Judgment at the End

Abandoned warehouse in the suburbs of Portland.

When Mike Anderson woke up, he found himself strapped to a cold, metal folding chair. His hands were handcuffed behind his back, and the plastic straps on his wrists were painfully tight.

A high-powered LED work light was shining directly into his face, the blinding white light making it almost impossible for him to open his eyes. He squinted, trying to adjust to the sudden light, while feeling a trace of dried blood at the corner of his mouth and a dull pain in the back of his neck—the mark left when he was knocked unconscious and taken away from his motel room.

He didn't know how long he had been unconscious. It could have been a few hours, or it could have been longer. But he knew he was no longer in that motel. The air was thick with the smells of engine oil, rust, and dust, and a faint, low hum of machinery could be heard in the distance. It looked like an abandoned industrial plant or warehouse, empty, cold, and filled with echoes.

His consciousness gradually returned, and his memories began to flow back—the cell phone, the words on the screen, the knocking sound, he opened the door and saw two expressionless faces, then a sharp pain on the side of his neck, and everything went back to darkness.

He struggled for a moment, but the straps on his wrists didn't budge; they were tied tightly and professionally. He gave up the futile struggle, leaned back in his chair, and gasped for breath. He knew he couldn't escape.

Footsteps came from ahead, steady and rhythmic, approaching from afar. A figure stepped out from the edge of the glaring light and came into his field of vision, stopping about two meters in front of him.

Mike squinted, trying to make out the backlit face.

The figure seemed to sense his discomfort and reached out to adjust the angle of the work light, so that the light was no longer shining directly into his eyes. Mike's vision gradually returned, and he finally saw the face of the person who had come into view.

In that instant, the expression on his face changed from pain and fear to disbelief and shock.

"... It's you?!"

Standing before him was Lin Feng, the young man from the East whom he had always thought was just a "fool who only knew how to use violence."

Lin Feng wore a simple black jacket over a dark gray shirt, without a tie, his demeanor casual and composed. His face was expressionless, devoid of the arrogance of a victor or the satisfaction of a vengeful one, only a calm indifference, as if the scene before him was nothing more than an ordinary meeting.

Mike's mind raced. Fragments of the past flashed through his mind like a revolving lantern: the first time he met Lin Feng at the banquet, Lin Feng's "country bumpkin nouveau riche" appearance; the bloody "joke" on the golf course; the humiliation and fear of being forced to beat the caddie; the news of the destruction of the South District Black Snakes; his carefully planned escape route being easily exposed... All the fragments, at this moment, pieced together a complete picture.

He understood.

From beginning to end, he was completely manipulated by Lin Feng.

That nouveau riche from the East, whom he thought he could easily manipulate and slaughter like a fat sheep, was a meticulously designed trap from the very beginning. And he himself, this "smart man" who had dominated the Seattle financial circle for more than a decade, was like a cow being led by the nose, step by step walking into the trap that the other party had already laid.

Mike lowered his head, letting out a bitter, self-deprecating laugh. He looked up at Lin Feng, his voice hoarse. "... I lost."

He spoke those three words very softly, yet it seemed as if he had used all his strength.

Lin Feng did not respond, but simply looked at him quietly, waiting for him to continue.

Mike took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and then slowly opened them again. "I'll give you the account password. I can hand over all the money that was transferred overseas."

He paused, then added, "But I have one condition."

Lin Feng raised an eyebrow slightly, signaling him to continue.

"I need to see you," Mike said. "I want to know who's behind this. I want to see for myself what the person who beat me looks like."

Lin Feng was silent for a few seconds, then slowly nodded. "You've already seen it."

Mike paused for a moment, then gave a bitter smile. Yes, he had seen it. Just now, he had witnessed the person who had plunged him from the heights of success into the depths of despair. A seemingly harmless young man from the East, twenty years his junior. A "fat sheep" he had once thought he could easily manipulate.

"Give me a cigarette," Mike said, his voice carrying a weary calm.

Lin Feng did not refuse. He took out a pack of Marlboro from his pocket, pulled one out, walked up to Mike, and put the cigarette in his mouth. Then, he took out a lighter, lit it with a "click," and lit the cigarette for Mike.

Mike took a deep drag, the smoke filling his lungs, carrying the spiciness of nicotine and a faint sense of comfort. He closed his eyes and slowly exhaled the smoke, as if savoring the last moments of his life.

He smoked about a third of his cigarette before speaking, reciting a string of Switzerland bank account numbers and passwords. His voice was steady, without any hesitation or struggle, as if he were simply reciting a phone number he knew by heart. He was very detailed—the account number, password, verification information required for transfers, and several intermediary accounts for receiving funds. He even proactively pointed out which accounts were empty, which had balances, and which required additional authorization to access.

Lin Feng listened quietly without interrupting him. After Mike finished speaking, he turned his head slightly and nodded to a figure standing in the shadows—K. K understood, turned and left, clearly to verify the authenticity of this information.

Only Lin Feng and Mike remained in the warehouse.

Mike continued smoking, the smoke rising in the pale light. He had nothing more to say, nothing more to do. He had given up his last bargaining chip; all that was left was to wait.

The time it takes to smoke a cigarette will soon come to an end.

Mike finished his last puff, spat the cigarette butt on the ground, and crushed it out with his toe. He looked up at Lin Feng, his face showing a strange calmness, even a hint of relief.

"Thank you for the cigarette," he said.

Lin Feng didn't speak, he just looked at him, his gaze calm as still water.

Mike closed his eyes, leaned back in his chair, as if preparing to fall asleep.

Lin Feng turned around and walked towards the warehouse door. His steps were steady, without the slightest hesitation.

Behind him, a very faint, silenced gunshot rang out.

"Puff."

Then, everything fell silent.

Lin Feng didn't turn around. He walked out of the warehouse, the night wind blowing in his face, carrying the unique freshness and coolness of the suburbs. He stood at the door, looked up at the sparse stars in the night sky, and took a deep breath.

K walked over from a short distance away, holding a tablet computer with several successful transfer confirmation messages displayed on the screen.

"Boss, verification complete. The account information he provided is genuine. The funds have already begun to be transferred," K reported.

Lin Feng nodded without saying anything more.

"Inside..." K glanced in the direction of the warehouse, but didn't finish his sentence.

"Clean it up," Lin Feng said calmly.

"Understood," K replied.

Lin Feng didn't linger. He walked towards the black sedan parked by the roadside, opened the door, got into the back seat, and closed the door. The engine started, and the sedan smoothly drove away from the abandoned industrial area, merging into the nighttime highway and heading towards Seattle.

The scenery outside the car window rushed past, and the city lights in the distance outlined a blurry halo on the horizon. Lin Feng leaned back in his seat, closed his eyes to rest, and his face was expressionless.

A few days later, a bombshell news story made headlines in major financial media outlets:

"Anderson Capital Group is suspected of massive financial fraud, and its founder Mike Anderson, is missing."

According to the bank, the company has transferred the vast majority of its funds to overseas accounts through irregular operations, leaving investors facing the prospect of losing everything.

Public opinion was in uproar. Countless investors took to the streets to protest, and the Federal Bureau of Investigation announced an investigation. Seattle police raided the offices of Anderson Capital Group, seizing boxes of documents and computer hard drives. Reporters flocked to the scene, surrounding the closed doors of the mansion on Mercer Island, trying to uncover more inside information.

Meanwhile, at Eagle Creek Ranch, Lin Feng sat in his study, watching the news footage playing on a loop on television, a faint, enigmatic smile on his face.

K stood to the side, somewhat puzzled, and asked, "Boss, didn't Mike say that the money in those accounts was only a portion? Most of the money is still in the bank?"

Lin Feng picked up his teacup, took a slow sip, then put it down, leaned back in his chair, gazed at the vast pasture outside the window, and said softly:

"He's telling the truth. But what the bank says is another matter."

K paused for a moment, then suddenly realized.

Those "transferred" funds never actually left the United States. They were merely "marked" as transferred on paper, but in reality, they had been swallowed up by certain individuals through more covert channels. The bank said this because those "certain individuals" were more influential than Mike.

Lin Feng gazed out the window, his eyes looking far into the distance, as if piercing through the green pastures and seeing into the far reaches of the world.

"Many people think, 'If a Ponzi scheme is so simple, why do so many wealthy people fall for it?'" he said slowly, his tone almost like he was talking to himself. "But in reality, have these people truly fallen for it? Some of them are indeed victims. But those truly at the top of the pyramid—are never victims. They are the ones sharing the spoils."

Outside the window, the setting sun bathed the pasture in a warm golden hue. In the distance, several horses grazed leisurely by the fence, as if nothing in the world had ever changed.