Chapter 3: If It Shouldn't Die, It’s Not a Vampire
Blocking the bakery door with his bulky frame, the fat officer turned and glared at the boss with a vicious glint in his eyes.
Sometimes, the police in the City of Angels were even worse than gangsters, looking less like the good guys and more like something much darker.
Facing an unspoken but terrifying threat, or the option of losing two hundred dollars, the boss chose to give up the cash to protect himself.
This bakery made about four hundred dollars a month. After covering regular expenses, there was roughly three hundred and fifty left.
Every month, the boss paid fifty in “sanitation fees” to the gang and about sixty-five to the police. Recently, the gang raised their cut to sixty.
So, after everything, his profit was only around two hundred and twenty-five. Once he accounted for his and his daughter’s wages, the net profit was barely a hundred dollars.
For most working-class people, this might still be a substantial sum, but for a business owner, it was nothing to boast about.
But at least it was still profitable.
A short while later, he returned, clutching the two hundred dollars he painfully pulled from his hidden cash stash and set it on the counter.
The officer gave it a casual glance before pocketing the money. “Johnny, don’t worry. I play by the rules.”
“You’re not losing out here. I won’t charge you anything else for six months. You haven’t been extorted by anyone; you just paid a bit early.”
The boss looked slightly more at ease after hearing this explanation. But Lance, watching from his corner, knew the truth: this sudden early collection wasn’t just because the officer needed the money urgently.
Most likely, the guy really was about to transfer out and wanted to make one last haul before leaving.
But Lance felt no obligation to warn the boss—even if he did, there wasn’t much the boss could do.
Some people had tried reporting corrupt cops before, but those cases always ended in silence.
The officer glanced between the boss and Lance, then tossed his handkerchief into the trash by the counter. “If you run into any trouble, just have the station call me.”
With that, he patted the fat officer at the door on the shoulder, tipped his hat, and walked out.
The “Closed” sign was flipped back to “Open.”
Lance watched them through the bakery window as they headed to the next shop. The officer clearly had an appetite for more.
From this street down to the corner, there were at least thirty shops. If each one paid him four hundred dollars, that’d be twelve thousand.
For the average person earning forty or fifty bucks a month, twelve thousand was an astronomical figure!
“Those foot-sore mongrels, those filthy bas***ds…” the boss cursed in a low voice. He muttered so cautiously, even in his swearing, that Lance couldn’t help but find it laughable. ꭆ𝐀ꞐＯꞖƐ𝓢
Suddenly, the boss looked up, his eyes bloodshot as he stared at Lance. “Do you think I’m a joke?”
Lance instinctively took a step back, shaking his head quickly. “No, not at all.”
But the boss seemed to think otherwise. “You can laugh at me; you saw me humiliated. That’s fine! No dinner for you tonight!”
With that, he stomped back into the room, the sounds of objects being thrown around following him.
Lance looked at the half-open door, the cursing coming from inside, and the apprentice smirking at him from the back room. All of it gave him a clear understanding of the times he lived in.
Power was the foundation.
Whether it was the young men collecting “protection fees,” or that thirty-something officer in his righteous-looking uniform—strip away the trappings, and they were all the same.
What kept him working for free for a month, ending up three dollars in debt to a greedy capitalist, while those guys pocketed a big cut every month without lifting a finger?
It was power. Power created order.
And those without power? They had to obey.
Lance wasn’t the type to follow rules, not entirely.
Later that afternoon, as he pondered how to make the boss pay for his arrogance, he saw a short guy in a flat cap rushing toward the bakery, hands on his hips and out of breath as he peered inside. Spotting him, Lance immediately went out to see what was up.
On the journey over, Lance had met plenty of guys his age—seventeen, eighteen, nineteen—who were quick to form a group. Just a few words and a nod to see if they could “hang” was enough to make fast friends.
Most of these refugees from the same homeland stayed in the area, doing the hardest, dirtiest work at the port—where undocumented workers congregated most.
The locals despised that kind of work, and capitalists preferred hiring undocumented workers for lower wages. They were the top choice for rough labor.
There was even something called “job leasing” now. The port’s bulletin board listed notices like these—
The Federation’s laws and regulations supposedly protected the working class, but in practice, they served as tools for better exploitation. To work, every laborer needed one of two documents: a Federation Social Security Number or a work permit for immigrants.
If you were native-born or a legal immigrant, you had at least one of these.
Undocumented folks had neither, but they still needed work, so what did they do?
Some locals leased out their jobs to them; the most common example was boat scrubbers.
The port office didn’t care who actually did the scrubbing, as long as the boats were clean on time.
Scrubbers made thirty-five a month. The undocumented worker had to pay fifteen to lease the job, then do all the work. They kept the remaining twenty.
Twenty bucks was already considered high pay—some job cards now cost as much as eighteen.
This meant someone officially unqualified to work could lease a job, toil away for a month, and only make seventeen.
They lived in concrete pipes, ate the cheapest food, and might save just a few bucks each month.
Some enterprising locals took on two or three jobs, or more, and leased them all out to undocumented workers.
Each month, without lifting a finger, they’d pocket fifty to sixty bucks. It had become a unique way of life in the city.
The short guy in front of him, Elvin, was one of Lance’s old acquaintances. In a foreign land, the shared bond of being from the same place created a certain trust.
That trust stemmed from shared experiences, a sense of safety from knowing someone from the same background. Though some people took advantage of this trust, Elvin was reliable. He’d come to the Federation with Lance in the same batch from the Empire.
It was obvious he was in a rush.
Lance wiped his hands on his apron as he stepped outside. “What’s wrong?”
Elvin looked frantic. “It’s Ethan! Something happened!”
Lance’s expression shifted. “What happened to him?”
In their group, Lance had earned respect for his maturity and life experience. Whenever issues arose, they would turn to him for advice.
Even if he was new to this world, his years as an adult gave him an edge in making steadier decisions than these half-grown kids.
Elvin took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down. “Today’s payday. You know we rent our work cards, so…”
Lance was already guessing the rest. “So the port paid your wages to the people who rented you the cards, and Ethan’s guy refused to pay him, right?”
Elvin nodded furiously. “Exactly. That jerk told him he wouldn’t give him a single penny and even cursed him out.”
“So Ethan got mad, beat the idiot up, and then the scumbag called the cops…”
These incidents weren’t uncommon at the port or throughout the City of Angels. There were always people ready to snatch away whatever others had, often without them knowing.
And since the law didn’t recognize undocumented workers, calling the cops often cost more than the month’s lost wages. Most who got cheated just pretended nothing happened.
This encouraged the parasites to get worse, knowing no one would report them—the cost was simply too high for undocumented workers.
And with the sheer demand for labor in Jingang City, those job cards would always have takers.
Lance frowned. This was not going to be easy. “Where is Ethan now?”
“I told him to hide in the culvert under the bridge.”
“He said if Ethan paid him two hundred bucks, he’d drop it. Otherwise, he’d keep making trouble for him.”
“If he follows through, Ethan could end up getting sent back.”
Being deported to the Empire now would mean more than just going to the front lines—the Emperor had gone mad. He’d have anyone who evaded the draft executed!
In other words, if Ethan got sent back, he’d likely face prison or even death.
The Federation’s people could exploit and threaten them with no fear of consequence because of this!
But two hundred was a huge amount. They’d been here only a month, and most barely had a few bucks after food and expenses.
Two hundred was impossible.
Elvin confirmed this. “We managed to pool sixty-three between seven or eight of us. We’re still short more than a hundred.”
Lance sighed. “I didn’t get paid this month, and I’m three bucks in debt.”
Elvin’s voice was thick with anger. “These damn vampires!”