Blackstone Code

You shouldn’t have done that!

No, you should have!

When people share experience, if they only tell others what to choose or do without explaining the consequences of wrong choices or the outcomes of success, it’s hard for anyone to truly remember.

Right now, a new wave of public opinion is about to rise. After the initial irrational reactions, people are starting to approach the issue of overseas federation citizens’ rights more rationally.

The same problem has happened again. How should we respond?

Should we stand up and demand the rights we deserve, or pretend nothing happened and remain indifferent?

Some say this is the best moment to push the Overseas Security Law forward, but one key thing is missing: comparison.

People need to realize the great value of the Overseas Security Law, how it protects their property and lives, for society to fully support it.

While Lynch was reading the newspaper, a call came through to a phone outside the restaurant.

He glanced at it; the maid picked up the phone and handed it to him.

Many phones in the room had long cords, specially designed for wealthy users.

The manufacturer used advanced materials, making the phones exquisite. The base held a retractable cord reel.

You could easily carry the phone around without the cord limiting you; it would unwind from the small hole.

When finished, placing the phone back and pressing a button made the reel retract the cord neatly.

After the maid handed the phone over and stepped outside, Lynch answered.

An eager voice came through: “Mr. Lynch, I have a business deal. Are you interested?”

Lynch dabbed his mouth with a napkin—there wasn’t really any grease—pulled out a cigarette, lit it with his million-Sol lighter.

The flame burned the tobacco, making a faint crisp sound barely audible.

The lit cigarette glowed brightly; his fingers holding it felt the heat radiating.

“What business?” he asked, exhaling smoke that drifted upward, blending with the air.

The voice sounded about thirty, with a hint of pride—or arrogance.

“A big deal!”

Lynch exhaled sharply; the smoke shot forward like an arrow. He shook his head. “Sorry, I don’t know you. You must have the wrong number.”

He hung up, returned to his newspaper, and pointed toward the maid outside, “Bring me a coffee, no sugar.”

At the other end, a man in his thirties stared at the phone in disbelief. He couldn’t believe Lynch had hung up on him!

He was a member of the Duncan family—though his shares were barely one ten-thousandth.

Still, that was not the smallest stake in the Duncan family. The dividends alone let him live lavishly.

He, a Duncan family member, had been hung up on. The shock mingled with anger. No one had ever dared treat him that way.

The men chatting in the room noticed and someone asked, “Did Lynch agree?”

The young middle-aged man snapped back to reality, shook his head, and hung up the receiver. “He… hung up on me.”

The laughter and chatter stopped. All eyes turned to him.

He grew nervous. Outside, he was a Duncan lord, but here he was the least important.

“He said he doesn’t know me and hung up,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t think we should give him this deal. He’s nothing.”

The conversation resumed, quieter than before.

One man glanced at him sideways. “This is Uncle Geruno’s decision. If you don’t like it, tell him yourself in his study.”

Some chuckled—they probably knew the story.

The Duncan family was a secretive, prestigious clan, which caused some younger members to feel strange resentment.

They were dissatisfied with the Federation.

Walking the streets, no one fawned over them for their name, but people adored toy-like celebrities.

When talking about the Federation’s most powerful, they mentioned people they felt unworthy to even shine Duncan’s shoes.

They were great yet so detached from society, which bred an odd arrogance.

It was a feeling like, Only I know how excellent I am. If you knew too, we couldn’t be equals. A kind of inner brilliance but mostly hidden pride.

The young man shook his head, said nothing.

The first speaker continued, “If you won’t act, keep calling Lynch. Tell him we have business to discuss.”

“Uncle Geruno wants an answer soon. You understand?” Then he softened his gaze and chatted amicably.

The young man’s face changed. He picked up the phone again.

“Mr. Lynch, I apologize for my earlier tone. I am from the Duncan family…” He gave his name. “We want to entrust you with a business.”

Lynch listened, sipped coffee, and watched the maid’s skirt.

He swore he wasn’t looking at her behind, just studying the lace trim on her short skirt.

The maid seemed to enjoy showing off her pretty, light skirt. She moved nearby, sometimes bending slightly.

This morning’s coffee was excellent!

Lynch took a sip of coffee, licked his lips, and after admiring for about ten seconds, came back to his senses. “I don’t like discussing business over the phone. If you have something, meet me in person. If you know where my company is…”

He hung up again, picked up the newspaper, but his eyes fell on the maid’s skirt.

On the other end, the young middle-aged man was stunned. He didn’t know if Lynch was crazy or what—he had hung up twice.

Though he was a minor figure in the Duncan family, this call represented the family patriarch, Mr. Geruno.

Did Lynch really understand nothing?

Of course Lynch understood—and much more than others did.

“Mr. Lynch, please pull your legs in…”

Lynch pulled his legs in. The girl turned and bent over to clean under the table—work that should have waited until Lynch left, not now.

Looking at the skirt less than a foot away, Lynch suddenly wanted to feel its fabric and texture.

“You weren’t here last time, right?” To ease the awkwardness, Lynch made small talk.

There was no professional management team at the hillside villa to handle Lynch’s house and life. The maids and temporary housekeepers were assigned by the community.

When Lynch returned, he’d tell the community how long he’d stay, and they’d arrange staff to care for him.

When he left, these people moved on or temporarily lost their jobs.

Finding work then wasn’t easy, especially decent pay for light work that preserved dignity.

The maid seemed happy Lynch liked her short skirt. She didn’t stand straight but kept bending, clearly dedicated to her work.

“Yes, Mr. Lynch, I just started at the end of last year…” She paused, biting her lip, then continued.

Lynch nodded. “What did you do before?”

He explained his reason lightly, “You don’t seem very experienced at this job.”

“I used to be a company receptionist, and I was a model for a while…”

Lynch understood now. He didn’t say no wonder, but retracted his hand, already familiar with the skirt’s texture and lace.

“I have to get to work…” He stood and placed the newspaper on the dining table.

The girl looked at him, hopeful, nervous, and uneasy. “Mr. Lynch, can I stay?”

As a temporary maid, she was paid hourly.

Even if she worked here daily, the community service company only paid for ten hours a day.

The pay was better than outside hourly jobs, but she wanted to become a permanent maid, paid weekly or monthly.

That meant more money and stable work—no worries about where her next income would come from when not hired.

Some girls had other reasons; they didn’t originally plan to be maids but had different goals.

The community company knew this well. Hiring many quality girls cheaply was acceptable, as long as they weren’t too excessive, they turned a blind eye.

Whether she could stay depended on her own ability.

Lynch paused and studied her. The girl nervously fidgeted, unsure where to put her hands.

“I’ll consider it.”