San Mu Bank.
Inside the bank, which had just weathered a fraud scandal, only a handful of customers were conducting business.
Little did they know, a major crime long in the planning was about to unfold.
"Ma'am, we can't process banking transactions for you."
The teller looked contemptuously at the white-haired old woman before her, who wore cloth shoes full of holes even in the depths of winter.
Dressed in thin, patched clothes, the old woman carefully held a Bank Card and said, almost pleading, "This is my son's card. Last year, he fell to his death building a tower for your San Mu Group. His compensation money is in here."
The teller glanced at the Bank Card with its zero balance, holding a mirror in one hand and lipstick in the other.
She said distractedly, "But the owner of this Bank Card is dead. How can you prove he was your son?"
"I have..."
With trembling hands, the old woman took a photograph wrapped in blue cotton cloth from her ragged bag and handed it to the teller.
It was the only photograph of the old woman and her son together.
The teller merely glanced at it, the contempt in her eyes deepening.
"One photograph doesn't prove your relationship."
There were no household registration books in the apocalypse.
"I now suspect you of misusing someone else's Bank Card. If I call the police, you could end up at the Police Bureau."
The teller glared at the old woman in disgust and waved impatiently. "Get lost. You stink. Aren't you tired of coming here to bother us every day?"
"Yesterday, you said you'd give me the money if I brought a photograph of my son."
Tears streamed down the old woman's face. She knew perfectly well they were going back