Chapter 908: Mr. Lynch Faces the Hidden Rules

“I don’t know you.” A simple sentence, and one that bar security used often.

Every day, some foolish guy would try to trick the guards—bringing a girl through the VIP entrance, giving a fake name, pretending to be some vaguely similar-looking VIP, hoping to slip in unnoticed.

Sometimes, this worked—like when there were new guards who hadn’t memorized all the VIPs’ faces.

Sometimes, a VIP hadn’t visited in months or even longer, and the guards would ask them to show their VIP card.

No one went without one. In this gang-dominated era, there was a saying:

By day, the police control the cities.

By night, the gangs rule the world.

Most of the bar’s security had some connection to local gangs. Running a place like this wasn’t for just anyone—you needed backing. And no one dared challenge that.

Until today.

A guard stepped forward and raised his hand to block them. “Sorry, I don’t—”

He was about to say, “I don’t know you, show me your VIP card.” These guys didn’t look like they were here to party.

But he never got the chance to finish.

The man at the front twisted his arm in a blur of motion, wrenching his body sideways, then kicked the back of his knee.

His whole body dropped to one knee, as if he’d knelt voluntarily. His head and shoulders were forced down, pain surging so violently he thought his arm might tear right off.

He opened his mouth to say something—but then felt something cold press against the back of his head. He knew what it was.

He slowly raised his free hand, drew back the leg that was still on the ground, and dropped to both knees, then laid himself flat.

He’d only taken this job to seem more connected to the gangs. Sometimes friends could sneak in through him, but VIP treatment? That was never on offer.

That image had made him seem like someone who had connections, but he had never planned to die for the gang or the bar owner.

Gang warfare wasn’t like cops and robbers. People actually died.

His body trembled, a stark contrast to his tough appearance. But how many people can stay calm with a gun to their head?

Only lunatics or fools.

The others pushed forward quickly. The VIP passage was private, so no one else noticed anything wrong.

Once inside the bar, the group moved with precision—they already knew exactly where their two targets were.

Door kicked. Room covered. Entry followed by pre-aimed shots. Every move executed with textbook precision—straight out of marine assault training.

“Hands up!”

The plainclothes soldiers burst into the room. Independent Scientists A and B stood in front of a stripper. The air froze.

In the Federation, solicitation was illegal in all public venues. Using money to buy pleasure—if operated as a business—was a criminal act.

Technically, if a woman needed financial help and someone offered it voluntarily, it wasn’t considered criminal if the exchange wasn’t business-oriented.

Strip clubs had rules: services crossing the line weren’t allowed, though certain gray areas existed.

From a legal standpoint, only interaction involving special organs counted as fluid exchange. If those weren’t used, it wasn’t solicitation.

Hands and mouths didn’t count. Judges wouldn’t call it a crime just because someone touched someone else. The Federation’s legal system could be flexible.

Right now, that was exactly what was happening.

The two men froze—likely never having experienced such an awkward moment in their lives.

Then came the dread. Their scalps tightened, and their rage dissolved into helplessness in the face of those black muzzles.

“Get dressed. All of you!”

The squad leader glanced at the kneeling girl. Maybe she was the contact.

Under threat, none of them dared resist. They were quickly taken out of the bar. Only then did the staff realize something had happened—a girl had been taken.

They tried to follow, but the bartender stopped them when he saw the special license plates.

Military plates.

In the Federation, you could offend many people. But not the military. They didn’t play by the rules.

And worse: when they broke the rules, you had no one to appeal to. That was the military.

The vehicles disappeared into the night. When the bar owner learned what had happened, he stayed quiet. He didn’t pursue the matter, and even praised the security guard who had recognized the soldiers and surrendered immediately.

If that idiot had pulled a gun, the bar would’ve been shredded.

As for the customers who got taken?

No problem. As a law-abiding businessman, he hated criminal organizations…

Two hours later, the three were delivered to a restricted zone. At that point, no one could save them.

And they were about to face questions they didn’t have answers to.

Independent Scientists A and B: Who contacted you? Where were you planning to send the intel? What were you promised?

The trembling stripper: Who do you work for? Did they give you the intel? Have you passed it on? Who’s behind you?

No torture was used. The military clearly knew this was just Lynch settling a score. After a year or two in confinement, they’d be released.

It wasn’t exactly suffering. Aside from losing their freedom and being interrogated daily, life was comfortable—no pressure, no competition, meals and lodging included.

Shortly after Lynch returned home, someone came knocking.

It was the manager of the local community services company—clearly sent by someone.

“Mr. Lynch…” The manager, a well-dressed man in his forties, had a slightly servile smile.

Without the smile, he looked rather stern—altogether, a man perfectly suited for the role of a manager.

He carried some gifts—pastries. In the Federation, visiting someone’s home, regardless of the reason, required bringing a small gift. It was tradition.

Lynch had the maid take the items and invited him into the living room.

“Apologies for the sudden visit…”

A bland and direct opener. Lynch motioned for him to continue.

“Well, it seems there’s been some activity around you lately—especially a few days ago, when we received an official notice from the Ministry of National Defense requesting cooperation with an operation.”

“There are also some people in the community now who look like agents…”

At that, Lynch glanced toward two female agents not far away.

Federal personnel always wore their badges in plain sight. Whether police, agents, or tax officers, you could identify them from a distance.

The agents in the neighborhood were no different—one look and people knew who they were.

The two women didn’t react to being mentioned—probably used to having their identities exposed so easily. They didn’t seem to mind anymore.

“Please, go on.” Lynch nodded, lighting a cigarette. “Want one?”

“No, thank you,” the manager replied politely.

He waited until Lynch lit the cigarette before continuing. “There are quite a few defense agents in the community now, and some residents are… uneasy.”

“They feel their peaceful lives have been disturbed, that danger is too close to home, so…” He gave an awkward smile and didn’t finish.

Lynch picked it up for him. “So they asked you to tell me to move out?”

That much was obvious. The manager quickly tried to smooth it over. “Once things settle down, they’d still be happy to have you as a neighbor.”

This was a common feature of the Federation—community exclusion.

It often happened in upper-middle-class neighborhoods. If residents felt someone didn’t fit their social profile, the entire community would pressure them to leave.

It sounded outrageous—where someone chose to live should be a personal right, free from interference.

But in reality, every lawsuit involving community exclusion ended with the community winning.

Judges sided with them. Even society at large held a distorted belief: if you don’t belong in a certain kind of place, don’t force your way in.

It was strange, abnormal—yet somehow considered entirely reasonable.

Community exclusion exposed the coldest side of a capitalist federation. Class boundaries even dictated where one could live. What kind of person lived where and did what—those conclusions were predetermined.

Now the community believed Lynch’s presence posed a threat to their safety. A judge would likely agree.

It seemed Lynch would have no choice but to move.

He fell silent, deep in thought. The manager waited patiently. Though his job today might offend someone, it had to be done.

Once all this blew over, Lynch probably wouldn’t return anyway. They likely wouldn’t cross paths again.

And for his courage today, the community services company would surely reward him with a satisfying contract renewal.

Just as he was feeling confident the matter was settled, Lynch suddenly said:

“I refuse.”