Steel Furnace

Steven Harris felt he had a very enjoyable evening.

He drank half a bottle of good wine in the boxing ring, watched a spectacular and bloody show, and even ran into the legendary Great East in the corridor, where he thoroughly humiliated him. The feeling of looking down on someone who had once been incredibly successful made every pore on his body relax.

He even started planning on the way to his colleagues how to recount this experience the next day—"Guess who I saw today? That arrogant Great East, cowering in prison like a stray dog. I told him to his face that his assets were about to become a pile of worthless paper. You should have seen his expression then, hahaha—"

He grew increasingly smug, so much so that a lingering smile remained on his lips as he got into his black Cadillac Escalade.

"Back to Bellevue," he said to the driver in the front seat, then leaned back in the large leather seat, pressed a button to adjust the seat to a semi-reclined position, closed his eyes, and prepared to take a short nap on the way home.

The convoy of three vehicles slowly drove away from the parking lot outside the prison.

Two black Chevrolet Suburban, one in front and one behind, carried his bodyguard team—six people in total, all hired at high salaries from a well-known private security company. Two of them reportedly had Navy SEALs experience. In the middle was his Escalade, bulletproofed with Kevlar armor lining the doors and four-centimeter-thick bulletproof glass, capable of withstanding most rifle bullets.

Such security measures are standard in his circle. After all, people in their line of work are bound to offend some people. Better safe than sorry.

The convoy entered Interstate 5 and headed north. It was late at night, and there weren't many vehicles on the road. The convoy maintained its speed within the speed limit, driving smoothly and orderly.

Steven closed his eyes, his mind already planning tomorrow's schedule—a breakfast meeting with the head of Goldman Sachs' investment department in the morning, lunch with a representative from Saudi Arabia sovereign wealth fund, and a conference call in the afternoon about the NLG asset portfolio. Lots of things to do, but he was in good spirits. If the NLG deal went smoothly, his bonus this year would be at least that much.

He silently estimated a number in his mind, and the smile on his lips widened even further.

Just then, the car suddenly jolted.

A loud bang came from ahead, like something had exploded near the front of the car. Steven was thrown from his seat, the seatbelt pulling him firmly back in, and the back of his head hit the headrest with a dull thud.

"What happened?!" he shouted, his voice filled with shock and anger.

The driver didn't answer. In fact, he was frantically turning the steering wheel, trying to avoid an obstacle ahead—the lead Suburban's front left tire had been hit by something, burst, and the car had lost control, tracing a dangerous arc on the highway before finally overturning onto the shoulder, rolling twice, and landing upside down, kicking up a cloud of dust and gravel.

"Attack! Attack!" the driver shouted over the radio while slamming on the brakes to slow the vehicle.

But the second impact had already occurred.

This time it's the rear of the car.

The Suburban at the rear was rear-ended by a heavy truck speeding from behind. The enormous impact sent the Suburban flying like a toy, spinning three full circles on the road before crashing through the highway guardrail and tumbling into a roadside ditch.

The sounds of the roof collapsing, glass shattering, and metal deforming echoed in the night sky.

Steven's Escalade was forced to stop under attack from both sides.

He curled up in his seat, clutching his head, his heart pounding as if it would leap out of his throat. His mind was a mess; the smugness and pleasure he had felt moments before were gone, replaced by a primal, pure fear.

"Shoot! Shoot!" he heard the driver yell over the radio.

Then he heard gunshots.

It was the sound of automatic weapons firing—not the crisp "bang, bang" of a pistol, but a continuous, dense "rat-a-tat-tat-tat," like someone was hammering a car body with a giant electric nail gun. The bullets hit the bulletproof glass with a dull thud, and spiderweb-like cracks appeared on the surface of the glass, but it was not penetrated.

Steven breathed a slight sigh of relief—thankfully, the bulletproof glass held up.

His hands trembled as he pulled out his phone, intending to dial 911. But the signal strength displayed on the screen was zero—someone had used a signal jammer.

"No no no no no..." His voice was choked with sobs as he frantically tapped the screen, but the phone remained unresponsive.

The gunfire outside has stopped.

Then he heard an even more terrifying sound—the roar of a heavy diesel engine, growing louder and louder as it approached, making the seat beneath him tremble slightly.

He looked up and, through the cracked bulletproof glass, saw a huge shadow approaching him.

It was a flatbed truck.

The truck's cab was dark, obscuring the brand and license plate. The cargo bed was a huge, enclosed box with its rear door wide open, revealing a dark, gaping interior space, resembling a giant steel beast with its mouth wide open.

The truck slowly reversed, adjusting its angle until its rear was aligned with the front of the Escalade.

Then it stopped.

Steven stared wide-eyed as a sloping steel plate slowly descended from the rear of the truck, forming a ramp at about a thirty-degree angle. The ramp was covered with a rough, non-slip texture that gleamed with a cold, metallic sheen under the streetlights.

"No... no... you can't..." His voice trembled, and he spoke incoherently.

No one answered him.

A forklift emerged from the side of the truck, emitting a "beep beep beep" reversing warning sound. The forklift's two long forks gleamed coldly in the moonlight, aimed at the chassis of the Escalade.

Steven frantically pounded on the car window, trying to get their attention. "I'll give you money! Any amount you want! I'll offer five million! Ten million! Name your price! Name your price!!"

The forklift's forks plunged under the Escalade's chassis. The hydraulic system emitted a low hiss, and the vehicle was slowly lifted, its four wheels leaving the ground. Steven's body tilted in the seat, the seatbelt tightening around him, and his vision began to slant—he saw the sky, the streetlights, the forklift driver's Back View, and the dark entrance to the open cargo box.

"No--!!!"

His screams were drowned out by the roar of the diesel engine.

The Escalade was slowly lowered into the cargo bed. The cargo bed floor was made of steel, and the wheels made a hollow echo as they rolled on it. The interior space of the cargo bed was much larger than it appeared from the outside, enough to fit a full-size SUV with room to spare.

Once the Escalade was fully inside the cargo box, the forklift backed out. The rear door of the cargo box slowly rose, emitting a hissing sound as the hydraulic system operated, and then closed with a "bang."

The interior of the cargo container was plunged into complete darkness.

Steven huddled in his seat, gasping for breath. His shirt was soaked with cold sweat, clinging to his back, cold and sticky. His hands were trembling violently, and his teeth were chattering uncontrollably.

In the darkness, he heard footsteps.

There was more than one person. At least three or four people were walking towards him from the front of the cargo container. The sound of their footsteps echoed in the empty container, each step feeling like it was pounding on his heart.

He fumbled for the reading light inside the car and turned it on. The dim light illuminated a small area in front of the vehicle, where he saw several figures—they wore dark tactical uniforms and black masks, revealing only pairs of emotionless eyes. They held automatic rifles, muzzles lowered, but ready to be raised at any moment.

Steven opened his mouth, wanting to speak, but his throat seemed to be blocked by something, and he could only make some broken breathy sounds.

He dared not move.

He didn't even dare to turn off the engine.

He sat in the car with his hands raised above his head in a gesture of surrender, trembling all over, awaiting his unknown fate.

The truck traveled for about forty minutes.

Steven didn't know where they were going. He could only tell by the degree of the car's jolting and the number of turns that they were leaving the highway, entering a less smooth road, and then making a few more turns before finally coming to a stop.

The rear door of the cargo box opened again.

Fresh air rushed in, carrying the distinctive smells of an industrial area—metal, machine oil, soot, and a certain scorching, dry odor.

The roar of the forklift resumed. The forks plunged into the Escalade's chassis once more, lifting the vehicle again before it slowly reversed out of the cargo box.

Steven squinted, adjusting to the sudden brightness.

He saw a huge factory building.

The factory's ceiling was extremely high, estimated to be twenty or thirty meters, and the steel structure cast intricate shadows under the dim yellow light. Above, a dense network of pipes and cables covered the entire space like a giant spider web. A scorching heat filled the air, carrying the distinctive smell of heated metal, along with a stronger, unsettling acrid smell.

He recognized where he was.

This is a steel mill.

He saw the enormous steel furnace—standing in the center of the factory like a crouching steel behemoth. The furnace was cylindrical, its outer shell made of dark gray steel plates, with rivets and welds clearly visible. The furnace mouth was open, and orange-red flames billowed out, coating everything around it with a blazing, flickering light. Waves of heat rolled in; even through the bulletproof glass and dozens of meters away, Steven could still feel the scorching temperature.

His pupils suddenly contracted.

He realized what the other person wanted to do.

"No-no-no-no!!!" His voice suddenly rose, turning into an almost hysterical scream. He frantically pounded on the car window, smashing the bulletproof glass with his fists, ignoring the pain and disregarding everything else. "Let me out! I'll give you money! All my money! Fifty million! One hundred million! Name your price! I'll agree to anything!!"

Nobody paid him any attention.

The forklift slowly transported the Escalade to the platform in front of the steelmaking furnace, then lowered the vehicle and placed it on the platform. The forklift then reversed, drove to the side, and disappeared into the shadows of the factory building.

Steven frantically pulled on the car door handle, trying to open the door and escape. But the electronic locks on the doors were locked, and he couldn't open them no matter what he did. He then climbed onto the driver's seat, trying to get out through the driver's side door—which was also locked.

He was trapped inside the car.

Trapped inside an iron coffin about to be thrown into a steel furnace.

He started to cry.

Tears mixed with snot and saliva smeared his face. His body was convulsing uncontrollably, and his voice was so hoarse that he could barely utter a complete syllable. "Please... please... I don't want to die... I really don't want to die... I have two children at home... they're only seven and five years old... please..."

His pleas echoed in the empty factory, swallowed up by the roar of the steel furnace, eliciting no response.

The platform's hydraulic system has been activated.

The entire platform began to tilt slowly, toward the furnace opening.

The Escalade began to slide—slowly at first, but faster as the angle of tilt increased. Steven's body tumbled inside the car, hitting the doors, the seats, and the dashboard. He hit his forehead, and blood streamed down his face, but he could no longer feel the pain.

In his final moments of consciousness, he saw a blinding, scorching orange light.

The front of the Escalade was the first to disappear into the furnace.

The bulletproof glass shattered the moment it came into contact with the molten metal, and the steel body began to deform and melt, like an ice cube thrown into boiling water. The leather, plastic, and electronic components inside the car instantly ignited under the high temperature, emitting a pungent odor.

Steven Harris's body was killed by the intense heat and toxic fumes before it even came into contact with the molten metal. His body twisted, shrank, and carbonized in the flames, eventually turning to ashes and merging with the wreckage of the Escalade into the molten steel at thousands of degrees Celsius.

The furnace opening was closed again.

The orange-red flames were contained inside the furnace.

The factory returned to relative quiet, with only the low hum of the machinery and the muffled sound of the furnace burning.

A figure in overalls walked to the control panel, pressed a few buttons, and began the normal production process. Molten steel was poured into molds, cooled, and cast into steel ingots. These ingots were then transported to different processing plants to be made into building materials, auto parts, or a variety of other products.

No one would know that among these steel ingots was once a Morgan Stanley vice president named Steven Harris.

No one would know that he once wept, begged for mercy, and promised billions in wealth in front of this steel furnace.

it's all over.

Outside the factory, the night was deep. A black sedan without license plates was parked on the side of the road, its engine idling. A man in a dark jacket leaned against the car door, a cigarette between his fingers, and was talking on the phone.

"It's done," he said, his tone as flat as if he were reporting on a routine task.

There was a two-second silence on the other end of the phone, followed by a calm voice. "Understood."

The call ended.

The man threw his cigarette butt on the ground, crushed it out with his toe, then opened the car door and got in. The black sedan slowly drove away, its taillights gradually shrinking in the night until they disappeared at the end of the road.

A wisp of white steam rose from the chimney of the steel plant, disappearing into the night sky.

The sun will rise as usual tomorrow.

Steven Harris's name will be completely erased from this world. There will be no body, no evidence, no clues pointing in any direction. He will be like a drop of water, evaporating in scorching steel.

Those who truly control the game will continue to make their moves.