In the bright room, Preton lay on the bed, watching the brand new TV. He had to marvel that the Federation truly was the most suitable country for people to live in this world.
This is a country of multi-ethnic integration, where on the streets, you can see any race you believe exists in this world. People won’t stop soone from breathing just because their skin color is different.
It’s just a good-natured joke, after all, this is the land of freedom, a fair and just country, where such things wouldn’t happen.
He once lived in Gafura for a ti, and the situation there was much worse. The arrogance and self-importance of the Gafurans made them look down on all races except their own.
They would give all sorts of unpleasant nicknas to non-Gafura ethnicities they saw, and if you took them seriously or got angry, they would look at you arrogantly and inquire in an infuriating tone, can’t you tell it’s just a joke?
If you continued to be angry, they would attack you as "inferior species of the uncultivated lower races, who would never understand the humor of the superior people" until you’re crushed by their words or punch them and end up in jail.
If you withstood their sarcasm, they would proceed to call you by "nickna na," eventually just "nickna," and it was an unpleasant one too.
But here, there is no discrimination. Everyone is equal. You can freely flip the bird to those well-dressed gentlen and ladies without any repercussions, or stand by the door in the evening and curse at the Governor or the President when your neighbor cos ho to strike up a conversation, without worrying that the gendarrie would appear before you and hang you in the square.
Advanced technology, a more inclusive society, as long as your pockets are full of money, this place is simply paradise.
Preton thought he should find a ti to go to the countryside, where the docunt managent system is loose, and there aren’t any surveillance agencies constantly watching over that area.
Through certain ans, he could easily slip his birth certificate into so small town’s archives, making himself a Federation citizen.
The money in his secret account was enough for him to squander here for a lifeti. It was ti to say goodbye to the past.
He took a bite of the hotdog, the rich cheese and various sauces wrapping around the sausage made him want to take another bite.
The TV was broadcasting so news related to Nagariel, saying that through the President’s efforts, the Nagariel United Developnt Company had recruited about thirty-five thousand workers for construction teams, heading to Nagariel in batches to help the Nagariel people get rid of poverty and hunger.
The President also promised that they would open more international trade channels, building possibilities for mutual comrce with more countries, allowing Federation products to be sold worldwide!
The people on TV were cheering and dancing, as if overnight, the Federation’s economic issues had been resolved, and the President’s personal approval ratings were soaring.
Preton was sowhat envious as he watched. In his eyes, the Federation and its people were contradictory, they were pathetic—most of them spent their entire lives essentially serving capitalists and helping capitalists exploit and oppress themselves.
Almost from birth, the fates of about ninety-nine percent of them were already determined and would not change.
Yet they were happy, because in this country, sensitive matters like identity and class weren’t as clear-cut as in Gafura.
Each class of people can enjoy privileges corresponding to their class. Commoners will never enter the venues or facilities exclusive to nobles. They’re not even allowed to use household items that bear certain special symbols or patterns, as those are for the nobles only.
But look at here, as long as people have money in their pockets, they can visit most places frequented by tycoons and politicians, and as long as they can pay, they can enjoy everything that a small fraction of the top echelon can enjoy.
It’s contradictory and also enviable.
Light footsteps ca from outside the door. Preton placed the hotdog on the bedside table and quickly slipped one hand under the pillow beside him, gripping a pistol.
In the Federation, as long as he had money, he could buy anything, including a pistol with the serial number filed off.
The cool, heavy feel of the gun gave him a slight sense of security. Then the door opened.
A young girl in plain clothes walked in, carrying a paper bag, casually dropping it by the bed, and started changing clothes.
She didn’t avoid the man on the bed, nor did she bother to fully draw the curtains as she took off her outerwear, changed into a tube top, and then into a sowhat conservative won’s shirt; she was about to go to work, and her job at the supermarket required her to dress conservatively.
Ever since she started living with Preton, her life gradually returned to normal.
For so reason unknown to her, her stepfather backed down in front of Preton, giving in. Then Preton rented a nice place nearby to live with her, freeing her from past shadows and starting a new life.
Those boys ca looking for her once during this period, but Preton drove them off. Later, she brought Preton to find a local trafficker on this street who sold contraband, and got a gun and so bullets from him, all for their protection.
And now, she found a job working at a supermarket.
With work hours from 1:30 PM to 7:30 PM, seven hours a day, her salary wasn’t very high, but it was enough for her.
Getting back on the right track was the greatest blessing from the Lord for her; she asked for nothing more.
"There are so snacks in the bag. I might co back a little late tonight; we’re doing inventory, and everyone needs to help," the girl explained a bit to Preton.
In an economic recession, so "voluntary" labor isn’t mandatory for employees, as it’s the freedom of Federation citizens, but firing and layoffs are also the company’s freedom.
So whenever the supermarket needed sothing done, everyone would consciously volunteer to help, without asking for any overti pay.
Preton nodded, and after the girl tidied up the clothes she had changed out of, she walked to the bed, bent down, and kissed him on the forehead.
Initially, Preton was not accustod to the girl using this gesture to express affection because in Gafura, kissing the forehead was a blessing given by grandmothers, godfathers, patriarchs to family mbers.
It was more like a symbol of reflected status between the dominator and the dominated, and Preton didn’t see himself as dominated; however, he gradually got used to it.
After his young girlfriend left, he turned his attention back to the TV. The Federation’s TV and its myriad channels were truly wonderful: even Preton felt he could just lay forever on the bed or in the couch in the living room, as long as there was TV and a phone.
"A decadent nation, where people have lost the spirit of striving and only content with enjoying their current situation!" Preton mocked the value of TV, then switched the channel, starting a joyful journey of crude humor.
After watching for over an hour, his body’s tabolic function told him he needed to relieve himself. As he got up, he subconsciously glanced towards the window and was slightly stunned.
A black comrcial vehicle was parked across the street, equipped with tinted windows.
Before coming to the Federation, Mr. Preton had heard this joke—"In the Federation, you can very intuitively distinguish the identities of ’police officers,’ ’federal investigators,’ ’federal special agents,’ ’tax inspectors,’ even if they hid their identities."
He had always taken this as a joke, until he started truly integrating into life here, realizing it wasn’t a joke.
Police officers will always place their hands on their hips when speaking to you, as they’re in the habit of keeping their hands on their holsters and grips due to their work, and this habit carries over into their lives whether on or off duty.
Federal investigators will always wear dark suits, almost always the sa brand and style of clothing. They act very "reserved," which is actually a special kind of "arrogance." They think they’re superior, a feeling cultivated in their work.
As for special agents, they try to avoid direct contact with you as much as possible. They always have a ticulous plan, and sotis these ticulous plans are so rigid that it makes them easily exposed.
As for tax inspectors... if they knock on your door and you choose silence, they will intimidate you in various ways, then smash the door, smash the window, finally telling you if you don’t open the door, they’ll take coercive asures.
See, these people can be easily distinguished.
And as for the car across the street, there’s hardly any guessing needed to know it’s a federal special agent’s car because, according to federal law, non-governnt special vehicles are not allowed to have tinted windows or any reflective adornnts.
This is to ensure that law enforcent personnel can clearly and directly see what the people inside the car are doing during official duties, whether they are carrying a weapon, or have raised a weapon.
So when a comrcial car with tinted windows is parked on the street surface, Preton knew in just a tenth of a second that it was likely coming for him.
He was silent for a mont, then casually grabbed the gun from the bed, went to the bathroom to take a leak, and then swaggered out through the door, pointing at the comrcial vehicle on the opposite road.
In an instant, from behind the bushes around, amidst the shrubbery, and the attic opposite, so special agents appeared, holding various weapons aid at Preton. If he made any slight movent, those people would open fire.
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