Blackstone Code

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"Mr. Lynch."

The doctor studied the young man before him, his features slowly aligning with the images that had flickered through his mind moments earlier. As he hesitated, unsure whether to extend his hand or not, Lynch took the initiative and offered his own, sparing the doctor any potential embarrassment.

Had the doctor reached out only for Lynch to ignore it, the awkwardness would have been unbearable—and damaging. In both past and present times, being a doctor was a prestigious profession. Especially now, with rumors swirling that medical conglomerates had successfully lobbied numerous congressmen to separate health insurance from public oversight, the stakes were higher than ever.

If privatization succeeded, hospitals and pharmaceutical companies could set their prices without government regulation. A pill costing mere pennies to produce could be sold for bucks apiece—no fines, no mandatory disclosures, no limits on profiteering. The medical field was becoming increasingly lucrative, but reputation mattered more than ever. A single misstep could turn a respected physician into an industry laughingstock, crippling their career.

Fortunately, Lynch's gentlemanly gesture resolved the situation. It was a privilege afforded to those in power—they could choose to shake hands with inferiors or withhold the courtesy entirely.

"Mr. Lynch, it's an honor…" The doctor's voice trembled slightly, betraying the deep-seated reverence most Baylor Federation citizens held for wealth and influence. He glanced at the girl lying awkwardly on the bed and lowered his voice. "How may I assist you?"

Lynch released the handshake and reiterated his earlier request, adding, "I'll cover all expenses. Do I need to make an advance payment?"

Within minutes, attendants transferred the girl to a private room, where she received top-tier care. Still weak—whether due to lingering anesthesia or something else—her voice remained faint, her complexion pale.

"For what has happened to you, I offer my sincerest apologies," Lynch began, addressing the girl directly. "I didn't anticipate that boy would go so far. As compensation—or whatever you'd like to call it—I want to make amends for this wrongdoing."

He turned to the girl's agent. "You know I'm one of the shareholders of Fox Film. We're preparing to shoot several movies soon, and we'll reserve an important supporting role for her…"

The girl's eyes, previously dull, lit up instantly. She stared intently at Lynch as he continued, "Our budget will exceed seven hundred thousand."

In this era, a film costing seven hundred thousand was considered a major production. Top-tier actors commanded salaries of two hundred thousand (male leads) and one hundred and fifty thousand (female leads), though these figures represented the upper echelon of the industry. Most A-list stars earned between fifty and one hundred and twenty thousand per project. With rising costs across the board, individual film budgets hadn't grown significantly—in fact, some had even shrunk.

After accounting for roughly three hundred thousand allocated to hiring cast and crew, the remaining funds would be poured into production, ensuring a visually stunning and emotionally impactful result. For a girl who had long dreamed of breaking into the industry, this opportunity was nothing short of life-changing.

"In addition," Lynch added, "you'll receive the best treatment available. I spoke with the doctor—he assures me your wounds won't leave unsightly scars."

With a gentle squeeze of her hand, Lynch handed his business card to the agent and departed. His actions stemmed partly from guilt; after all, he had arranged for the young man to meet these women. Though often cold and indifferent, Lynch never shirked responsibility when it came to his own mistakes. Cowardice wasn't in his nature.

Moreover, the girl might prove useful in the future—but even if she didn't, the expense meant little to someone of Lynch's means.

When Lynch returned to the hotel, the young man was already awake. He pressed an ice pack against his swollen, bruised face—a testament to how hard Lynch had struck him. His gaze burned with hatred, yet fear kept him silent.

Lynch strode to the sofa, lit a cigarette, and tossed the lighter onto the table. "Stand up."

The abrupt command left the young man momentarily confused. When no movement followed, Lynch nodded toward the two bodyguards stationed in the corner. "Help him stand."

The soldiers, loyal to Lynch and paid generously for their services, hauled the young man upright. Without warning, Lynch kicked the coffee table, sending it crashing into the young man's shin.

"Ah! You broke my leg!" the young man screamed, thrashing futilely against the soldiers' iron grip. No amount of resistance freed him from their hold.

"This is the Federation," Lynch said calmly, dragging the table back. Its placement on the carpet left minimal scuff marks. He adjusted the ashtray and flicked some ash into it. "Do you understand what 'rule of law' means?" He fixed the young man with a piercing stare.

Pain contorted the young man's face, exposing the terror beneath his bravado. When his usual tactics failed, his facade crumbled, revealing raw vulnerability.

"Lynch…"

With a casual flick, Lynch sent the barely smoked cigarette flying, landing squarely on the young man's face. Whether it grazed his bruised cheek or singed his skin, the young shrieked in pain.

Lynch pulled another cigarette from its case, placed it between his lips, lit it, and took a drag. Pointing at the young man, he said, "Call me 'Mr. Lynch.'"

Tears welled in the young man's eyes, panic rendering him helpless. "Mr. Lynch, I know I was wrong…"

Lynch shook his head. "No, you don't. You're merely submitting to pain, apologizing because you have no choice. But do you truly understand your mistake?"

"This is your first lesson. This is a society governed by laws—not Nagalier, where rulers can pay ten thousand galiars to absolve themselves of murder. Here, every action carries consequences. If that girl files charges against you, just a few accusations could land you in prison for life."

"I promised your father I'd bring you here to experience freedom, not lose it. Clearly, you're unprepared."

He waved dismissively. "Let him go. Let him stand on his own."

As the soldiers released him, the young man nearly collapsed again. His legs, which had borne none of his weight until now, buckled under the strain. The impact of the coffee table reverberated through his calf, sending waves of agony coursing through his body. Sweat poured down his face, drenching him in discomfort.

But defiance was out of the question. Fear had taken root, transforming the once-familiar peer from their days at sea into someone terrifying.

"You made a mess, and I cleaned it up," Lynch said coldly. "This is the last time. If you overstep again and force me to deal with your recklessness…" He pointed at the young man, leaving the punishment unspoken.

It was precisely this ambiguity that unnerved him most. Unknown threats loomed largest in the human psyche, conjuring fears beyond imagination. The young man couldn't help but wonder: Would Lynch kill him? Like his father had done, ordering his uncle to drown his pregnant girlfriend in that shallow river?

To the young man, such an act seemed plausible—the ultimate punishment.

"I… won't do it again, Mr. Lynch."

Lynch nodded, gesturing for him to sit on the couch. Then he walked to the phone beside the living room and dialed Adam's number.

Twenty minutes later, Adam arrived, impeccably dressed and carrying a briefcase. His confident stride betrayed his recent success. Over the past weeks, he'd assembled a team and founded a law firm, basking in newfound prosperity. Yet, standing before Lynch, humility remained intact. Knowledge sharpened his mind, but money filled his stomach.

Lynch pointed at the young man. "You have two days to teach our foreign friend what is permissible—and what isn't—in the Baylor Federation."

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