The Invisible Cage

The interrogation room was so quiet that only the hum of the fluorescent lights could be heard.

Jonathan Lee straightened up, remained silent for a moment, then took out a pack of cigarettes from his pocket. He pulled one out and handed it to Lin Feng.

Lin Feng accepted it.

Jonathan Lee pulled out a Zippo lighter, lit it with a click, cupped the flame in his hand, and handed it to Lin Feng. Lin Feng leaned in, lit a cigarette, and took a drag. The smoke rose slowly under the pale light, dissipating towards the ceiling.

Jonathan Lee lit one for himself and pulled up a chair opposite him. The two of them sat down in silence across the metal table in the late-night interrogation room.

Lin Feng, with a cigarette between his fingers, stared at the faint scratch on the table, but his thoughts drifted far away.

This hidden danger did not begin with Mike Anderson.

It didn't start with Philip Winslow either.

It didn't even begin after he came to the United States.

This hidden danger was sown the moment he set foot on United States soil.

He recalled his early days in Seattle. At that time, he had not yet taken over Mike Anderson's assets; he was merely an outsider with capital and ambition, trying to find a foothold in this unfamiliar land. He attended numerous cocktail parties, dinners, and business meetings, where the well-dressed United States treated him with great courtesy—even enthusiasm.

But beneath that politeness and enthusiasm, there's always something indescribable.

Like a thin film of ice, it looks transparent and harmless, but you only realize how cold it is when you step on it.

It took him a long time to understand what it was.

That's not discrimination—at least not entirely. In 21st-century United States, blatant racism is politically incorrect; no respectable person would wear it on their sleeve. It's something more subtle, more refined, and more entrenched.

They welcome you. They welcome you to spend money, invest, and create jobs for them. They might even applaud you, praising you as an "outstanding Great East" and an "outstanding Asia entrepreneur."

But when you actually try to touch those core interests—those things that are truly valuable—you'll find that the door has never been open to you.

It appears to be open. As you approach, the person by the door might even smile and nod at you.

But when you try to cross the threshold, you'll find a wall in front of you.

A transparent, invisible, and intangible wall.

It won't appear in any legal text. It won't appear in any official documents. No politician will publicly acknowledge its existence. But it's there, indestructible, cold as iron.

Its name is: You are not one of us.

Lin Feng took a drag of his cigarette and slowly exhaled.

He remembered many things.

He thought of those top scientists who were considered "brain drain" in China—when they were at Great East, they were leaders in their fields, publishing papers in top international journals with ease. Later, they immigrated to the United States and entered those renowned universities and laboratories. And then? And then nothing. Their names disappeared from the international academic community, and they never published any influential results again.

Are they simply incapable? Did their IQ plummet and their inspiration dry up after arriving in United States?

No, it was they who touched that wall.

They can do the most basic research work in the lab, earn a decent salary, and live the United States Dream life of owning a detached house in a middle-class neighborhood. But they will never be allowed to access the most core projects, and will never be allowed into the real decision-making level. They will be told "your contributions have been fully recognized," and then permanently barred from the most important meetings.

He thought of those once-powerful tycoons in China—real estate moguls, internet upstarts, manufacturing giants. Back in Great East, their every move shook the entire industry. Later, they immigrated to the United States, buying mansions in Los Angeles, apartments in New York, and sending their children to the best private schools. And then what? They became just another group of obscure "wealthy Great East," with little to no presence in mainstream United States society except within their own Chinese communities.

Have they become poorer? No. Their wealth is enough to allow them to live a life of unparalleled luxury in any country.

They were the ones who touched that wall.

They might pose for photos with Hollywood stars at a Beverly Hills party, or shake hands and exchange pleasantries with senators at a charity dinner. But they would never be invited into the real circles of power, and no one would ever treat them as "one of our own." In the eyes of United States, they would always be "that Great East from East Coast," not "our friend," "our partner," or "one of us."

This is the wall.

It is not law, not policy, not anything that can be taken to court. It is culture, tradition, unspoken rules, and prejudice and arrogance ingrained in our bones. It is more solid than any written rule because it does not need to be written down at all—it exists in everyone's heart, passed down from generation to generation, deeply rooted.

What Lin Feng did from the very beginning was to challenge this wall.

When he used violence to eliminate his first enemy, he touched the most sensitive nerve in this society—why should a Great East not follow the rules?

In their script, what should Great East be like? Hardworking, law-abiding, submissive, focused on making money, and avoiding trouble. You can do business, but you can't touch their core interests. You can make money, but you can't threaten their position. You can exist, but you can't challenge their rules.

But Lin Feng did all of these things he shouldn't have done.

He not only touched their core interests and threatened their position, but also tore their carefully maintained rules to shreds in a way that they could not understand, predict, or guard against.

So they wanted to kick him out.

At all costs.

Lin Feng flicked his cigarette ash, his voice as calm as if he were discussing someone else's business. "Old Joe, what do you think I should do now?"

Jonathan Lee was silent for a moment. The cigarette in his hand had burned down to the filter. He stubbed it out in the ashtray on the table, and then spoke seriously.

"Master, you are presented with only two paths."

He held up one finger. "First, go back to China. Go back to Great East, that's your territory. There are no of these messy, invisible barriers there, and no one can restrict you based on skin color or nationality. You can take your current wealth and leave unscathed; no one can stop you. This money is enough for you to do anything there—whether you make a comeback or enjoy a life of luxury, it's all up to you."

He paused, then held up a second finger. "The second one, stay and fight them to the end."

"If there are invisible barriers, then smash them. If they don't consider you one of their own, then let them understand—you don't need to be one of them to make them submit."

He lowered his hand, his tone growing heavier. "But this is difficult, extremely difficult. The other side has already issued warnings through the members of Congress behind me, which means they are beginning to prepare to use official forces. And official forces—the FBI, CIA, Department of Justice, Department of Homeland Security —frankly, with our current strength, we cannot confront them head-on."

A long silence fell over the interrogation room.

Lin Feng did not answer immediately. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and held the nearly burnt-out cigarette between his fingers, remaining motionless.

He was thinking of a third option.

A compromise solution.

He could return to China first, back to Great East, back to his own territory. He could leave K and the already deployed assassins here to continue maneuvering. He could control affairs here remotely, influencing the situation even when he wasn't in the United States.

But he quickly dismissed the idea.

Because he had thought of a crucial issue—the respawn mechanism of the assassins.

The assassins he draws each day are generated based on his current geographical location. If he returns to Great East, the newly added assassins each day will be individuals within Great East's territory. The assassins he currently has deployed in the United States —including Jonathan Lee in front of him, the warden in the prison, and the pawns distributed in various key positions—are his entire asset.

Can we use these existing resources to fight against a deeply entrenched and powerful interest group that spans both political and business circles?

not enough.

That's far from enough.

He needs more time, more pieces, and more strategic planning. And all of this can only be achieved if he himself remains on this land.

It's either a complete victory or a complete defeat.

There is no middle ground.

Lin Feng opened his eyes and stubbed out his cigarette. The cigarette butt made a soft hissing sound in the ashtray, and the last wisp of smoke rose and then dissipated.

He raised his head, his gaze firm and calm, as if he had made a decision he already knew the answer to.

"Then let's take the second option."

His voice wasn't loud, but it carried an undeniable weight, like a chess piece landing on a chessboard with a crisp and resolute sound.

Jonathan Lee opened his mouth as if to say something—perhaps to persuade him to reconsider, or perhaps to remind him how dangerous the path was—but in the end, he simply nodded heavily.

He didn't say "Are you sure?" or "Would you like to think about it some more?"

Having followed Lin Feng for so long, he has learned to distinguish when to speak and when not to speak.

He stood up, regaining his dignified demeanor as a deputy superintendent, but with a heavy resolve in his eyes.

"I understand, Master."

He paused, then added, "Whatever decision you make, I will stand by you. You gave me this life; at worst, I can give it back to you."

Lin Feng didn't answer. He simply leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

The interrogation room fell silent again.

Outside the window, under the Seattle night sky, the city lights twinkled like chess pieces scattered on a giant chessboard.

But the real game has only just begun.