“I might need to take a break for a while. I’ll leave the little ones here in your care…”
Mr. Fox, dressed in waterproof overalls, gently patted the cheek of a horse poking its head out of the stable, a bit sentintal.
He said goodbye to each of the horses, then checked on his cattle and gave the staff instructions for the coming period.
Their main job was to take care of the animals.
Mr. Fox had once been a farr. Later, things changed for him, but no matter what, his blood carried a love for the farming life.
That’s how people are. When they’re poor, anything they do is seen as a betrayal of their nature—oppression, injustice, the cruelty of society.
Look at the rich: sitting around luxury furniture, dressed impeccably, sipping coffee the poor can’t afford, chatting about things that are stressful at best, but mostly just boring.
They don’t have to lift a finger to enjoy wealth and everything it brings. And the poor? All they can do is deal with horse shit, cow shit, and dog shit.
But once soone gets rich, the very work they once saw as a symbol of their suffering becos nostalgic—aspirational even. A lifestyle choice.
Mr. Fox once left that farm life behind because he didn’t want to spend his whole life buried in animals and manure. That’s why he ca to the city.
But now that he had money, he found the farr’s life more suited to him after all.
Since stepping back from Fox Pictures, he spent every day on his farm tending to the animals. If the people on the farm didn’t know he was wealthy, few would believe he was actually rich.
That’s life. To the rich, life is enjoynt. To the poor, it’s suffering.
Because of money.
After giving all the instructions, he returned to the wash area, took off his waterproof overalls, sprayed himself with disinfectant, and then left the animal enclosure.
Outside on the farm road were three vehicles marked with the Federal Tax Bureau’s emblem and abbreviation, along with agents who were clearly special operatives.
This day wasn’t unexpected. For those walking in the gray areas, you never know whether disaster or the governnt will show up first.
Being visited by the Tax Bureau was better than soone from his past showing up with a gun.
Mr. Fox wasn’t flustered. Calmly, he extended his hands toward an agent standing by the door. “Do I need to wear handcuffs?”
The agent shook his head. “This is just an investigation, Mr. Fox. You’re not under arrest. Please get in the vehicle.”
Mr. Fox smiled as he stepped into the car. He clearly felt the changes—how wealth, social influence, and status altered everything.
In the past, he would likely have been pinned to the ground by three n—one possibly pressing on his windpipe or chest to reduce his oxygen intake, cutting off any chance of resistance.
But now? No handcuffs.
The vehicle soon pulled away. Nothing major changed on the farm. Though Mr. Fox had been taken, Fox Jr. was still there. No one saw this as a threat to the Fox family business.
“You guys said sothing about assisting in an investigation earlier?” Mr. Fox asked curiously in the car, adding with a laugh, “Helping you investigate ?”
These people had shown up at his farm and told him he needed to co with them—after they verified their identities, of course. But now he was unsure if “assisting” was just a polite term, or if sothing else was going on.
He wanted so hint, so he could be ready.
But no one in the vehicle responded. The atmosphere inside was heavy. Then Mr. Fox noticed another problem: the route they were taking wasn’t toward the city.
He’d taken the road from the farm to Sabin City more tis than he could count. Maybe not blindfolded, but he wouldn’t mistake it.
This wasn’t it. The vehicle had turned at a fork it shouldn’t have. The new road led to the interstate—not to Sabin City.
Seeing this, he didn’t panic. His years in the gray zones of society gave him a sharper instinct than most. He glanced at the two agents beside him. The aura of authority and arrogance around them wasn’t fake.
So, where was the issue?
He decided to probe: “Hey, this isn’t the road to Sabin City.”
Still no response. That made Mr. Fox less composed. These n were from the State Tax Bureau.
Federal taxes in the Federation co in three tiers: federal, state, and local. The complexity of the system confuses most citizens their whole lives.
Which is why accounting is such a hot profession in the Federation.
It’s absurd, but more than half the population doesn’t know how to correctly report their inco. It’s both funny and a sign of how ssy the tax system is.
Under normal circumstances, you’d rarely deal with the State Tax Bureau.
If you do, that ans the situation isn’t simple. Because at that level, their authority goes beyond what most people think of as “administrative.”
Put simply, the local tax bureau is like the lackeys shouting at the front lines during a street fight—blustering, but limited in what force they can use.
The State Tax Bureau, though, is different. They’re the real fightersIn the middle was a parking lot, flanked on both sides by so plain-looking single-story buildings. Nothing about the place stood out, yet many people’s futures had ended here.
As the car parked, Mr. Fox noticed two armored vehicles marked York State Tax Bureau. The machine guns mounted on them seed to warn anyone watching: this was no ordinary facility.
After a full day and night of travel without rest, Mr. Fox was imdiately invited into what was clearly an interrogation room.
The room had no windows, only a tal door. Inside were a table and two chairs, all covered in rubber and bolted to the floor.
He was brought in first and waited for a while before a middle-aged man in a suit entered.
The man had what people called a green-shadowed face—a term for those with extrely thick facial hair. If he shaved it all off, his jaw would appear bluish-black.
“Mr. Fox…” the man said, walking across from him and glancing at the file in his hand, as if searching for Mr. Fox’s na.
He already knew who Fox was, but did this deliberately—to assert dominance, to set the tone.
Mr. Fox nodded. “Yes, that’s .”
The man grinned. “Good. Mr. Fox, do you know why we’re eting here today?”
Mr. Fox shook his head. I don’t.
“No—you do,” the man said, gently shaking his own head as if disagreeing, while sizing Fox up and down.
“Look at you—no spring chicken, but clearly doing well for yourself. Doesn’t look like you’ve suffered much, right?”
“There’s no need for us to lie to each other here. If we brought you in, it’s because we’ve got sothing on you. Don’t fool yourself into thinking you can escape our investigation.”
“Before things beco irreversible, tell us what you’ve done. We both get to keep our dignity, and you might still walk away with a decent outco. What do you say?”
Mr. Fox, sitting across from him, also shook his head. “I truly don’t know what you’re talking about. I’ve paid every cent I owe in taxes.”
The man casually pulled a few docunts from the file and slid them across the table. “Take a look at these—do they look familiar?”
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