Empire of Shadows

The fat boss looked at Lance with a smile that wasn't fierce, but it conveyed a sense of looking down on someone, "Before you piss me off, you'd better go and mop the floor again."

Employing and using illegal labor, if capitalists felt pangs of conscience for exploiting and oppressing workers, they wouldn't have done so from the start.

Anyone who could be called a capitalist, or a potential capitalist, had to first get past their own conscience.

The two locked eyes for a moment, then Lance stepped back with his hands raised, "As you wish, sir,"

The fat boss was pleased with his behavior at that moment and nodded with a smile, "I like you calling me 'boss.' Keep it that way."

"As you wish, boss."

The fat boss let him go, satisfied, "Scram!"

Having left, Lance expressionlessly took down the mop he had just hung up, then grabbed a bucket, ready to fetch hot water, when he spotted the apprentice looking his way from the back hall.

His face wore a baffling sense of superiority, as if mocking Lance.

Lance looked at him, and he glared back without yielding.

"I only need to pay him three dollars this month, while you have to give him ten dollars!"

Just as the apprentice was about to say something, Lance didn't give him the chance, "There's a saying in my hometown, 'A clever dog doesn't block the way of people moving forward.'"

Subconsciously, the apprentice took a step back, but then his face flushed red.

Lance left for the boiler room amid the apprentice's curses.

The bakery had a large oven, not the electric type or the kind used at home.

It was a big wood-fired oven, with a fire constantly burning underneath. To make better use of heat, most ovens had a copper pipe arranged inside.

The pipe contained water, which, once heated, sent steam through the pipe into the bottom of another bucket. When the steam was pressed out, it would heat the water in the bucket.

This big bucket held three hundred gallons, filled at four in the morning, and usually boiled around eight o'clock, maintaining a temperature of about ninety degrees until evening.

To save on cleaning detergent, the fat boss demanded that Lance mop with near-boiling water.

Firstly, the hot water could better clean the greasy stains and clumps of breadcrumbs from the floor, saving the fat boss a tidy sum on cleaning agents.

On the other hand, the floor would dry faster after being mopped with hot water.

Though he had already cleaned the floor, Lance started scrubbing vigorously again.

In the following two days, Lance silently resisted the fat boss's harassments. He truly needed a place to stay for now.

Leaving was easy, but what to eat and where to rest afterward would become problems, so he planned to make a more stable decision before considering leaving.

As for the exploitation and oppression he faced?

He would take his revenge; he wasn't the type to suffer in silence.

On the weekend, just after ten in the morning, business at the bakery was booming.

Since the Federation began enforcing a two-day weekend system a few years ago, some people were always able to enjoy the good times over the weekend.

Taking a trip to the suburbs or having a meal together were nice choices, even the poor from the downtown areas had more opportunities and choices.

Lance, soaked in sweat, seemed to have an endless amount of work.

Then, close to noon, when the number of customers had dwindled, the doorbell rang and two men in shirts and vests, wearing flat caps, walked in.

They looked quite young, probably in their twenties, with ferocious features and eyes sharp as knives, causing anxiety in others.

The fat boss immediately went to the cash register, while the two young men walked quickly to face the boss. One of them took off his cap, pinching the brim of the flat cap toward the fat boss.

The fat boss hastily pulled open the cash drawer, took out a stack of money, counted out fifty dollars, and put it in.

"Add ten more," said the shorter man coldly, "Prices went up."

The fat boss wanted to say something, but in the end, remained silent and counted out five more two-dollar bills and put them in.

The taller one put his cap back on, casually grabbed a twenty-five cent loaf of bread, and, with a smile, bid farewell to the fat boss and left.

Perhaps... the fat boss's weaker, more submissive side had been seen by Lance, his normally placid and somewhat beaten face turned twisted—

"How much longer are you going to stand there?"

"Don't you see there's so much work to do?"

"Remember what I told you before, don't fucking make me yell at you all the time, or you'll regret it!"

Watching the fat boss seethe with embarrassment, Lance just smiled and resumed his work.

Today might be the boss's unlucky day—not that he was dead, but his luck wasn't good.

At just after one in the afternoon, as business lulled, the doorbell awakened a drowsy Lance, who perked up. The fat boss and his daughter had already gone for a nap.

Despite being so fat, they still needed rest—perhaps that was the reason for their obesity.

Two policemen entered, in crisp and dashing uniforms, silver badges shining brightly in the well-lit area.

"What can I get for you gentlemen?"

"We have fresh out-of-the-oven doughnuts, the kind with double sugar."

"If you buy a box, we'll even throw in a cup of coffee for free."

The free coffee was made from bean fragments bought at one yuan per six pounds. During normal processing, a lot of coffee beans would get crushed and then sifted.

The intact beans with larger granules sold for the highest prices.

And at the bottom level, beans mixed with bits of roasted twigs or coffee husks went for one yuan per six pounds.

Actually, the taste of this coffee wasn't very different from the more expensive kinds, although both were cheap.

The customers couldn't tell what kind of coffee it was; as long as it wasn't too bad and it was a bargain, there would always be someone who would take it.

At this moment, there was no one in the bakery. A portly police officer, upon entering the bakery, flipped the "Open" sign around and then stood guard at the door.

Another, a skinny tall man, walked over to a chair and sat down. "Where's Johnny?"

Johnny was the portly owner's name. Lance gestured towards the back with his head, "He's sleeping."

"Wake him up, tell him an old friend is looking for him."

Lance had no sense of belonging to this bakery. He could tell the policeman was here to cause trouble, and he was quite happy to see the portly owner be embarrassed.

He immediately ran to the rest area, banging on the door. Soon, Johnny's cursing could be heard from inside the room, and about two minutes later, the door burst open, and he stood there irate, "Are you dying or what?"

"Don't you know that skipping sleep at noon will make you age faster?"

"If you don't have a good reason for disturbing my rest, I'm going to dock you two dollars!"

Lance waited for him to vent all his irritability from waking up and then pointed to the back, "You have an old friend waiting for you, a policeman."

In an instant, the portly owner's expression went from anger to unease. He touched his clothing, thinking of retreating back to his room, but in the end, he came out.

It was apparent he wanted to escape.

When the two returned to the front of the store, Mr. Policeman was already enjoying some delicious pastries.

He had taken the most expensive bread and opened a box of high-end ham, watching him eat so leisurely and meticulously gave off a bizarre feeling.

Like... this wasn't his true face.

At least a policeman shouldn't be sitting in the dining area of a bakery, eating slowly and elegantly while he was probably still on duty.

"The bread is good, and the quality of the ham, too. Only your skills are the best around here." The officer complimented before stuffing the remaining bit of bread into his mouth. After chewing and swallowing, he took out his handkerchief to wipe any crumbs or grease that might be at the corners of his mouth, "It's time to pay this quarter's money."

The portly owner spoke cautiously, without the loud voice he used when talking to Lance or the apprentice, "Isn't the payment supposed to be due next month?"

January, April, July, and October, the times for paying protection money each year.

Of course, they wouldn't call it that. This money is referred to as "safety insurance," paid to the local police chief, who would ensure the merchants' safety.

If someone robbed a shop, they'd try their best to catch the robber and return the money, but only try their best.

In reality, at least thirty robbery and theft cases have occurred on this street so far this year, and none have been solved.

Some say in private that they did catch them but pocketed the money.

There were those who tried to resist, but the outcome wasn't good; they'd be robbed every few days.

One shop owner lived in his store overnight to prevent theft, only to encounter a burglar and be seriously wounded.

The perpetrator was never caught!

Those who did not comply with payments would always encounter various kinds of trouble. Resisters had no choice but to continue paying, and even more money.

Only then could they peacefully run their businesses on this street.

The officer tilted his head, "I've taken good care of you all these years, at the expense of my own career advancement."

"Now I have a good opportunity, and if successful, I can go straight into the Federation office."

"But I'm still short on some operational funds, and you wouldn't want to make it difficult for me, right?"

The portly owner's lips moved, but in the end, he still chose not to resist, "I'll get it for you."

The officer's face suddenly brightened with a sunny smile, "I knew you'd understand me best. If I get into the office, I can assure you won't be harassed by gangs anymore."

Nobody believed that statement.

Soon, the portly owner came over with two hundred dollars. Perhaps Lance's presence nearby gave the portly owner a sense of security, as he was not asked to leave.

The officer counted the money, which was all in ten and twenty dollar bills, and quickly finished counting.

"Another two hundred, half a year's payment, this time."

The portly owner looked shocked, "We've never had such a rule!"

The officer placed the now-stained handkerchief he used to wipe his mouth on the table, staring straight at the portly owner, "We do now."