The Mafia Empire

"Before we talk, I need to inform you of one thing. My consultation fee is sixty dollars an hour, and if any analysis or documtation is involved…" He made a small circle with his finger and added with a shy smile, "…the fee doubles to one hundred and twty dollars an hour."

"And please, call me Kevin."

Julian smirked. "What are the requiremts to become a lawyer? I think you make way more than I do." Kevin knew it was a joke, so he didn't respond. Instead, he pressed a button on a clock on the desk, and the second hand started ticking away. Julian chuckled and shook his head. "Alright, alright, I get it.

Time's ticking. Sixty bucks a minute—damn, you're scarier than a capitalist!"

"I need to ask something. If someone kills another person and voluntarily turns themselves in, how can they be exonerated? How can they be released without charges, or at least pay a fine to be let go?"

Kevin blinked, momtarily stunned. Not quite believing what he had just heard, he asked with an apologetic tone, "Sorry, I didn't quite understand. Are you asking how to legally kill someone?"

Julian nodded. Kevin pressed the clock again, and the ticking stopped. His expression grew more serious, and the gold badge of his profession gleamed on his chest, lding his face a sse of justice and righteousness.

"One thousand dollars. I'll handle the case, but you or anyone involved must follow my instructions to the letter. Understood?"

Julian stood up, one hand resting at his waist, the other extded. "Th, I'll leave it to you."

Kevin also stood up, and whether by coincidce or not, the last rays of sunlight outside fell on his face, illuminating both him and the scales of justice behind him, symbolizing law and fairness.

"That's what I'm here for!"

...

Morris had never regarded the Guar people with any respect. To him, they were a race of failures, scattered and dispersed throughout the empire by its forces. No single city could muster 5,000 Guar people. Facing such a scattered and powerless group, Morris saw no need to give them much thought.

Ev though he knew that Julian's proposed method for capturing Hu was the right solution, he hadn't ev considered using it.

He had only one thing on his mind—waiting for three days. Once that time was up, he would lead his m to reclaim the farm and th quickly sell it off. By th, he could pocket at least 50 coins, which was all he cared about.

His wallet.

As a conscitious gang member, Morris's daily life is still very regular.

Every morning a nine o'clock, he would leave home promptly, which meant he likely got up before eight thirty. During those three days, he neither left earlier nor later than usual. Dressed in a tracksuit, he would jog about two kilometers to Sevth Street, where he'd stop by a delicatess.

After tering, he would change into flashy, eye catching clothes, styling himself in an almost greasy and gaudy manner. Th, along with a few of his m, he'd begin his daily s of debt collection across the city.

Lunch was usually eat at the homes of those unfortunate ough to owe him money, and a four in the afternoon, they would return to the delicatess. After finishing their meal and waiting for the sun to fully set, they would head off to "Tropical Jungle," where they'd party until past midnight.

"Tropical Jungle" was a popular underg dance hall. It earned the "underg" label because there were no restrictions on the people allowed inside. Anyone could walk in at any time, whether they came alone or with a group. Unlike legitimate bars or dance halls, which had strict safety and fire regulations—like a maximum capacity—Tropical Jungle didn't adhere to any of these rules.

Many bars and clubs oft had long lines outside due to these regulations, but not here.

Tropical Jungle was located in an air raid shelter beath the bridge on Elevth Street. It was initially created by a group of ecctrically dressed young people, who had metal piercings embedded in their faces, rebelling against mainstream aesthetics. They would play what most people considered noise, but the beats were intse, and they'd dance and sing in the shelter.

Gradually, this culture, known as "punk," became a symbol of rebellion, attracting more young people until the air raid shelter became a sanctuary for them. No expsive tickets were required, nor was there a need to patitly wait in line. All you needed was a pack of fruit wine, some drinks, cigarettes, and a chatty attitude to easily bld in with this unique crowd.

In every world, there are things that leave people speechless. As more young people joined Tropical Jungle and made it their midnight sanctuary, the once-adored punk culture was gradually pushed out. It was like a drop of ink in a small bowl—it could change the color of the water.

But if you replaced that bowl with a fish tank or a lake, a single drop of ink wouldn't make much of a differce; it would be assimilated.

Mainstream culture flooded into this pond, turning the punk sanctuary back into a bastion of mainstream culture.

Morris would stay at Tropical Jungle until late every night. If he met the right girl, he'd leave early. He had a particular taste—he liked young studts, especially those with higher education. The more educated they were, the more interested he became.

As the sky darked, Morris and one of his m drove back to the bridge on Elevth Street. After locking his car, Morris walked down the familiar maintance staircase attached to the bridge. Once at the riverbank, they walked less than a hundred meters wh they began to hear the faint thumping of the music.

A sly grin appeared on Morris's face as he walked, swaying his body as if already on the dance floor.

About t more meters ahead stood a rusty iron door. The momt he pushed it op, the music, which had be muffled, suddly blared loudly. A strong smell of alcohol hit them as they stepped into the dark hallway. The sct of sweat and something else lingered in the air, but Morris was already used to it.

After walking about twty meters down the dark corridor, they emerged into a large op space.