Blackstone Code

Mike understood his brother’s feelings.

Love hits like a hammer to the head, making you lose control.

But most of the time, love is just self-deception.

Because he understood, Mike had to put out this flame born of hormones and impulse.

“You don’t love her. You just like her young body. She doesn’t love you either; she only likes the pocket money you give her after.”

His brother’s face twisted with anger. He believed this was the truest love of his life, maybe his last.

Normally, he wasn’t so foolish—but something about this girl made him dumber.

Or maybe girls always have some kind of magic that makes men believe every word they say.

Mike watched his brother silently battling himself. He shook his head. “I’m not stopping you from seeing her, but go during the day. Not at night. You can’t go out now.”

“I can’t knowingly send you into danger. If you really like her, go see her tomorrow during the day. Talk to her then.”

Mike planned to send his brother back to the Federation or to a nearby international port once his men returned. Staying here was likely to cause trouble.

Across the world, similar stories were unfolding—men working abroad hooking up with local girls, then getting tied down with pregnancy and other complications, leading to many dramas.

Watching those stories in the news was entertaining—living through them was not.

As his brother resisted, someone knocked on the door.

Both stopped and stared at the closed shop door.

Mike’s hand went under his pillow, gripping his gun. “We’re closed.”

Seconds later, thinking they were alone, Mike heard a girl’s voice, trembling, calling his brother’s name.

They hadn’t noticed the subtle tremble during their argument.

“Is that you?” his brother called, rushing to the door. His face lit up with eager life.

Mike paused, reminded of when he was eighteen and saw his brother steal a kiss—hopeful, shy, anxious.

But now, his brother looked older.

He knew his brother wasn’t truly happy—there was no passionate love with his wife.

They had just met through acquaintances, watched a few movies, slept together, and married.

No fiery emotions, no love story—just despair and submission to fate.

At that moment, Mike softened.

His brother smiled with a hint of pleading, just like the sixteen-year-old who’d once knocked on their back door with pebbles, disturbing them upstairs.

He looked at Mike and asked if he could go out, or bring the girl in.

Mike didn’t hear the words clearly but understood.

After a brief silence, he nodded, “Okay. I’ll sleep in the attic…”

His brother excitedly moved to the door, pulling out the heavy bolts.

It was past six, dark winter night with no passersby.

As the door was about to open, Mike said, “You shouldn’t have told her where we live. She might keep coming after you. Think about your wife and kids back home.”

His brother froze, looking hurt. “I never told her where we live…”

It was like when their father lost a Sol at fourteen and accused them. Mike denied involvement coldly; his brother looked wronged—just like now.

Suddenly, a powerful force slammed the door from outside, knocking his brother off balance.

Before he could react—probably thinking, Why is my lover so strong?—a gun appeared.

Bang.

His brother’s head exploded like a pumpkin they’d dropped from their treehouse as kids, bright red brains and pale seeds spilling out.

Mike’s mind went blank. He reached for his gun downstairs but was too late.

A barely clothed, wounded girl was thrown inside, followed by a group who immediately spotted Mike in the attic.

Within thirty seconds, gunshots rang out, and silence returned.

Mike’s shop stayed closed for days, causing some prospectors to wonder but not question much.

Sometimes they shut down for a few days—restocking from the Federation or handling big deals.

Luckily, Mike wasn’t the only Federation trader here. Others supplied goods: gun oil, shoe polish, hair wax, cigarettes, film, magnesium sticks.

Various items, including valuable goods like fine glassware, traded well here. Some Federation luxuries sold well among locals.Four days later, several of Mike’s relatives returned from the international port. As they walked, they worried about leaving the two brothers alone.

Some went back home, while these stayed to look after things here.

They joked and laughed until they entered the shop and saw a stranger, a local man, sitting behind the iron bars.

Their smiles froze. Before they could question him, several men blocked the door, trapping them inside.

After a brief noisy commotion, a tall, thin local slammed the shop door shut.

More than half an hour later, the shop reopened. The floor looked cleaned, with a faint strange smell lingering.

Late at night, a group of locals dragged heavy bags to the place where they had hidden things before and carelessly dumped them. Wild dogs and cats would clean up the traces.

What they didn’t expect was that shortly after they left, several gold prospectors disguised as Federation men hurried over.

They pulled out knives and slit open the bags, revealing the bodies of the Federation men who had just returned from the international port that day.

A week later, back in the Federation, the wave of protests about overseas merchants’ rights was dying down.

The marches had marched, the demonstrations—well, the fried chicken was eaten—no, the demonstrations had taken place, the fried chicken was just a side note.

Public opinion feasted on the uproar, then things seemed to fade. People’s attention shifted from wealthy foreign merchants back to domestic unemployment issues.

That morning, a man dressed in a suit and carrying a briefcase left his home, warmly greeting neighbors.

In the Federation, there was an unspoken rule: the social status of a family determined the community they lived in.

Residents had the power to reject outsiders buying homes and moving in, making community social and political life a crucial part of Federation society.

Neighbors could be allies or obstacles, so everyone maintained friendliness and enthusiasm.

After greeting, the man tossed his briefcase onto the passenger seat and drove out of the quiet neighborhood.

As he entered the main road, a newspaper boy ran past on the sidewalk, shouting loudly.

The man glanced over instinctively. A crowd gathered, people grabbing newspapers with coins, then leaving angrily.

What happened?

Curious, the man checked his watch—he had time to stop briefly.

He parked by the curb and honked twice. A small head popped out from the crowd.

“Sir, want a paper?”

“Just printed, still smelling of fresh ink!”

The man pulled a one-Sol bill from his pocket, holding it between his fingers.

“Any special news?”

“Yes. A Federation family running a shop in Sugra was killed by locals…”

The newsboy handed over the paper and carefully took the bill, adjusting his cap respectfully—probably influenced by the car.

The man read the front-page headline and saw the raw, mangled corpses. His scalp tightened sharply.

Though he felt little sympathy for them, the photos stirred a unique feeling.

What angered him more was that the gang not only robbed Mike’s business and killed them but took over the shop themselves.

They operated without fear, not even worried about police interference.

That morning, in less than half an hour, countless calls flooded the presidential office.

Some even curiously called Lynch.

“Mr. Lynch, I have a business opportunity. Are you interested?”