Empire of Shadows

Chapter 101 - Different Perspectives, Different Attitudes

Mr. White looked at Lance, unsure how to address him. Lance took the lead, easing the tension. "Just call me Lance."

Stepping into the yard, Lance pulled out a pack of cigarettes. "Care for one?"

Seeing the elegant packaging, Mr. White hesitated briefly before nodding. "Of course..." He eyed Lance cautiously, "Lance?"

Lance didn’t hold any particular fondness or dislike for Mr. White. If his feelings could be quantified, Mr. White would get a passing grade.

This was because Mr. White had accepted Lance’s scheme to assume a legal Federation identity—a move not everyone could stomach, especially one involving taking the place of a deceased child.

For those deeply sentimental, this was an unthinkable decision, even for families in financial difficulty.

Such actions would symbolically mean accepting the death of their child, even without seeing a body—an agonizing concession.

For Mr. White to agree made him practical, if nothing else, which earned Lance's reluctant respect.

"Yes, that’s me," Lance said, walking over. He took out two cigarettes for himself, then handed the rest to Mr. White. "Officer Brayden said you were looking for me."

Mr. White took the cigarettes and slipped the pack into his pocket. "I didn’t have your contact information, so I had to go through Brayden."

Lance slapped his forehead. "I forgot about that. Do you have a pen and paper?"

"Yes."

Lance jotted down a number. Since he was moving to a new house, the old number was no longer valid. He also left the contact information for both of his companies.

"If you can’t reach me directly, just leave a message with them. I’ll get back to you."

Lance then gestured for Mr. White to explain. "So… why were you looking for me?"

After a pause, Mr. White finally said, "I’m a bit embarrassed, but I need to borrow some money, Lance."

"Borrow money?"

Mr. White glanced at the darkened windows of his house. "My wife is sick. I need to pay for her treatment."

Lance didn’t ask if the $200 he’d previously given was gone. Instead, he inquired about Mrs. White’s condition. "What happened to her?"

Mr. White’s tone was unnervingly calm. "She fell while going into the basement. Multiple fractures. She’s barely hanging on."

"The money you gave me before is almost used up. The doctors say if I can’t pay the balance, they might stop treatment."

Lance frowned. "Don’t you have insurance?"

Mr. White shook his head slightly. "She doesn’t."

That complicated things. "She’s in the hospital now?"

"Yes."

"How much do you need?" Lance asked, moving toward the backyard. Though the sun wasn’t as harsh as in recent months, the front yard still felt stifling. RαΝŏʙÈs

The backyard offered a refreshing shade under a grove of small trees and shrubs, though it was notably unkempt—fallen leaves littered the ground, some already decaying.

"Wait!" Mr. White suddenly called out as Lance walked further in.

Lance stopped and turned, his expression puzzled.

Mr. White hesitated. "I mean, we can sit and talk inside instead."

Lance glanced at the darkened house, his brows furrowing slightly. He stayed where he was, under the shade of a tree. "No, I have errands later. Just tell me how much you need."

"About $300," Mr. White said, apologetically. "I’m sorry. I’ll pay you back."

Lance exhaled a long drag from his cigarette. "Listen, Mr. White. I’ll send someone to the hospital to check on Mrs. White. This money is for her treatment. If you’re lying to me, you’ll regret it. I despise being deceived or extorted. Do you understand?"

Mr. White’s face paled, and he nodded quickly. "Of course. I promise."

After scrutinizing him for a moment, Lance wrote a check for $350 and handed it over. "Use the extra for some good food—fruits, beef. Tell her I’ll visit when things settle down on my end."

Ignoring Mr. White’s repeated thanks, Lance returned to his car.

From inside, he glanced back at the house. Something felt off.

A shadow flitted across an upstairs window, but when Lance looked again, it was gone. Rubbing his eyes, he dismissed it as a trick of the harsh sunlight.

Still, he instructed Morris to verify Mr. White’s story. If it turned out to be a ploy, Lance figured the rising waters of Angel Lake would soon become an even bigger mystery.

After a quick lunch at his company, Lance gathered his team and posted a notice at the office entrance.

The announcement stated that all workers registered with Wanli Labor Services, particularly undocumented immigrants, would be required to wear standardized uniforms starting mid-November.

The first set of uniforms would be free, but replacements for lost or damaged clothing would cost $1 per set.

While not prohibitively expensive, $1 was significantly more than the 20–30 cents charged for second-hand clothes sold near the docks. In fact, $1 could buy three items there.

Despite this, many were pleased with the free uniform, especially the newcomers.

After lunch, Lance took a brief nap. By 2:00 PM, he was at Mr. Jobav’s office.

The banker looked worse than ever. Though outwardly unchanged, a weariness had settled over him, an air of defeat that hadn’t been there before.

"Please, have a seat," Jobav said, gesturing toward the sofa. He turned to his assistant. "Bring us some drinks."

As the assistant poured the drinks, Lance noted the heavy sigh that escaped Jobav’s lips.

"You look unwell. Has something happened?" Lance asked after they exchanged pleasantries.

"Something? Everything is wrong," Jobav replied bitterly. He took a sip of his drink. "I’m facing a serious problem. It’s not just the money I stand to lose—though that’s no small matter—but the attitude of the Federation people."

"I don’t know who to trust anymore or who can help me. After much thought, I realized you might be the one."

Lance kept his expression neutral, though inwardly amused. "If someone as prominent as you can’t fix this, what could I possibly do?"

Jobav downed his drink and motioned for another, though his assistant hesitated.

"This is your fourth today, sir," the assistant noted.

"Just pour it," Jobav snapped, his tone unusually sharp.

The assistant complied, pouring only a small amount.

Lance leaned back, one leg crossed over the other, deep in thought. Though nobody rushed him, the tension in the room grew palpable.

As the minutes ticked by, Jobav’s expression shifted toward disappointment. Clearly, he hadn’t expected a solution from someone so young.

Just as Jobav was about to politely end the conversation, Lance broke the silence.

"From where I stand, this problem has a simple solution."

Jobav perked up instantly. "Could you explain?"

Smiling, Lance leaned forward slightly. "If the stock never existed in the first place, why not let it stay that way?"

Confusion flickered across Jobav’s face.

"Transfer ownership to them," Lance elaborated, lowering his voice. "Then… light a fire. Alcohol is flammable, after all. You’ll just need a few empty bottles."

Jobav’s expression shifted from confusion to horror in seconds.

Even the assistant froze, staring at Lance as if he’d lost his mind.

"You… you must be insane," the assistant seemed to think, though he didn’t dare say it aloud.

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