Chapter 8: We Have Our Rules

“There’s nothing here…”

Another investigator, unaware of what had happened, dumped all the old clothes from two boxes onto the ground, even breaking apart the wooden crates they came in.

There were no coins or change—no hundreds or thousands of coins as the tip claimed, not even a single coin.

The investigator facing off felt this was impossible. They had nearly completed their investigation and knew that a kid named Lynch had been exchanging coins on a large scale in ways people couldn’t imagine.

Before Lynch appeared, no one would have exchanged coins at such a loss. He broke new ground, and the Seabin tax investigators believed his seemingly endless coin exchanges were for Fox.

During this time, Lynch had only dealt with Fox. In recent days, the laundry shop under Fox’s name showed a sharp rise in declared taxes, leading the Seabin tax bureau to see Lynch as a key player.

Actually, they had been watching him since the day before yesterday. Based on his routine, he should now be delivering collected coins to the laundry, ostensibly to do laundry, but in reality to conduct illegal transactions.

Then he would continue exchanging coins until he accumulated enough again.

If they caught the coins in his hands, marked them, then had Lynch deliver the coins to the laundry, the evidence chain would be complete.

Once Fox declared taxes, officials would send inspectors to verify the documents and arrest him on the spot.

Everything was planned, but here, something went wrong. Apart from old clothes, there was not a single coin in the cart. Where had the money gone?

For three to eight seconds, the investigator’s gaze went blank briefly, then he turned and pointed at Lynch. “Be careful…”

He brushed his coat and quickly left with another investigator. They had to rush to another scene.

Their experience told them not to rely solely on this group. Another team raided Lynch’s temporary residence. If the money wasn’t here, it had to be in his room.

Still, the investigator felt it wouldn’t be that simple. Lynch was hard to read, nothing like a naïve young man just out of school still in awe of the world.

Lynch watched the investigators leave the alley, spat on the ground, bent down to pick up the clothes, then pushed his cart out.

Sunlight hit his face, showing no sign of the earlier humiliation or the punch—no change in his smile as if nothing had happened.

Minutes later, he arrived at the laundry and went straight to the back storage room. After greeting two young workers, they began dismantling the cart.

The cart was large, with a sturdy steel frame reinforced with steel wires, so the investigator hadn’t bothered a detailed inspection.

The laundry manager handed Lynch a cigarette and lit it, apologizing, “I already know what happened, but we didn’t get involved to help you…”

Lynch’s eyes passed over the manager’s shoulder as he watched the workers struggling to lift the dismantled steel tubes, tipping them toward a basket.

With a clattering of metal, coins poured out like a stream from the tubes.

Lynch shrugged indifferently at the manager. “It’s fine. I always have to deal with them. That’s why I refuse—it’s trouble I don’t want.”

Fox had offered Lynch a high salary of three thousand a month.

In a society where the average monthly income was only two or three hundred, ten times that salary would tempt many—but not Lynch.

He knew someone like Fox, skirting the gray areas, would be watched his whole life. If he agreed, he’d become one of them, always monitored.

Not joining meant his youth and naïveté kept him under the radar.

By the time people noticed him, he’d already made his initial fortune.

Besides, he looked down on a man lending money to the poor in a small town.

The manager smiled but said nothing. Lynch asked, “Who’s the guy that hit me?”

The manager lowered his head, smoking, eyes hidden by hair and smoke, making it impossible to read his real feelings.

“Michael, head of the Seabin federal tax investigation team. He’s trouble—you’d better not get any wrong ideas.”

The manager warned kindly. The federal tax bureau was its own system, with investigators, agents, operatives, even its own militarized unit.

It sounded ridiculous, but it was true—a formal, well-trained military unit to handle armed tax resistance.

Newcomers were told they could do most things they wanted but had to file taxes by the seventh of each month, or else…

Michael, as head of the tax investigation team, was mid-level but not the highest rank.

Even Fox wouldn’t offend him without cause. Tax investigators found faults on everyone.

No one could perfectly remember every income and tax ratio; a single decimal error could land you in jail.

Lynch nodded, took a deep drag from his cigarette. “I know. Next time I see him, I’ll step aside.”

The manager patted Lynch’s shoulder, not pushing the topic. “How much this time?”

“No loose change, four thousand five hundred.”

The manager was briefly stunned, then laughed, pulling out several bundles of old five and ten bills tied with rubber bands.

For society, these bills were like the coins in the laundry—no one could trace every coin’s history.

The tax bureau could only accept the laundry’s declared amounts, making the money clean and depositing it under supervision.

Lynch rolled up the money and put it back in the cart. After waiting for the dirty clothes to be washed, he gathered them and left.

Meanwhile, another group raided Lynch’s temporary residence but found neither coins nor anything valuable.

“Damn it!”

Without solid evidence and having alerted Lynch and Fox, they faced more trouble and possibly a halted investigation.