Softer than a fart, amidst the dull tearing sound, there was a hint of the unique timbre of metal. The farmer struggled to his feet, while the guy who stabbed the dagger into his throat voluntarily stepped aside.
The two men stood by the car watching, while the farmer ran back, pulling the dagger out of his throat. He turned and ran towards the recliner, knowing he was doomed.
It’s not just because a throat being pierced means certain death. He had been to prison; he had seen someone survive even after their throat was slit. What truly kills is blood loss, blood filling the lungs, and the trachea swelling shut, leading to suffocation.
These are the true causes of death; of course, it’s all triggered by the open wound in the throat.
He felt death creeping closer with each step. He knew clearly he had no time to save himself. His breathing had noticeably weakened, and no matter how hard he tried to breathe, his throat only sprayed blood foam, while the air intake was very slow.
It wouldn’t be long before he would die, but he fought with all his might to reach the recliner, determined to take down at least one of them before he died.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t studied well enough in school to know that strenuous activity accelerates the body’s oxygen consumption. He couldn’t breathe anymore, and the dizziness pounded against his sanity like violent sea waves crashing upon the shore.
Almost there, just a few more steps!
He grabbed the gun, turned around, and the recoil from pulling the trigger completely knocked him off balance, causing him to fall flat on his back.
The two by the car were startled by the farmer’s last desperate shot, and the one in the passenger seat gave an annoyed look at his partner as they began calmly tidying up the scene.
They had to thank their boss for choosing such a remote location for the farmer; typically, no one would come by, so they could leisurely deal with everything here.
They dug up the blood-stained dirt separately and put it into a small bag, then took the body to the bed in the house. They needed to stage a scene.
After rummaging through everything, they pulled out anything potentially valuable, all of which needed to be dealt with later.
They hadn’t spared the basement, taking nearly everything that could be taken, and then they set a fire.
By the time the county police arrived, there was only collapse and ruins left—as well as a body burned beyond recognition.
In fact, in many fires, the autopsy evidence that indicates the victim didn’t die from the fire is only useful if the fire is extinguished in time, when the body isn’t severely damaged and still holds autopsy value and meaning.
In severe building fires, if there’s no manual firefighting, people might not even be able to find where the bodies are; everything would be thoroughly consumed by the fierce flames.
Watching the flames leap into the sky, the two drove away, knowing it would be days or even weeks before this place was discovered.
That night, Oula received a call and nervously went to her father’s house.
Since she reached the age under Federation law where she could live alone, she had chosen to leave her parents and live independently. This made her seem particularly mature in some people’s eyes. At least compared to those children spoiled by their parents, almost to the point of "disability," a girl who became independent at sixteen was indeed impressive.
It had been many years since she last came here. Her father had never called or asked her to return, but today he did, and she had to come back.
Upon entering, Oula saw her legislator father with glasses sitting on the sofa watching TV. He glanced sideways at her, giving her a chill.
"Over the years, I never interfered with your endeavors out there, even when you used my name for that ’Oula Ninety Points’ show."
"As your father, I’m proud of you, but you shouldn’t have meddled with those you can’t afford to provoke, putting yourself, me, and more in danger."
"Starting February, your show will be suspended..." The old man’s pace was slow, yet it carried an irresistible force, "You’ll experience a live broadcast incident by then, and the show will temporarily go off-air. We’ll arrange other matters to mitigate potential impacts from the suspension, understood?"
Oula bit her lip, feeling a salty-sweet taste that didn’t ease her strength; the blood tracing her lip lines made her lips redder, but she didn’t feel pain—or rather, the deeper pain overshadowed her physical discomfort.
Her heart’s work was about to be destroyed!
"You can’t do this!" She mustered her strength to voice a defiant statement in front of her father.
The old man turned to her again, "You’re always so insensible. What I’m doing is for your own good, you know? Your uncle passed away today."
Originally fueled with anger, Oula was instantly shocked by the news. She knew her uncle had gone into hiding in the West after being released, reportedly in good health. How could he suddenly die?
She had a premonition, but she didn’t dare believe it was true.
The old man’s gaze was calm and indifferent, "You’ve been so mischievous. Your uncle hid so far away, yet you still killed him."
"You can be disobedient, but you must bear the consequences of your disobedience. Maybe the next to die will be your brother, or... you?"
"You need to be obedient, understand?" he said, standing up. "Only I won’t harm you!"
If this were a movie, the camera would pull back, quickly flashing to Oula’s residence. On the floor under her bed was a secret compartment, holding a common jewelry box meant for storing accessories. Inside lay a slightly discolored little pink bunny hairpin.
In the following days, Lynch was busy attending various interviews and shows. He had to admit, the media really liked him, as the news about him was exciting enough.
Some affectionately referred to him as "Mr. Billionaire," though it didn’t necessarily mean he was more impressive than the "Mr. 350K." Possibly the latter was more impressive, or about the same, since their names had a similar-sounding part.
Lynch particularly felt these days that he needed a personal assistant to help organize some of his schedules, like programs such as ’Oula Ninety Points’ that could serve as reminders, a person to share some of the workload in day-to-day activities.
Bupen had the most suitable environment for the wealthy across the Federation. Here, money was the Lord; money was omnipotent. Lynch merely asked Lime to pass on a message, and soon a large crowd arrived. Thɪs chapter is updatᴇd by 𝘯𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘭·𝓯𝓲𝓻𝓮·𝙣𝙚𝙩
Many came from various agencies and headhunter firms. Providing service to Mr. Lynch was already a great honor for them, as to whether Lynch really fit into the upper class—well, who cares?!
The influx was so large that many were dismissed by Lynch before they could even speak; those who sent resumes without showing up were also swiftly filtered out.
This included many who juggled providing services for certain companies while searching for their next employer. Once they found a suitable position, they’d jump ship immediately, continuing with a stable job if not.
Even if this type had outstanding work capability, they wouldn’t be liked by Lynch. For Lynch, individual capability came after loyalty—a loyal fool could at least take a bullet for you. Yet, someone highly capable but not loyal could stab you in the back.
After much picking, not many were left behind.
The new candidate came in and placed their resume on Lynch’s desk. It was a girl, and today there were particularly many female applicants.
All kinds of girls showed up. It was unclear why they thought females could better suit the role compared to males.
Some girls came in and immediately disrobed, indicating Lynch could first test them out.
Others came in with a haughty demeanor, as if lowering themselves to serve Lynch should make him feel honored.
In short, various types showed up, leaving Lynch amused yet helpless.
The "Mr. Billionaire" title brought him more positive attention, but also some extra burdens like harassment.
After turning down a man pretending to be a "sister," a new candidate entered.
A girl, who seemed less trendy, stood at about five feet seven inches (170 cm). Seeing her in flats, her height likely wasn’t exaggerated.
She wore a smart women’s suit, which was particularly trendy in recent years. It might as well be called unisex office attire, fitting for business settings.
Young, fair-skinned, dressed relatively conservatively and professionally, she wore square, thick-framed glasses. Though not as stunning as some of the previous girls, she instead seemed reliable.
"Helen..." Lynch glanced at her resume with a slight smile.
The smile wasn’t because of any interest in the girl or any particular thought, just that the name was quite common without much stand-out traits.
After quickly reviewing the resume, he asked, "You’ve only attended a regular university, have no commendable work experience, and lack any impressive family background. So, why do you think you can handle the job here?"
The words might sound a bit harsh, but it was the most pertinent question to ask. Many might think being an assistant is easy, just obeying orders, but it’s not quite that simple.
Sometimes, assistants face unexpected situations, and mishandling them could put the boss in an awkward position. Quick adaptability is one of the essential skills for an assistant.
Lynch was testing this lady’s abilities.