The night was quiet, save for the faint rustling of leaves. Charlie Lee, a man who understood the weight of calculated decisions, had no use for idlers. His intentions were clear: he had invested heavily in these people not for charity, but to create value. There was no room for misplaced loyalty or unresolved promises. If one couldn't pay back through dedication and productivity, they would have to leave. He simply wasn't wealthy enough to support those unwilling to contribute.
Forty minutes later, the dust-filled journey led him to a modest walled manor. The property consisted of a simple two-story villa and a garden filled with a variety of vegetables. Not a single blade of grass signaled the presence of a lawn. The manor's caretaker, an elderly man named Jacob, lived in solitude. He served as both gardener and housekeeper.
"Move the table aside, clear some space on the floor, and make room around the corners. Find me a spot to sit, too," Charlie instructed Jacob. "Also, starting tomorrow, hire two chefs. These people will need a lot of food every day," he added, though Jacob seemed confused.
"They eat a lot," Charlie clarified.
"Yes, sir," Jacob responded, finally grasping the instruction.
That evening, the stored bread was rationed into four portions and distributed among the newcomers—young individuals with eyes gleaming with hope. For them, this shelter represented something greater than mere refuge: it was a semblance of home.
Later that night, Wang Dagou, one of the young men, approached Charlie in the study. He had brought along a middle-aged man who had earlier seemed somewhat withdrawn. Charlie, seated under the dim glow of an oil lamp, barely opened his eyes.
"What's your name?" Charlie asked, his tone casual yet probing.
"Huang Yifang. You can call me Lao Huang," the man replied, his demeanor reserved but measured.
"So, Lao Huang, I hear you're literate and speak English?"
"Yes, a bit. I used to work as a translator," Huang admitted hesitantly.
"Interesting. How did you end up in this situation?" Charlie inquired.
A shadow of anger flickered across Huang's face as he began, "It's those damn foreigners. They refuse to give us fair opportunities. Instead, they mock and humiliate us, calling us yellow monkeys, pigs, or worse. It's unbearable. If not for my family, I would have fought them to the death."
Charlie's expression turned serious, and he leaned forward. "Indeed, they are vulgar and conceited. To the so-called elite of the West, we're nothing but commodities. But tell me, Lao Huang, do you want to change that?"
"Change it? You mean…fight back?" Huang asked, his voice trembling with a mix of fear and anticipation.
"Precisely," Charlie affirmed. "I've even killed a white man myself."
Huang's eyes widened in shock. "You mean…you've actually…?"
"They're just men," Charlie said evenly. "They don't have supernatural powers. They bleed, they die, just like anyone else. The question is: do you have the courage to seize what is yours?"
Huang hesitated, then nodded slowly, his resolve solidifying. "Yes. I'm tired of living like this. I want change."
"Good. Let's start small. Are you any good at accounting?" Charlie asked, shifting gears.
"I've done some work at a convenience store before. I can manage basic accounts," Huang replied.
"Perfect. You'll handle our accounts and purchases for now. Here's $200. Make sure everyone eats well—plenty of beef and chicken. They need strength to train." Charlie handed him the money, watching as Huang left with newfound confidence.
Alone in the study, Charlie leaned back in his chair, mentally tallying his remaining funds. Between settling the newcomers and setting up basic provisions, he had just $915 left. Not nearly enough. Weapons, ammunition, and training would soon eat through his reserves. He briefly entertained the idea of robbing a bank but dismissed it—too risky. He needed a more sustainable strategy.
As he pondered, a sharp knock echoed from the manor's gate, followed by frantic cries. "Help! Please, someone help me!" A woman's voice pierced the silence.
Charlie grabbed his pistol and headed downstairs, where Jacob met him with an oil lamp. "I'll handle it. You go rest," Charlie instructed the elderly caretaker.
At the gate, a young woman stood illuminated by the faint glow of the lamp. She was strikingly beautiful, her face a blend of panic and elegance. Her feet shifted nervously, betraying her distress.
"Please, sir, open the gate. Someone is trying to kidnap me!" she pleaded, her voice trembling.
Charlie studied her for a moment before responding, "Wait here." He approached cautiously, sizing her up.
Her beauty was otherworldly, almost suspicious. Could she be a plant, sent by one of his enemies to undermine him? If so, it was a dangerous gamble.
"My name is Charlie Lee. I own this manor. You can come in," he finally said, unlocking the gate.
"Thank you!" she exclaimed, stepping inside. "I'm Ingrid Bergman, but my friends call me Lily."
"Welcome, Miss Bergman," Charlie replied, his tone measured. "You seem exhausted. Let me show you to a room where you can rest."
Bergman, visibly relieved, followed him inside. She explained that she had come to Chicago for leisure and had been accosted by men who wanted to kidnap her. Her fear was palpable, but Charlie's mind remained cautious. Was she truly a victim, or was this an elaborate ruse?
"I'll observe her closely," he thought, escorting her to a room. "If she's connected to any threat, I'll have to act swiftly, no matter how unfortunate that may be."
As she disappeared into her room, Charlie lingered outside, his thoughts racing. The woman's presence complicated things. If she was a genuine victim, he'd have to protect her. But if she was a threat, he'd have to eliminate her—and quickly.
"Beautiful, but potentially deadly," he muttered under his breath, turning to leave. For now, he decided to wait and watch. The night was far from over, and the stakes were only getting higher.