The Clamor of Hell
In the afternoon, the sunlight in the park was broken into fragmented spots by the high walls and barbed wire, weakly spilling onto the concrete ground, creating a stuffy and humid atmosphere. The air was filled with the burnt smell of electronic devices cooling down, the smell of sweat, and the monotonous smell of cheap grease wafting from the distant kitchen.
K strolled leisurely through the open space between the core buildings of the park, his hands in his pockets. He wore a dark gray short-sleeved shirt with the cuffs casually rolled up, revealing his well-defined but not particularly muscular forearms. His face was expressionless, his gaze calmly sweeping over the surrounding buildings, guard posts, and the occasional security guard or junior manager hurrying by.
He now enjoys a high degree of "internal freedom" within the park. He can freely enter and exit the server room, the cafeteria's private room, his own "suite," and even some management areas without needing to report to the authorities.
When the heavily armed guards saw him, most of them would nod in greeting, their eyes showing not only routine vigilance but also a complex sense of awe towards the "tech expert" and "Brother Kun's favorite." He knew that the value he displayed, and his seemingly indiscriminate "cooperation" attitude towards money and women, had earned him this limited trust.
But this freedom has its limits. The park's walls and gates are another matter. Brother Kun has made it clear that things are not peaceful outside, and it's very chaotic. If something happens to a "treasure" like K, he won't be able to explain it to his superiors.
Therefore, if K needed to leave the park to do something—for example Brother Kun would occasionally send him to a nearby town to pick up some smuggled electronic equipment—he had to be "accompanied" by at least two bodyguards. Ostensibly for protection, it was actually for surveillance. Brother Kun's suspicions were never truly put aside, especially when it came to the park's most core secrets and the flow of funds.
K was fully aware of this, but he wasn't in a hurry. He had plenty of patience. Trust takes time to build, especially for a criminal organization that lives on the edge of a knife and could be betrayed at any moment. He was like the most patient viper, coiled around its prey, feeling its body temperature and pulse, waiting for the opportune moment to deliver the most fatal blow.
Just as he strolled closer to the main "office" building, a sudden, tsunami-like frenzied shout erupted from inside the building, piercing through the thick walls and closed windows, assaulting people's eardrums.
"Oh--!!!"
"Awesome!!"
"A Qiang! A Qiang! A Qiang!"
The voice was filled with extreme excitement, frenzy, and a morbid worship. K paused slightly, a knowing glint in his eyes. He was familiar with this commotion; it happened every now and then—it meant that another "chatbot" had closed a big deal, and the amount was staggering.
He slightly changed direction and walked towards an open side door on the side of the main building, used for moving goods. The guard at the door recognized him and did not stop him.
Upon entering the building, the noise instantly amplified countless times, almost lifting the roof off. The deathly silence that should have been filled only by the dense clatter of keyboards in the huge office lobby was completely shattered.
Most of the hundreds of "chat operators" left their seats, stood up, craned their necks, and looked towards a small platform slightly raised above the ground at the front of the hall, their faces filled with excitement, envy, jealousy, and a kind of euphoria ignited by collective fervor.
On the small platform, a manager in a cheap suit with slicked-back hair was beaming and spitting as he spoke. He was tightly gripping a young "chat guy"—probably "A Qiang"—who was also flushed and flustered with excitement, in one hand, while in the other hand he was holding a megaphone and shouting at the dark mass of people below.
Beside the supervisor hung a large, gleaming brass gong! The mallet was still lying to one side, but the deafening sound of the gong had undoubtedly been the fuse that ignited this revelry.
"Quiet! Everyone, quiet down!" the supervisor shouted through a megaphone, but his voice was quickly drowned out by the even louder noise. He had to raise his voice, almost screaming, "Let's give our hero— A Qiang —one more round of applause and cheers!
"A Qiang! A Qiang! A Qiang!" The crowd below the stage responded even more wildly, many waving their arms, their faces flushed, as if they had won the lottery.
After the noise subsided slightly, the supervisor patted A Qiang, who was so excited he was almost fainting, on the shoulder, and shouted into the loudspeaker in a highly inflammatory tone:
"Just now! While we were all working hard, our brother A Qiang accomplished something truly remarkable! He landed a super deal! The amount is—three and a half million! Three and a half million RMB!"
"Wow--!!" An even louder exclamation and admiration erupted from the audience.
"That's right! Three and a half million!" The manager waved his arm. "For this deal, according to our fairest and most transparent commission system, Brother A Qiang will personally receive a full seven hundred thousand! Seven hundred thousand RMB in commission!"
He paused, letting the number ferment and explode in everyone's mind.
"Seven hundred thousand! Comrades! Brothers!" His voice was full of temptation. "Think about it! Where can you go, what kind of work can you do to earn seven hundred thousand in one go? Huh? Working in a factory tightening screws? Working twelve hours a day, four or five thousand a month, can you save seven hundred thousand even if you work until you die? Going to a construction site to carry bricks? Exposed to the wind and sun, risking your life for money, how many coins can you save at the end of the year?"
His gaze swept over the faces below the stage, faces gasping for breath and gleaming with excitement at the number 700,000. His tone suddenly rose, becoming seductive:
"Only here! Only in our park! Can you realize your dream of getting rich overnight! Can you completely change your destiny! Can you make those who looked down on you, those who abandoned you, all regret it! A Qiang is the role model! He is your hero! He proves that this path is viable! Money can be made! The future is visible!"
"Let us cheer for the hero once again! A Qiang! A Qiang! A Qiang!"
"A Qiang! A Qiang! A Qiang!"
The entire hall descended into utter frenzy. Shouts, whistles, and the pounding of tables filled the air. The young "chatman" A Qiang A-Qiang was pushed in front of the gong by his supervisor, like a trophy on display, his face contorted with ecstatic joy and pride, as if he had truly become someone extraordinary. The other "chatmen" looked at him with undisguised longing, as if they themselves would be the next ones to be celebrated with the gong banging and to receive a staggering 700,000 yuan. The air was thick with a money-obsessed, ruthless frenzy, burning away all morality, law, and humanity.
K stood quietly in the shadows of the side door, coldly observing this absurd and pathetic farce. His gaze swept over the fanatical faces, and among them, he recognized a few familiar ones—the same people who had smuggled themselves over on the same ship as him. They were now squeezed into the crowd, shouting along, their faces also filled with excitement and longing. Gone was the fear or bewilderment they had felt upon arrival; replaced by a kind of piety and greed born of complete brainwashing.
K was not surprised at all. He had long seen through the true nature of this place. Apart from a very few poor souls who were initially lured here by the lie of "high-paying jobs," most of the illegal immigrants, including his fellow "fellow travelers," had voluntarily thrown themselves into this lawless land with the intention of "making a quick buck," "getting rich quick," and "taking a gamble to turn their bicycles into motorcycles." They thought they would be the ones wielding the knife, the rule-makers and beneficiaries, never considering that they might just be meat on the chopping block, the lowest-level consumables in this meat grinder.
Those few who were initially lured in were quickly assimilated and integrated into this twisted group that craved quick riches, under the daily brainwashing, intimidation, and occasional stimulation from "successful role models" like today. As for those who could not be assimilated, who harbored resistance, or who attempted to rebel... K knew their fate.
They will be quickly "resold" to other darker and more brutal parks, their last value consumed in each resale. Their final destination is likely to be the dreaded "Myawaddy," becoming a cold string of numbers on the organ black market.
This isn't heaven; it's a meticulously disguised hell. And in K's eyes, most of the people here aren't just lost sheep worth saving. Many of them, the moment they stepped into this place, or even earlier, had already chosen, willingly or unwillingly, to dance with the devil, becoming part of hell, demons bred by greed. They extort, deceive, and may have indirectly caused countless families to break apart or even commit suicide. Pity them? K didn't have that kind of superfluous "emotion."
He stayed here, enduring all of this, with only one clear and chilling purpose: to find and control the very core of this vast telecom fraud empire—the pool of fraudulent funds amounting to tens of billions, or perhaps even more—and ultimately seize it. This was the most effective way to strike at this hellish place and all the demons and monsters behind it.
After watching for a while, K found it boring and turned to leave this nauseating noise.
Just then, his cell phone in his pocket suddenly vibrated.
Here, having a private cell phone and being able to maintain communication (even though it's being monitored) is one of his privileges. He takes out his phone, the screen lights up, displaying a completely unfamiliar local number.
K paused slightly. Very few people knew this number; aside from Brother Kun and a handful of other high-ranking officials in the park, theoretically, no outsiders should know it. Was it a new "business" contact? Or had Brother Kun changed his number again to contact him?
He walked discreetly to a relatively quiet corner of the corridor, where he had already calculated the angle of the surveillance cameras to identify a brief blind spot. He pressed the answer button and held the phone to his ear.
"Hello?"
There was a moment or two of silence on the other end of the phone, then a familiar young male voice, tinged with a hint of languor and teasing, came through the receiver clearly, as if it had traversed mountains and rivers and layers of barriers to reach his ears directly:
Hey, missed me?