Jin Chan's Office - Present Day - 6:00 AM
Jin Chan sat at his desk, a massive mahogany monstrosity that had once belonged to Ào Shǔ but was now his, counting money. Stacks and stacks of yuan in neat piles, organized by denomination, the smell of paper and ink filling the room.
Forty-three million yuan total from the new cocaine route he'd established after killing Ào Shǔ.
He counted each stack methodically, his fingers moving with practiced precision, his eyes tracking the numbers with sharp focus.
But something didn't add up.
He'd purchased twenty million yuan worth of 99% pure cocaine from the Colombian suppliers. High-quality product. The kind that could be stretched significantly.
He'd personally overseen the cutting process, diluting the pure cocaine down to 40% purity using common cutting agents like baking soda, caffeine powder, and lidocaine. Standard procedure. Industry practice.
Which meant he should have made more than double his initial investment. The math was simple: twenty million yuan of pure product, stretched to create fifty million yuan worth of street-level product, sold for approximately sixty to seventy million yuan after markup.
But he only had forty-three million.
Almost thirty million yuan was missing.
Jin Chan's expression remained neutral, but his eyes turned cold—the kind of cold that preceded violence.
He looked up at Liu Ren, his newly appointed trader, a nervous man in his early thirties who'd been recommended by one of Ào Shǔ's old associates.
"Liu Ren."
The man jumped at being addressed directly. "Yes, boss?"
"Did you take some of the product?"
The color drained from Liu Ren's face. His hands started trembling. "I—I—"
"Answer the question." Jin Chan's voice remained calm, conversational almost, which somehow made it more terrifying.
"Only a couple grams! Not enough to tank the profits! I swear it wasn't—"
"How much did you pocket?" Jin Chan cut him off, his tone still eerily pleasant.
Liu Ren shook violently now, his entire body betraying his fear. "I... I pocketed three million yuan from side sales. But I'll give it back! With interest! Twenty percent interest! Please, I'll—"
Jin Chan was colder than Ào Shǔ had ever been. Ào Shǔ had been cruel but emotional, prone to outbursts, to theatrical displays of violence. Jin Chan was methodical. Calculated. Which made him infinitely more dangerous.
He closed his eyes, breathing slowly, his hands folded on the desk in front of him.
Liu Ren waited for punishment, his eyes squeezed shut, his body tensed for a blow or a bullet.
Then Jin Chan opened his eyes and smiled. A kind smile. Almost paternal.
He stood up, walked around the desk, and placed a hand on Liu Ren's shoulder.
"I value honesty," he said warmly.
"I'm happy you were honest with me instead of lying. That shows character. Integrity. Those are rare qualities in this business."
Liu Ren's eyes opened, disbelief flooding his features. "Really? You're not—"
"Just bring the money back. Three million yuan. By the end of the week. We'll call it even."
"YES! Yes! Thank you, boss! Thank you so much! I'll have it tomorrow! I'll—"
Liu Ren turned to leave, relief washing over him, his entire body sagging with the release of tension.
The moment his back was turned, Jin Chan pulled a pistol from his waistband and fired.
BANG.
The bullet entered the back of Liu Ren's skull and exited through his forehead, brain matter and blood spraying across the office door.
He dropped instantly, dead before his body hit the floor.
The guards stationed outside the office burst in, weapons drawn, then relaxed when they saw what had happened.
Jin Chan looked down at the corpse with the same neutral expression he'd worn throughout the entire conversation.
"Get this out of my fucking sight," he said calmly, holstering his weapon.
"And send someone to Liu Ren's apartment to collect the three million. His family doesn't get to keep stolen money."
The guards dragged the body away, leaving a blood trail across the expensive carpet.
Jin Chan sat back down at his desk and resumed counting money as if nothing had happened.
Jin Chan's Office - 8:17 AM
Two hours later, there was a knock on the door.
"Enter."
Razor walked in—the same middle-aged man who'd been collecting debt payments for years, first for the original three loan sharks, then for Ào Shǔ after the arrangement shifted, and now for Jin Chan after Ào Shǔ's death.
He looked tired. Worn down. The kind of exhaustion that came from years of being the face of other people's cruelty.
"Boss," he said respectfully, standing in front of the desk. "Question about the debt collection. Should I continue collecting the debts that were owed to Ào Shǔ? Or are those considered paid off with the creditor's death?"
Jin Chan didn't look up from his paperwork. "Increase all debts by eighty percent."
Razor's eyes went wide with shock. "Eighty... eighty percent? Sir, that's—"
Jin Chan's head snapped up, his eyes locking onto Razor's with predatory focus. "Did I stutter?"
"No, sir. But... that's a significant increase. Many of these people are already struggling to make their current payments. If we increase by eighty percent, they won't be able to—"
"Then they'll default. And we'll collect through other means." Jin Chan's voice was ice. "Do you have a problem with my decision?"
Razor swallowed hard. "No, sir. No problem."
"Good. Dismissed."
Razor left the office with a heavy heart, his mind already calculating how many people would die because of this order.
Boat Rental Shop - Guanlan Lake - 11:34 AM
Razor sat at his usual table outside the boat rental shop, the same spot where he'd been collecting debt payments for years.
A line of people stretched down the street, dozens of them, all waiting to make their monthly payments, all looking exhausted and desperate in their own ways.
A middle-aged woman approached first, counting out bills with shaking hands. "Eight hundred yuan. My monthly payment. All there."
Razor took the money, counted it, and set it aside.
Then he looked at her with genuine sympathy. "The amount has increased. Starting this month, your payment is now 1,440 yuan."
The woman's face went pale. "What? But I've been paying eight hundred for three years! The contract said—"
"New management. New terms. 1,440 yuan per month going forward."
"I can't afford that! My husband is sick! My daughter needs medicine! I'm already working two jobs just to make the eight hundred!"
"I'm sorry. Those are the terms."
The woman started crying, her hands clutching the edge of the table. "Please. Please, I'm begging you. I can't pay more. I'll lose everything."
Razor's eyes were wet. He'd seen this scene play out hundreds of times over the years, but it never got easier. "You have until sundown to make the full payment. After that..."
He didn't finish the sentence.
The woman collapsed to her knees, sobbing.
More people approached. More reactions. More desperation.
A young man—maybe twenty-five—paying off his father's debt. "Ten thousand yuan. That's my payment."
"Eighteen thousand going forward."
"EIGHTEEN?! How am I supposed to—"
"Sundown."
An elderly man with his grandson. "Three thousand yuan. My pension check."
"Five thousand four hundred going forward."
"I don't HAVE five thousand four hundred! This is all I have!"
"Sundown."
A woman with two young children clinging to her legs. "Four thousand yuan. Everything I saved this month."
"Seven thousand two hundred going forward."
"My children will starve! Please! Please have mercy!"
"Sundown."
They begged. They pleaded. They fell to their knees in the dirt, hands clasped together, tears streaming down their faces.
Men. Women. Even children—teenagers trying to take on family debts, their young faces already showing the weight of impossible burdens.
Razor was crying openly now, tears running down his face as he delivered the same message over and over.
"I'm going to give you until sundown."
The two men standing beside him—new guards hired by Jin Chan, not the old crew that had worked for Ào Shǔ—shook their heads with grins on their faces.
They were young. Violent. The kind of people who enjoyed their work.
"No," one of them said, his grin widening. "They're all on their fifth warning. Five strikes and it's death. Boss was very clear about that."
The other guard unhooked his AK-47 from his shoulder strap, checking the magazine with casual ease. "Yeah. No more extensions. No more mercy. Anyone who can't pay the increased amount gets liquidated."
"But they didn't KNOW about the increase!" Razor protested, his voice breaking. "They came here prepared to pay their original amounts! You can't just—"
"Boss's orders," the first guard said, still grinning. "Not our problem if they can't adapt."
The people in line started to realize what was happening. The murmuring grew louder. Panic spread through the crowd like wildfire.
"Please! Anything! I'll do anything!"
"I'll sell my house! My car! Everything!"
"Don't kill us! Please! We have families!"
"My children! What about my children?!"
The guards raised their weapons, aiming at the crowd.
Razor turned and walked away, his hands over his ears, his entire body shaking with silent sobs.
Behind him, the first gunshots rang out.
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.
Screaming. More gunshots. The sound of bodies hitting the ground.
Razor kept walking, tears streaming down his face, unable to do anything, powerless to stop the slaughter happening behind him.
The gunfire continued for several more minutes, methodical, efficient, merciless.
By the time silence fell, seventeen people were dead.
Their bodies left on the street as a warning to anyone else who might consider defaulting on their debts.