Hardy felt the intense brutality of the conflict between the Austrian and Irish gangs over the past couple of days. The daily deliveries had become the main battleground, with both factions vying for control. Now, Hardy was down to just three people. Sean and Ryder were reliable in their duties, but their combat skills were mediocre at best. If another ambush were to happen, Hardy knew he'd have to handle it alone.
For the last two days, Hardy had been contemplating the idea of finding some reinforcements—fighters who could actually hold their own in a skirmish.
It had been a few days since he last saw Bill. After finishing his morning deliveries, Hardy decided to visit Bill at the Murphy Clinic. He walked into the ward without knocking, but as he opened the door, he stumbled upon an unexpected sight.
Bill lay back on the hospital bed, eyes closed, a blissful smile spread across his face. The quilt draped over him had a noticeable bump in the middle.
A pair of legs protruded from the side of the bed, clad in white nurse's attire and flesh-colored stockings, while the rest of the person was hidden under the quilt.
"Ahem!"
Hardy cleared his throat loudly.
Bill's eyes shot open.
The movement beneath the quilt abruptly stopped, and a woman emerged, glancing at Hardy. She seemed relieved when she realized he wasn't hospital staff.
She quickly fixed her disheveled hair, murmuring, "I was just... cleaning him."
"You two catch up; I'll be back later this afternoon," she said to Bill, attempting to appear nonchalant.
"See you later," Bill replied with a grin.
Once she had left, Hardy couldn't help but tease, "Looks like you're recovering well. Full of energy, I see."
Bill chuckled. "Her name's Monica. She's a nurse here. She's very... attentive."
"Attentive indeed," Hardy remarked, smirking.
After the light-hearted banter, Hardy shifted to the serious topic on his mind. "Bill, have you heard about the recent skirmishes between the Austrian gang and the Irish?"
"Yeah, it's all over the newspapers," Bill replied.
Hardy nodded, his expression becoming more serious. "Since we were attacked last time, I've been thinking we're shorthanded. Things are heating up out there, and it's getting more dangerous. We need more manpower—people who can actually fight."
Bill leaned forward, intrigued. "Got anyone in mind?"
"Sean and Ryder do their jobs well, but they're not fighters. I think we should look for some veterans, people like us who know how to handle themselves," Hardy suggested.
Bill considered this for a moment. "Who do you have in mind?"
"I can reach out to some of our old comrades. And I've met quite a few folks while helping out at the clinic. Maybe I can recruit some of them too."
Bill paused, then spoke with a serious tone. "Jon, I have a suggestion."
"What's that?"
"Let's make this official. You lead, I'll back you up. We recruit more guys and become the top dogs in the Austrian gang. One day, we could be the ones calling the shots."
Bill's eyes were filled with hope as he looked at Hardy.
Hardy pulled out a cigarette, offering one to Bill. They lit up, and Hardy took a long drag, exhaling slowly as he thought about Bill's proposal.
He had been in this world for over half a year now. When he first arrived, Hardy's goal was to thrive in business. Despite the vast differences between this world and his own, Hardy believed his unique insights could lead him to success.
But as his time in the gang went on, Hardy realized something crucial: he had no foundation. It was nearly impossible to get a foothold.
Even with a brilliant business idea, how could he even get started without the necessary funds, connections, or knowledge of the local rules and bureaucracy? Every step was a challenge.
And even if he managed to overcome those hurdles, he'd likely become a target for those with more power. Without strength to back him up, he'd be torn apart by competitors like a pack of hungry wolves.
And behind those wolves were even stronger predators—powerful leaders and rule-makers in every industry.
Breaking through that kind of opposition seemed nearly impossible.
Hardy understood all too well that the initial accumulation of capital was often soaked in blood.
Gangs might not be the ideal path, but they offered a form of power. Even a small, fledgling gang could intimidate lower-level bureaucrats who might otherwise block his path to his first fortune. If Hardy could succeed in this underworld career and build his own force, he believed he could protect his wealth—at least during its early stages.
Of course, he'd have to avoid getting caught or imprisoned and know when to clean up his act.
As the cigarette burned down, Hardy made up his mind. He looked at Bill, determination in his eyes.
"Bill, are you in?"
Bill's face lit up with a smile. "Absolutely. Just like old times on the battlefield. You lead, and I'll be your right-hand man. We're gonna make a lot of money, Hardy."
Hardy extended his hand. Bill slapped it with enthusiasm.
As Hardy prepared to leave, he added, "Get well soon, and remember to take it easy. Don't waste all your energy on... extracurricular activities."
Bill laughed and waved him off.
Back at his place, Hardy pulled a suitcase from under his bed and took out a notebook. It was filled with names, addresses, and contact details.
Now that he had decided on his path, Hardy was ready to dedicate himself fully to his new life in the underworld.
Meanwhile, in a small restaurant in Orange County, California, Richard was washing dishes in the back kitchen. The sink was piled high with dirty plates. His eyes began to itch, and he rubbed them with the back of his hand.
Just then, the overweight restaurant owner barged in. Seeing Richard pause for a moment, he shouted, "Richard! No slacking off! We're busy! Look at all these plates!"
Richard glanced at the boss with his remaining right eye, then bowed his head and resumed his task.
The owner turned away, muttering, "If you hadn't begged me for this job, I wouldn't have hired a one-eyed guy like you. There are plenty of people looking for work, you know."
"No job means sleeping on the streets and eating garbage, so be grateful," he added sarcastically.
Richard said nothing, enduring the abuse. He couldn't afford to lose this job.
A year ago, he had been fighting the Japanese on the battlefield, a sniper who had taken down countless enemies. But during one battle, his position was exposed, and a mortar shell exploded nearby. Shrapnel had torn into his left eye. Though he survived, he lost the eye. After half a year in the hospital, he was discharged and sent home.
His eye wound still ached and often got infected. The continuous medical costs had drained his entire pension. With his family living in a rural area and unable to afford his treatment, Richard had no choice but to find work despite his condition.
As a disabled veteran, he could only secure the lowest-paying jobs, enduring the daily insults from his boss.
Just then, Hardy entered the restaurant.
A waiter approached him and asked what he wanted to eat.
"I'm looking for someone—Richard. Does he work here?" Hardy asked.
The waiter looked impatient. "Richard? I don't know any Richard." He turned to leave.
Hardy frowned. He had visited Richard's home earlier, and his family told him Richard worked here. Why was the waiter acting clueless?
"He's the guy with the eye injury," Hardy clarified.
The waiter's expression changed. "Oh, you mean One-Eye. Right, he's in the back, washing dishes."
The nickname "One-Eye" was far from respectful. It seemed Richard wasn't well-regarded here.
"Could you call him out for me? Just tell him an old friend wants to see him," Hardy said, slipping the waiter a $2 tip.
The waiter's demeanor brightened immediately. "Sure, I'll get him right away."