Blackstone Code-Chapter 400: Richard’s New Life
Fifteen thousand Sol, combined with the sale of Michael’s house, would total around forty thousand.
They planned to use thirty thousand to buy a new home, leaving ten thousand to cover Little Michael’s schooling, with some money left over.
Director Johnson calculated quickly, thanks to years of professional experience as a tax officer—simple math was still easy for him.
Michael, suffering in prison, had no idea that not only was his wife carrying another man’s child, but his house was about to be sold by Johnson.
It was a tragic story.
Johnson’s expression was less grim—Lynch had helped him greatly. He waved the check and asked, “Should I say thank you?”
“You can or you don’t, depends on your attitude,” Lynch said, putting away his checkbook. Johnson’s only concern was money.
After a pause, Johnson nodded seriously. “Thank you. You really helped me.”
At this point in his life, Johnson no longer had many ambitions. The state had plans for him—to transfer him to a branch office of the York State Tax Administration by year-end, where he’d essentially coast until retirement.
He understood struggling was pointless. He hadn’t done anything monumental, nor made major mistakes.
The new role was a fair outcome—he would step aside for an incoming deputy director and begin an early retirement, with lower pay and drastically reduced benefits.
When Lynch asked about his future role, Johnson smiled calmly. “That’s about it. I don’t plan on doing much. I know I’m not qualified. This is the best outcome.”
“Who’s the new director?” Lynch asked as they walked back.
Johnson didn’t mind sharing. “A newcomer from the state office, about 37, very motivated. He has strong connections in the system. Unlike me, this won’t be his last stop.”
He glanced at Lynch and said with a smile, “He’s a lot like Michael—wants to make a big impact to improve his résumé. If you’ve got anything to hide… better keep it hidden.”
As they reached the roadside, Lynch looked back at the artificial lake and the surrounding villas.
The place was bleak, showing no trace of its former prestige—only decay.
Johnson glanced too, suddenly remembering something. “By the way, do you know Hart?”
Lynch nodded. “He traded me a piece of land for one of these houses.”
Johnson chuckled. “He ran off.” Seeing Lynch’s unchanged expression puzzled him but he said nothing. “After repeatedly selling those houses in his project, he vanished with the money, leaving a mess. Even our mayor lost a lot.” 𐍂ἈNꝊ𐌱È𝙎
Lynch was hearing this for the first time. For some reason—shame or otherwise—neither the mayor nor Mark had told him.
After acquiring land on the city’s edge, Hart planned to build public rental apartments for low-income residents.
Tenants paid part of the rent, and the city government covered the rest with subsidies. The rents were comparable to regular apartments, guaranteed tenants, and good locations.
After a few years, when the policy expired, the apartments could be freely bought and sold, making for a potentially lucrative investment.
Many people were attracted to the project. Hart used his local connections to attract investors, especially the mayor and Mark, who together invested in dozens of units.
The mayor supported Ferrell as his successor, and in return, promised to include these apartments within the city center during planning. Each unit could profit about thirty thousand, and dozens could mean millions.
Adding stable rent income, their returns might exceed three million.
In the current economy, guaranteeing no loss and some profit was enough to attract many.
With the mayor and local elites leading the investment, the middle class eagerly followed.
Then… Hart ran off, taking possibly over ten million with him.
Back at his place, Lynch turned on the TV and watched dull local news. His mind drifted.
He wondered where Hart might hide, or if he was dead—after all, he took mostly cash. Whoever caught him would hold a moving treasury.
How much profit could be squeezed out depended on how ruthless the pursuers were. Many were probably already hunting him.
His thoughts shifted to international disputes.
The next morning, Lynch boarded the train to the capital. He needed to see firsthand who was stealing his money.
“Ugh…”
A low groan escaped Richard’s throat as he pushed away the arms and legs sprawled over him and struggled to sit up.
The room reeked of decay. Empty bottles were scattered across the floor, stained with dried spills.
Cigarettes, cocaine, even some hallucinogenic mushrooms lay piled on the coffee table. Naked young men and women lay tangled together.
The foul smell nearly made Richard vomit. He rushed to the bathroom, dry-heaved, but nothing came out.
After a quick shower, he stood by the window and yanked open the curtains.
Sunlight poured in, stirring the writhing bodies on and around the bed.
“Damn it, close the curtains!”
Someone rolled over, hiding their face with a pillow, back to the window.
Others sat up like lifeless logs, emotionless and slow to process what was happening.Richard rubbed his head and glanced at the clock—it was almost noon.
Feeling a bit hungry, he called for delivery. He had a card game later that afternoon.
Soon, the delivery rider arrived. After eating, Richard got up and left.
His brand-new luxury car gleamed brilliantly in the sunlight. On the short drive out of the villa, more than one girl tried to strike up a conversation with him, drawn by the car.
But Richard didn’t stop; instead, he accelerated. Compared to these dull physical pleasures, he’d recently become obsessed with card games—simple yet strategic.
Successful people in the Federation often found time to play cards together. Call it trading, betting, or whatever, it was more than just gambling.
These games weren’t strictly gambling but strategic contests disguised as card games.
There were many such games, celebrated for intelligence and elegance—not crude or simple—so only a few truly obsessed with them, as mastering them took time.
Of course, gambling like dice or roulette existed in the Federation, but Richard had never played those.
Thrilling, exciting, a battle of courage and wit—it was addictive.
The game was simple: each player had three cards, no exchanges allowed, but discarding was possible. That didn’t make it easy—you couldn’t see others’ cards.
Then came the probing: watching opponents’ flickering eyes, small hand movements, chest rises and falls, or sweat at the temples.
The best part: having weak cards didn’t guarantee losing—there were many ways to win despite that.
With strong cards, the goal was to lure more players in to win bigger.
A truly exhilarating game.
His car sped up and finally stopped outside a villa already hosting several cars. The game had begun.
Eager, Richard locked the car and headed inside.
A polite attendant opened the door. A girl smiled, took a check from his hand, and handed him a box of chips.
He went to a second-floor room, sat at a crowded table, and greeted the others warmly.
His plan today was clear: to kill these players, leaving them without so much as enough money for dinner.
