out his small painkiller bottle, took out three pills, his trembling hand shoving them into his mouth, then chewing hard.

He braced his hands on the wheelchair armrests, leaning slightly forward, head bowed, his body shaking from pain.

“The doctor said if you keep abusing painkillers, you’ll only become more dependent on them!”

His wife’s words made him lift his head; through his disheveled hair, one eye glimmered—filled with confusion, pain, and rage.

“They said you paid last month’s installment.”

His wife fell silent for a moment. “Yes. I paid.”

“Where did the money come from?” He fixed his gaze on her face and eyes, watching for lies.

She had indeed thought many times about being discovered and how to respond.

But now, at this moment, she had no idea what to say or how to say it.

All her rehearsed answers felt meaningless.

“I earned it from work,” she said.

Oge did not believe her.

“You’re a housewife who can’t do anything—how could you earn dozens of coins a month?”

“And our meals have been better this month—how could you earn so much?”

His eyes were tinged with red—bloodshot.

“I do housework for wealthy families,” she blurted, resorting to her prepared lie.

She was a housewife; her greatest skill was housework. So it made sense that a wealthy person needed a maid like her.

But Oge still did not believe her. They stared at each other, separated by his hair.

Perhaps seeing her unwavering, unflinching gaze, he grew uncertain.

“You’re not lying?”

His wife raised her voice. She sensed her husband was weakening, and instinctively, her tone grew louder. “You don’t believe me?”

Oge shook his head. “Don’t you dare lie to me!”

He pushed his wheelchair back to his room. His wife continued tending to the stove.

Dinner was the best meal they’d had in a long time: tomato, onion, beef stew. The onions and tomatoes had dissolved completely into the broth; his wife added a bit of wheat flour to thicken it.

Each spoonful carried generous chunks of beef—whether drunk, eaten directly, or dipped with bread, it was perfect.

The family sat together as always, sharing dinner. The daughter was astonished by the feast. “Do we have money again?”

She looked at her father with hopeful eyes. “Did you find a job?”

Oge’s lips twitched. He lowered his head, scooped a spoonful of soup, and put it in his mouth.

The girl looked confusedly at her mother, who only shook her head slightly.

Though the food was excellent, the dinner was silent.

For the entire night, neither spoke; each lost in their own thoughts.

The next morning, Oge sensed his wife had left. He rose quickly.

He knew finding his wife would be nearly impossible, so he turned to a reporter for help.

It was all a staged script—the reporter would never miss such a vital news story. He drove, taking Oge to follow his wife.

Soon, they saw his wife change clothes in a small inn, then reappear on the street.

At that moment, Oge’s world shattered.

He saw a man shorter than his wife, arm around her waist, leading her into a nearby inn.

At that instant, he wanted to rush forward—but just as he prepared to, the reporter in the driver’s seat asked, “Do you want to stop her?”

Oge looked at the reporter, wounded. He now realized—it had all been a “trap.” He had stepped in, sinking deeper.

His gaze at the reporter carried the fury of betrayal, but the reporter was unafraid, watching him through the rearview mirror.

“Have you thought about what happens to this month’s hospital payment if you stop her?”

“Even if you had money now, how would you pay next month’s?”

“Do you want your whole family thrown onto the streets?”

“Think of your daughter—her life has only just begun!”

The reporter’s face twisted with mockery as he stared into Oge’s eyes through the mirror. “What about your painkillers?”

“You didn’t forget, did you?”

“The painkillers you’re taking now? Your wife bought them with her money.”

“If you stop her, everything you still have will end right here.”

The reporter’s words pierced Oge’s heart. His hand gripped the back of the front seat; the other clutched his chest, gasping as his face turned pale.

The reporter felt no pity for the man. “If you truly want to stop her, quit the painkillers.”

The reporter thought: if this man could overcome his addiction through sheer willpower, it would make a powerful news story—rising from despair through personal strength.

People will like this story; it may be overly idealistic, but... at least it gives people a sense of inspiration.

Soon he drove away from there and returned to the home that no longer belonged to him.

Whether it was because the previous stimulation had been too intense, he began feeling pain again in his body; he had just pulled out the painkiller bottle when he remembered what the reporter had said.

He gritted his teeth, originally planning to throw the bottle away, but for some reason, he suddenly abandoned the idea.

After all, he had paid for it—he put the painkiller bottle into his pants pocket.

He glanced sidelong at the reporter, as if telling him he could endure it.

The reporter merely smiled in response; he had checked the data—some people who abused painkillers did manage to quit, but not many.

At this point, Ogr was no longer concerned with any of that—he began fighting against the relentless pain in his body.

Even breathing caused him to feel the pain of his lung lobes rubbing against other parts of his body—so clear!

He began to sweat; he merely clenched his fist, and the instant stabbing pain in his palm joints made him shudder and immediately open his hand, afraid to apply any more pressure!

He could clearly feel the pain of bones grinding against bones—too painful!

His body trembled slightly, yet even when he did nothing, he still hurt.

His femoral head ached, his spine ached, there was almost no part of his body that didn’t hurt—too painful!

He instinctively reached for the small pills, but then he caught the reporter’s half-smiling expression—he gritted his teeth and endured the excruciating pain.

He didn’t know how long it had been; he thought the pain was temporary, but now he realized he was wrong.

The pain was constant—he didn’t know when it would end, maybe in the next second, or maybe never.

Even breathing began to feel like burning—he could no longer bear it!

He forced himself through the agony, pulled out the small bottle, shook out four pills, and shoved them into his mouth.

Five minutes later, he felt as if he had returned from hell to the world of the living—just not being in pain was this comforting!

If he knew some former bread shop owner who had lost all human form, they would surely share a common language.

After enjoying the relief for a while, he sank into deep self-reproach and regret—why, why hadn’t he held out?

Maybe everything would be fine in the next second, but why hadn’t he held out?

He slapped himself, then sat there dazed.

Before he could solve the painkiller problem, he seemed truly unable to stop his wife from prostitution—without this income, he couldn’t even afford the painkillers.

Still, he believed everything would get better; once his leg injury healed, he would find a job, so his wife wouldn’t have to stand on the street.

That evening, Ogr’s wife brought back some decent food; Ogr nearly spoke up several times, but ultimately held his tongue.

The family finished dinner in a gloomy silence; Ogr went to bed early, feeling like a fool and hating himself—he couldn’t face his wife.

Whether from anger or guilt, it didn’t matter!

For several days straight, Ogr had gradually accepted the outcome—his wife had become a prostitute.

He had heard from the reporter that his wife earned at least ten dollars a day, which shocked him, yet somehow made him reluctantly accept her doing this work.

After all, the clients paid real money.

If nothing unexpected happened, perhaps by next month or the month after, he could fully accept it—but an accident still occurred.

In the afternoon, his wife ran home from outside and locked herself in the room, saying nothing.

Soon after, his good friend arrived with two others; they saw Ogr and shouted loudly, “Do you know?”

“Your wife is prostituting!”

The old apartment had poor soundproofing; soon the neighbors knew. They leaned out, listening in the hallway.

At that moment, his ears buzzed—he could only see his friend speaking, but heard not a single word.

Soon the men left, but outside the door were dozens of eyes peering in, their gazes heavy with meaning.

He even saw several middle-aged and elderly neighbors wearing smug, triumphant smiles!

A man’s last remaining dignity was crushed to the ground and ground into the dirt.

That night, after his daughter returned home, she learned of the matter; when confronted, he lost his temper, and she ran out—the girl couldn’t accept it!

Her mother had become a prostitute; tomorrow the whole school would know. She could even imagine the cruel boys going to her mother for sex, then using it to humiliate her!

She couldn’t bear it—she would run away from home!

Ogr and his wife had a fierce argument; soon his wife left too, leaving him alone, sitting dazed in the living room wheelchair.

The empty house mirrored his empty heart—he covered his eyes with his hand and wept uncontrollably…

Everything was just one step away from its final transcendence!

The reporter dialed the editor-in-chief’s number, then temporarily left Ogr’s room and went downstairs to the street.

He smoked a cigarette, watching several unusual men enter the apartment building; about seven or eight minutes later, accompanied by a heavy, muffled thud of something falling, Ogr appeared before him in another way.

All of this was faithfully reported in the newspapers—though they made no mention of anyone helping Ogr complete his final journey.

After reading the entire article, Lans sighed—he was just another unlucky soul.

Who else to anger but him?

Lans could predict that this report would shake the entire Lianbangzheng’s working class!

They saw certain people as belonging to the same class—as worker brothers.

But those people only saw them as pawns in their power struggles!

(End of Chapter)