Chapter 52: No Matter the Choices, One Must Be Made—Then Bear the Consequences

The Director of the Federal Tax Bureau in Sabin City had an unremarkable name: Johnson.

Johnson didn’t come from a prestigious background. In the days when people still believed that dreams could be achieved through hard work, it wasn’t difficult to stand out—as long as one dared to fight, had courage, and a bit of luck.

But nowadays, without any external support, becoming the tax bureau director of a second-tier city was likely the end of the road for someone like Johnson.

What he now needed to think about was how to secure his maximum retirement pension and ensure his remaining years wouldn’t be miserable.

Many assumed that a director at the Federal Tax Bureau—even in a small city—would secretly be wealthy, with large savings and real estate. That wasn’t the case.

Most mid-level federal officials lived far more modestly than people imagined. In contrast, the frontline staff often had more complex income sources.

But for administrative personnel who spent all day in an office and were already under the supervision of the Inspectorate, where could illicit income even come from?

Still, various donations and social benefits were legitimate income. The high salaries and premium social insurance provided by the federal government were intended to minimize the chances of them being influenced by undesirable forces or becoming someone’s pawn.

Of course, that didn’t mean Johnson was poor. Sometimes, poverty didn’t just refer to money—it applied to power as well.

He was, in every sense, someone of middling status. If he could keep his pension, it would be even better.

At the moment, he was deeply troubled. The joint operation between the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Federal Tax Bureau had failed, meaning he couldn’t quickly smooth over the current crisis. If higher-ups got truly angry, his days ahead wouldn’t be easy.

Now he somewhat regretted being so lenient with Michael. It was precisely because he was nearing retirement and didn’t want to offend anyone that he had gradually tolerated the flaws of his subordinates.

Just as he was racking his brain, the phone rang. He frowned. From the signal light, he could tell it was an external line. Since the call had made it past his secretary, it must be worth answering.

He took a few deep breaths, steadied his nerves, and picked up the phone…

Later, Director Johnson informed the elderly lady at home that he had a social engagement that evening and wouldn’t be home for dinner.

He lived with his children, in a neighborhood next to Michael’s. While the environment wasn’t quite as nice—fewer trees, less community infrastructure—the houses were larger and could accommodate more people.

Thinking about all these annoyances, he drove to the warehouse district on the outskirts of the city and parked by the roadside nearby.

About ten meters ahead was a barbecue shop. It sold only three items: minced beef patties, whole-wheat buns, and some fresh vegetables.

There was no whole-cut steak here. The locals couldn’t afford it. It was the same kind of minced beef patties Lynch used to eat when he lived with Katherine—ground meat mashed again and formed into patties.

These patties had additional ingredients—whole wheat grains, soon-to-expire crushed nuts, and other cheap filler.

Dinner hours had just ended, but the shop was still crowded. A thick patty for 98 cents, with vegetables on the side, and unlimited free buns—this was how blue-collar workers replenished their energy after grueling labor.

Almost every laborer in the warehouse district ate here. The nameless shop had become quite famous in the area.

Johnson wasn’t used to the place. The air reeked of sweat and other unnamed odors. Given the rising heat and full days of manual labor, these workers obviously didn’t smell great.

He looked around. The blue-overalled laborers deliberately kept their distance from him. His expensive outfit was obvious, and no one wanted to risk a month’s wages by bumping into him.

Soon, he spotted Lynch. Lynch waved him over and ordered another patty and bun from the owner.

“This is your idea of dinner?” Johnson said with displeasure as he sat down. Lynch had called him out to discuss recent events, and Johnson was beginning to suspect something.

He hadn’t intended to compromise with Lynch. Michael had been thoroughly disgraced, and the Tax Bureau had lost face. But the pressure was immense, and he was forced to choose the very option he least wanted—perhaps that was what it meant to be mature.

Still, even in maturity, he could retain his attitude toward Lynch—there was no contradiction there.

Lynch shrugged indifferently, tore apart a bun, used it to mop up the meat sauce on the plate, then stuffed it into his mouth. After chewing, he swallowed.

He brushed crumbs off his fingers, picked up a fork and knife, cut a piece of the patty, and said with a smile, “It’s not as bad as you think. You should try it.”

At that moment, the shop owner’s wife—a woman in her forties—rudely plopped a plate and a basket of buns on the table.

Johnson glanced at the woman’s retreating back, then at Lynch, and finally, with a resigned sigh, tore a piece of bun like Lynch had.

When he bit into the sauce-soaked bun, it was surprisingly not unpleasant. The aroma, paired with the chewy whole-wheat bread, created an unexpectedly tasty combination.

He raised an eyebrow, cut a piece of the patty, and ate it. It wasn’t as good as a $9 or $39 premium steak, but it was tender, juicy, and full of varied flavors—not bad at all.

As they ate, they began talking. The surrounding noise and constant foot traffic ensured their conversation remained private, even if spoken loudly.

“I called you with sincerity. From the very beginning, I’ve only been a victim—if you’ve looked into what happened,” Lynch said.

Johnson had no choice but to nod. He had indeed looked into it. Michael, in pursuit of political achievements, had tried to take down Fox for career advancement, and had dragged Lynch into the mess. Whether or not Lynch had committed any crimes, he was at least innocent so far, while Michael had relentlessly pursued him.

With that nod, the conversation could continue. Lynch spoke while eating, “You know I’m a coward, always avoiding trouble. A journalist even suggested I sue you guys—but I didn’t. Meeting hatred with hatred isn’t the best solution. I chose tolerance…”

Johnson looked at the shameless man waiting for his reaction and forced a reluctant smile. “Yes, you’re very magnanimous.”

Lynch grinned, satisfied. “Right, I am magnanimous—always have been. I don’t want to dwell on the problems between us caused by Michael. I want to solve them. I have a proposal—see if you’re interested.”

Johnson quickly finished his patty, ending the disappointing meal. He looked at the stained napkin on the table, then took out his own handkerchief and wiped his mouth. “Go ahead…”

“As far as I know, there are others laundering money in Sabin. Their methods are… crude.” Lynch gave a helpless smile. Maybe your focus should shift to them.”

Johnson frowned slightly. “Even if I arrested them all, it wouldn’t calm things down.”

Lynch had nearly finished his meal. He picked up the last bun and wiped the remaining sauce clean from the plate, then stuffed it into his mouth. Growing up poor made him treasure every bite.

While still chewing, he said, “This is just a personal conflict between Michael and me—it shouldn’t be elevated to a matter of public interest. You already have solid achievements. With that foundation, the public will listen to your explanations. This has nothing to do with the Tax Bureau. Add in young Michael’s case, and maybe Michael’s actions were just personal revenge…”

He smiled, fingers naturally interlocked, thumbs against his chin, watching Johnson. He believed the older man understood what he meant.

In the first few seconds, Johnson’s face was full of contemplation, even impatience. But then, his expression began to change—he understood Lynch’s implication.

He knew Michael’s son had been arrested for a home burglary and had already confessed and begun early sentencing. If the timeline and cause-effect were reversed, and Michael’s actions against Lynch were seen as efforts to suppress the case to protect his son, then the whole narrative changed.

Simply put, if young Michael had stolen Lynch’s ring, and Lynch reported it, then Michael’s subsequent harassment of Lynch was a personal vendetta—not an overreach of federal power. It was a private matter.

A government official breaking the law to shield his son’s crime—using violence to pressure the victim into silence…

Seeing the change gradually take over Director Johnson’s face, Lynch knew he had understood. He gently reminded him, “This is murder.”

In an instant, Johnson’s mind was thrown into chaos. Indeed, he truly hated Michael now—the bastard had disgraced him and jeopardized his retirement. But was this going too far?

He knew the whole story was fabricated. But sometimes, the public didn’t know that. With the right people fanning the flames, Lynch—positioned as the victim—had the most convincing narrative. If he spoke out, and the federal government followed suit to quell public outrage, Michael would be condemned by all.

Still… wasn’t this too ruthless? Sacrificing a man’s future—perhaps an entire family’s—just to settle the situation?

Watching Johnson’s hesitation, Lynch said quietly, “You’re a good man, sir. But you also understand the gravity of the situation. On one side, there’s a disgraced investigation team leader whose record is full of misconduct, someone who’s been a headache to both you and the citizens of Sabin. On the other side, there’s the entire federal law enforcement apparatus—and the criminals currently celebrating.”

“Sometimes, it’s hard to choose—but we still have to choose.”

“One… or all. It’s not that hard.”