After listening to the executive director’s statent, Lynch didn’t imdiately express his opinion. He thought seriously for a while and said, "I need to consider."
"Of course, of course, Mr. Lynch. Such an important matter definitely requires extensive thought." He said this while pulling out a business card from his pocket, very respectfully standing up, bending down, tucking in the hem of his clothes with one hand, and offering the card with the other.
"This is my business card. You can call at any ti if you have any thoughts."
Lynch accepted the card. It had the person’s na, position, several phone numbers, and even specified which ti periods were best to call, detailing even weekends and personal hours.
The Federation’s yearning for freedom is like a man’s longing for a woman... this description might not be entirely accurate, but it’s sowhat close.
Thus, the vast majority of people in the Federation refuse to discuss anything job-related outside of work hours.
No matter what it is, they quickly beco annoyed, angry, or even throw a tantrum.
But this guy doesn’t mind doing this.
Lynch set the card down. This was also a significant characteristic: the director in front of him might be facing a shift or choice.
If he crosses over, he will beco a mber of the upper society.
If he doesn’t, he will remain a high-inco mber of the Middle Class.
"I noted it down. Do you have anything else?" Lynch placed the card on the table, looking at the director of the executive departnt.
The latter quickly stood up, "Nothing else, sorry for disturbing you at this ti. Then... I think I should leave."
Lynch pressed his hands on the armrest of the chair to lift himself, stood up straight, extended his hand to shake hands with the executive director, "Good night, sir, you know how to leave."
"Good night, Mr. Lynch."
After seeing the director leave, Lynch glanced at the business card in his hand, shook his head, opened the drawer casually, and put it inside instead of carrying it with him.
During these three days, he hasn’t been idle. He has been watching the exchanges between Sanchez and the President.
It must be said that the role of a special adviser to the Security Committee is indeed quite useful. As the son of a warlord and potentially inheriting the warlord’s position, Sanchez was under imdiate surveillance by people from the Security Committee, Departnt of Holand Security, and Military Intelligence Bureau upon entering the country.
This monitoring partly serves as indirect protection but also prevents them from causing trouble.
These people wreak havoc in their own country, disregarding social orders, each one extrely dangerous.
If the relations between the Federation and Mariluo weren’t... decent, alongside changes in policies and attitudes from the President and Ministry of International Affairs towards Mariluo, Sanchez might not have had the chance to enter the Federation.
Now that he’s in, it’s only natural to keep an eye on him to prevent harm to the society.
Today is the third day, and he hasn’t yet settled his Presidential uncle, which sowhat makes Lynch feel like he’s not as forceful in dealing as he is in the eting room.
At least his capability doesn’t match his assertiveness.
If the President can continue to hold on for a while, Lynch might have other thoughts.
If he doesn’t and soon transfers shares to his nephew, Sanchez, then there’s nothing left to consider.
Even on this matter, Lynch finds it hard to intervene as it’s the other party’s "family affair."
While Lynch was wondering how long the President could hold out, the President was enduring horrific torture.
Sanchez, dressed in a black shirt with sleeves rolled high, exposing a layer of dense body hair on his arms.
Besides, there were all kinds of wounds.
His body wasn’t fat at all, quite standard indeed: fat people don’t survive long in Mariluo—
when assassins strike, running slow ans you’re unqualified to survive further, hence Sanchez’s excellent physique.
He had a bit of sweat on him, and seated before him, the President had been stripped of clothes, his pale, tender body covered in scars.
Describing a middle-aged man with "pale and tender" might seem overboard, but that’s the real appearance.
Living in a privileged Federation environnt, enjoying the most advanced dical technologies and inventions, his aging is much lighter than peers.
Appear to be only about forty or even younger.
But now, there are wounds all over this "good body."
So wounds are still bleeding, others have stopped.
Knife cuts, burns, punctures, and even electrical burns.
Two wires were attached between the President’s legs, one red, one green, looking horrifying.
"As long as you sign, I’ll persuade the General, and you won’t be taken back to Mariluo," Sanchez tried to persuade, but no matter how he tried, his uncle refused to sign.
In the Federation, signing has always been an anti-counterfeit asure: where to start the stroke, what position the highest point of a stroke reached, and whether it ends before or after a certain line.
These are all ans of anti-counterfeiting, and only they themselves and the institutions holding the original signed docunts know about them.
Otherwise, with so many checks issued each year, without any concrete anti-counterfeiting asures, banks would have long been bankrupt, and major companies would’ve been emptied by now.
It is precisely because of these inconspicuous defensive asures that the prosperity of the Federation’s financial economy is fundantally built.
No other country has ever been able to use various checks on such a large scale like the Federation. Although problems frequently arise, these issues are within an acceptable range.
If the President doesn’t sign, the shares in his hand won’t be transferred to Sanchez, and those anonymous companies holding shares on his behalf won’t transfer the shares to Sanchez either, leaving Sanchez with no status in the company.
He still rembers the contempt and questioning from Lynch and others three days ago. The anger from that ti still affects his mood now.
After being tortured for two days, the President looked up at Sanchez, his mouth slightly opening and closing as if trying to say sothing.
Sanchez leaned closer; this was the first ti in two days the President had shown any desire to express himself, but imdiately he felt a warm fluid sliding down one side of his cheek.
Blood mixed with saliva, really fucking disgusting.
Sanchez walked over to the circuit breaker, looked coldly at his uncle, and pushed the switch.
The mont the electricity flowed, the President’s entire body convulsed. Years ago, after the Federation passed the "Electrical Safety Act," indoor voltage was kept within a safe range to avoid casualties from incorrect use of appliances and power sources.
Electricity was absolutely a revolution, but it also brought many tragedies. So people died from electrocution due to incorrect use or re curiosity, making the Federation Society taste the necessary pain of developnt.
Fortunately, these issues have been resolved now.
After more than ten seconds of electric shock, Sanchez pulled back the switch, and the tense President collapsed slackly onto the chair.
The places where his arms were bound with wire, so of the wires had cut into his flesh.
A slightly burnt sll, the scent of hair, and so foul odor.
Sanchez’s assistant took a hose and rinsed the President. It’s actually much better now.
The first ti he was electrocuted, he lost control of his bowels and urinated everywhere.
Now, after two days of starvation without food, except for urinary incontinence, there won’t be any more liquid or solid release.
The cold water seed to revive the President’s spirits a bit, and he started to chuckle.
The laughter was very low, tinged with a mocking tone, which darkened Sanchez’s face.
Actually, both the President and Sanchez knew they were gambling.
The President bet that Sanchez and his brother wouldn’t dare kill him without obtaining the shares. If they really did, they would lose Every Mont completely.
And Sanchez was also betting, wagering that his dear uncle couldn’t withstand various tortures and would eventually sign his na on the full authorization docunt.
But from now on, his uncle seed more likely to win.
What surprised him even more was this useless uncle could actually resist until now.
Once the water stains were almost dissipated, Sanchez walked to the President, looked down at him, "You think that’s the extent of pain?"
"No, there’s much more pain, far beyond your imagination; this is just the beginning!"
He said as he walked to the side cart, put on surgical gloves, and took out a scalpel and a thread.
He returned to the President, "Have you made up your mind? Continue resisting, or sign the docunt?"
The President spat out another bloody sar, his voice very hoarse and weak, "So fucking painful, but compared to death, pain is acceptable."
"Either let go, or... kill , you have no choice!"
The President’s unexpected strength made Sanchez angry and embarrassed.
He raised a hand, pressed it on his dear uncle’s head, and pushed hard. The chair tilted backward, and the President lay against the ground, facing upward.
His legs naturally spread apart.
Sanchez squatted down, expertly removing a wire clamp, tightening with the thread, and with a knife...
Initially, it didn’t hurt at all; perhaps the current had numbed the nerves, but after twenty to thirty seconds, a weighty pain began tearing at the President’s will.
This pain was not only physical but also psychological!
He knew there was actually nothing there, yet in his feeling, it seed as if a chain tightly fixed to his lower body was dragging him down to Hell.
Pain, despair, anger!
The room was filled with feeble roars and screams.
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