“What… what are you going to do?” Mr. Jonathan nervously shifted in his chair, causing the worn parts beneath it to creak.
The young man smiled at him. “Don’t be nervous, Mr. Jonathan. This is just a routine procedure. You know how when you want to do sothing, soone always asks why—it doesn’t an much, just a necessary step.”
As he spoke, the young man opened the folder and took out the docunts, checking them while asking questions like, Mr. Jonathan, are you fully aware right now? Can you do a simple calculation with these numbers? Do you understand your rights?
After a series of questions, he finally handed Mr. Jonathan his business card. “Mr. Jonathan, here’s my card. I’m representing Golden Exchange Bank’s Sabin City branch today to discuss so issues with you.”
Mr. Jonathan took the card and studied it, feeling a vague sense of foreboding. He nodded.
“Mr. Jonathan…”
Soon after, Mr. Jonathan began to feel dizzy, his ears ringing, his head swelling as if the world could no longer contain it. With the young bank envoy’s constant talking, his head felt ready to explode at any mont.
Through this agonizing ordeal, he understood the young man’s aning: he had violated the loan contract with Golden Exchange Bank. The bank decided to terminate their loan relationship and reclaim all loans plus accrued interest.
Simply put, the bank found that Mr. Jonathan no longer had sufficient funds to cover his debts. Federal law now allowed the bank to auction off his assets.
The envoy was here to inform Mr. Jonathan that besides this apartnt, he had nothing left—his factory, his products, his dreams—all would be auctioned off to repay the bank loan.
Many don’t know what high blood pressure feels like; Mr. Jonathan never did—until now.
It was like a high-pressure pump forcing blood into his head in relentless waves, blood vessels threatening to burst.
Severe hallucinations accompanied the ringing. He faintly heard his wife—thirty years younger—slandering him in the dia.
He heard his deceased father calling from nearby, asking why he clung on and why he didn’t co with him.
His vision blurred, eye pressure rising, eyes swelling and clouding.
A final thought struck his mind: it’s over.
Decades of life, a lifeti of dreams, all lost.
Facing the distorted figure of the bank envoy, a wave of self-destructive rage brewed in Mr. Jonathan’s heart. His face twisted with fury as he gripped the pen on the table, ready to do sothing he never imagined he would—kill the young man who ruined his morning and then jump from the building to end his miserable life.
Suddenly, he froze.
The ringing and hallucinations vanished, his blood pressure dropped rapidly. He rubbed his eyes, slapped his cheeks, and glared fiercely at the bank envoy. “What the hell did you just say?”
The envoy took a step back calmly. “I said if we proceed through proper judicial procedures to auction your assets, the proceeds might not cover your debt. The bank might force you to work for certain companies to repay the balance.”
Mr. Jonathan shook his head. “No, that’s not it. I think I heard sothing else.”
The envoy’s expression shifted knowingly. “Our conversation ends here. May I turn off the recorder?” He nodded toward Mr. Jonathan, smiling kindly and cupping an ear as if listening.
Mr. Jonathan imdiately responded, “Yes, I think our talk is over.”
After switching off the recorder, the young envoy said, “I ntioned that Mr. Lynch is very interested in local companies about to be liquidated. I heard he plans to acquire so to help owners settle loans with the bank. This might be your chance.”
He looked aningfully at Mr. Jonathan, who, overwheld, quickly asked, “Is this the Lynch everyone knows?”
The envoy packed up while nodding. “The very sa—young leader Lynch.”
“Listen, I work for the bank, but I don’t want anyone to suffer. That doesn’t benefit .”
“I reviewed your assets. They might have been worth sothing in a better market, but now, they’re worth less than half your debt. Even if you sell them all, you’ll still owe a large sum.”
“You’ve lost your factory, your hope, and your future looks bleak…” The envoy paused, looking at Mr. Jonathan. “You can’t fight the bank. I know their thods well. Instead of being burdened by this huge debt your whole life, it’s better to take a chance with Mr. Lynch.”
Seeing things from the victim’s perspective won him so sympathy—at least from Mr. Jonathan, who now found the envoy less unpleasant.
Still, he hesitated. “But look at now… will Mr. Lynch even et ?”
The envoy appraised him and nodded with so sympathy. “Not great, I admit…” Then he pulled out two ten-Sol bills. “Consider this a loan. You can thank or not—I accept either.”
“Life is hard enough; I just don’t want any more tragedies.”
At that mont, Mr. Jonathan felt a flicker of kindness, goodness, and love in the world.
Later, he took a shower and rented clothes from a street vendor—a business in poor neighborhoods where people rent modest clothes by the day to those who need sothing passable for interviews.
This was the most humiliating mont of his life: wearing worn, greasy-collared clothes outside a luxurious villa.
He had never felt so out of place in life. The cold wind from the nearby lake gradually brought him back from his unrealistic fantasies.
Now, he thought about the envoy’s words: sell the factory to Mr. Lynch, escape the bank’s debt, find a job or start anew, and say goodbye to the past.
That morning he had thought Mr. Anderson foolish; now he realized Anderson had been smart—at least he had begun a new life, while he still struggled.
After about five minutes, a servant, whose appearance made Mr. Jonathan more aware of his shabby clothes, appeared. “Mr. Lynch is waiting in the side room. Please follow …”
Head bowed, he followed the servant through the opulent rooms, numb from the slap of reality versus dreams.
Finally, he saw Mr. Lynch.
Lynch was on the phone. When he noticed Mr. Jonathan, he motioned toward the door behind him and looked at him.
Just one glance, and Mr. Jonathan understood Lynch wanted him to wait outside. He bowed politely, forcing a smile filled with understanding and submission, and left the room.
He never thought he’d bow like that; he believed he never would.
After a few minutes—three, five, or a bit longer—the door opened. He turned and saw Lynch, as young and vibrant as on TV.
“Mr. Jonathan, my sincere apologies. I just had a very important call and had to rudely ask you to leave. I hope you can forgive my discourtesy.”
Lynch’s words, tone, and smile felt like a warm spring breeze blowing down a hillside—effortless and refreshing. The gentle wind brushed away the chill of winter and cleared the heavy gloom from the heart.
In an instant, a smile appeared on Mr. Jonathan’s face. He bowed humbly, gripping Lynch’s hands tightly. For soone of Lynch’s stature to apologize personally showed true grace.
“It’s a great honor to et you, Mr. Lynch!” he said, with a mix of preserved dignity, gratitude, and an indescribable sigh.
In contrast, Lynch stood tall and upright, like a pillar supporting the sky. Wearing a polite, asured smile and slightly lowered eyelids, he looked down at a man old enough to be his father and said in an ordinary tone, “You’re too kind, Mr. Jonathan.”
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