Empire of Shadows

Another incident?

Mr. Anderson froze for a moment, but then a shiver ran down his spine, and his eyebrows shot up. “That bastard is back again?”

The manager quickly shook his head, knowing exactly whom Mr. Anderson was referring to. “Not him. I don’t even know how to explain it. You need to see it for yourself!”

Mr. Anderson yanked off his apron and strode toward the main hall. But the moment he stood in the doorway, he… was stunned.

The restaurant was packed, yet at each table, there was only one person seated. The problem? Most of them had ordered no more than three bucks’ worth of food, and many had only spent two.

A breadbasket, an appetizer, or maybe a bowl of soup.

“I thought they’d leave quickly, so I didn’t bother notifying you,” the manager explained, “but they haven’t budged since they came in. Worse, they’re refusing to share tables, and now outside customers are leaving because we have no open seats.”

Mr. Anderson’s blood pressure surged. The restaurant had 17 tables, which meant they’d make less than 40 bucks for the entire lunchtime service!

The restaurant’s daily operating costs exceeded 150 bucks. Even if they were packed during dinner, they’d still lose a significant amount of money today!His temples began throbbing again—a familiar sensation. Struggling to contain his rage, he lowered his voice and hissed, “Call the police. Call them right now. I want every one of these freeloaders thrown into the garbage where they belong!”

Mr. Anderson was something of a local celebrity. His culinary skills were renowned, and the former mayor had once publicly praised his dishes during a visit to the restaurant where Anderson was head chef.

In the Federation, fame mattered. The mayor’s endorsement had given Mr. Anderson the confidence to open his own restaurant, believing his cooking skills alone would secure his success.

As someone who was highly skilled in his trade, Anderson was used to respect, whether in the kitchen or otherwise.

---

Two police cars arrived quickly, with four officers stepping out. Initially, they were on edge, given Mr. Anderson’s frantic and incoherent report, peppered with expletives. They had assumed an attack had occurred.

But once inside, they were greeted by a deafening silence. The restaurant was so quiet they could hear their own breathing.

“Mr. Anderson, you mentioned someone disrupting your business? Where are they?”

“Did you see them run off in a certain direction?”

Mr. Anderson suppressed his fury and pointed toward the diners. “Right there! They’re all working together to ruin my business. Arrest them all! Not a single one is innocent!”

The officers glanced at the diners—young people quietly nibbling on bread. Each bite was small, but they were, in fact, eating.

“Have they paid for their food?” one officer asked.

“They have,” the manager confirmed.

“Are they causing a disturbance?”

The manager shook his head. “They’re just sitting at the tables, eating.”

The officers exchanged glances, their expressions souring. Resting their hands on their belts, they said, “So, you called us here just to mess with us?” ℟𝖆ℕＯ𝐁ƐṢ

Mr. Anderson took a deep breath and explained through gritted teeth, “These people have spent two bucks each and are hogging the tables, blocking other customers. Isn’t that causing trouble?”

The officers stood in stunned silence for a moment before one replied, “They’ve paid for their food, and you have no rule that specifies how quickly they must eat. Without such a rule posted, how can you demand that they leave in a certain timeframe?”

“Then what am I supposed to do about these parasites?” Mr. Anderson fumed.

The officer adjusted his hat. “Honestly, there’s not much you can do. They haven’t broken any laws, haven’t refused to pay, and are simply eating slowly. There’s no law against that.”

“And just so you know,” the officer added, lowering his voice, “if you try to forcibly remove them before they finish their meals, you might face legal trouble yourself.”

Pulling Mr. Anderson aside, the officer continued, “I can try intimidating them, but there’s a chance it won’t work. If the department finds out I bent the rules, it’ll be my neck on the line.”

The officer’s greedy stare was unmistakable, one Mr. Anderson had encountered many times before. Swearing internally at the corrupt system, he reluctantly pulled two five-dollar bills from his pocket and handed them to the officer discreetly.

“Not enough. We brought two cars.”

Glaring at him, Mr. Anderson begrudgingly added another ten bucks.

Finally, the officer smiled. “Even if they punish me for bending the rules, I believe my family won’t go hungry. You’re a good man, Mr. Anderson!”

He straightened his hat and approached one of the tables, sitting across from a visibly nervous young man. The officer leaned in, his gaze predatory. “You know these people?”

The young man shook his head. “I don’t know them.”

“I know someone put you up to this. If you don’t want to spend time in jail, you’d better tell me the truth.”

Though nervous, the young man remained calm. Lance had prepared them for this exact scenario and taught them how to respond.

Seeing the youth remain composed, the officer grew frustrated. “Are you an Imperial citizen?”

“Yes.”

“Show me your permanent residency card. I think you’re an illegal immigrant.”

Who carries that around all the time? But the young man retrieved his card, and the officer, inspecting it, realized it was legitimate.

Now, the officer was certain this was organized. But the potential risk involved in unraveling this mess wasn’t worth it. Still, he’d taken money, so he needed to do something.

“This card might be fake. You’ll need to come with me for verification,” he finally said.

The young man didn’t flinch. “Do you have a summons or arrest warrant? If you insist on taking me, I’d like to call my lawyer first.”

The officer’s casual smirk vanished. Placing the card back on the table, he glared at the young man before standing and walking away.

Returning to Mr. Anderson, the officer whispered, “They’re prepared. My advice? Close the restaurant for now, if you can.”

Without waiting for a reply, the officer exited the restaurant with his colleagues.

---

That evening, after the young diners finally left, Mr. Anderson stepped out, only to witness something that made his eyes nearly pop out of his head.

Across the street, Lance was shaking hands, hugging the youths, and handing each of them five bucks!

That scoundrel! He knew it—it was all Lance’s doing!

Marching forward, Mr. Anderson paused, realizing the dangers of confronting the group late at night. Who knew what these youths might do?

As Lance calmly finished distributing the money, he turned to face Mr. Anderson, hands in his pockets, flanked by Ethan and Elvin.

“You think I’ll give in?” Mr. Anderson shouted, his face flushed. “You little bastard! Neither you nor Alberto will get a single penny from me!”

Lance smirked, unfazed. “Mr. Anderson, you don’t really think this is over, do you?”

“I’ve got thousands of ways to make every day a new nightmare for you. If you’re set on losing your restaurant and reputation over five thousand bucks, we can keep playing.”

His calm, confident gaze made Mr. Anderson feel like he was staring at his own defeat.

“Looking forward to tomorrow’s challenge?” Lance teased. “Care to guess what I’ll do next?”