Hong Kong variety show: The mastermind behind the scenes is emerging.

Budapest, on the banks of the Danube.

Night had fallen, and the lights on both banks were reflected on the river. The shimmering light, like scattered gold, passed through the piers of the Chain Bridge and stretched all the way to the row of Gothic spires in the distance.

In April, Budapest was just beginning to warm up. The air was filled with the scent of the river and the aroma of stewed meat wafting from the restaurants along the banks. Occasionally, a sightseeing boat would slowly pass by at night, its cabin emitting a warm yellow light that cast a blurry, swaying reflection on the water.

On a side street not far from the riverbank stands a rather old four-story building.

During the day, this place is just a gray cement box with peeling exterior walls and old neon signs; but as soon as night falls, it transforms and takes on a completely different look.

The red and green neon lights lit up one after another, and the complex strings of letters swirled around the storefront. As the heavy, soundproof door was pushed open, deafening disco beats surged out, mixed with the smells of smoke, alcohol, and cheap perfume.

This disco club, called "Danube Star," is the headquarters of Chernobog.

The third floor, Pushkin's office.

As the office of the head of Chernobog, the interior design here is surprisingly simple.

The room had gray walls, light-colored wooden floors, and an old iron-framed desk in the center. A glass plate covered the desk, with several yellowed maps underneath. A metal filing cabinet stood against the wall, with an old-fashioned Soviet-made electronic calculator on top.

The only thing in the whole house that could be considered decoration was the potted green ivy. A few of its leaves had turned yellow, as if no one had taken care of it for a long time, yet it was still stubbornly alive.

At that moment, Pushkin sat behind his desk reading the month's accounts.

He was fifty-seven years old this year, rather thin, with a slightly hunched back. He was wearing a dark shirt, his gray hair was combed back, and his face was covered in deep wrinkles. He looked like an honest, retired middle school teacher.

The office was quiet, with only the scratching of pencils on paper and the soft lapping of the river outside the window.

Finally, Pushkin turned to the last page of the ledger, his brow furrowing slightly: "Nikolai."

"exist."

A burly man stepped forward from the doorway.

The man was in his early thirties, with a thick beard and a broad build. He wore a tight black suit, and various tattoos could be faintly seen extending from his neck.

"Why is the debt from Yugoslavia 10% less?"

Nikolai lowered his head even further: "One of our locations was raided by the local police last month. The nightclub, casino, and two underground banks were all shut down and are still not allowed to operate."

Which city?

Novi Sad.

Pushkin nodded, then picked up the old-fashioned telephone on the table and dialed a number.

After a brief dial tone, a steady male voice with a heavy Serbian accent came from the other end of the phone: "Feed?"

"Chief Milosevic, this is Pushkin," Pushkin's voice quickly shifted to a familiar, even somewhat friendly tone, "It's so late, Sir Milosevic, please rest."

The previously serious voice on the other end of the phone immediately softened, even becoming somewhat deliberately warm: "Oh, Mr. Pushkin! Of course not, I didn't mean to bother you. I just finished a meeting. What can I do for you?"

"It's nothing serious," Pushkin said, twirling his pencil. "My men just told me that a few establishments in Novi Sad have been shut down. You know, those establishments aren't a big deal to me, but with so many people working for me who need to eat, a few days of closure has created some cash flow problems."

"Ah—Novi Sad," Milosevic quickly agreed, "Don't worry about that. It was a surprise inspection arranged by higher-ups. I didn't know it was your property. It's a misunderstanding... I'll send someone over first thing tomorrow morning to handle the unsealing procedures. Your people can resume normal operations in three days at most."

"Then I'll trouble you." Pushkin's lips curled into a mocking sneer, but his tone remained friendly.

He knew, of course, that this was just an excuse; the other party was simply waiting for his call to bring some benefits.

"No trouble at all, it's nothing," Milosevic replied with a smile. After a pause, he lowered his voice and added, "By the way, Mr. Pushkin, there's something I need to trouble you with. My youngest son wants to study at Vilnius University this year, but his grades aren't very good..."

"Little Cage is going to college? That's great! Send his application materials over tomorrow; I have a good relationship with one of their vice-principals."

"Oh! Thank you so much! Don't worry, I will handle things perfectly in Novi Sad. If you need anything in the future, just let me know."

"You're too kind, goodnight."

Good night, Mr. Pushkin.

The call ended. Pushkin placed the receiver back on the landline, glanced up at Nikolai, and said calmly, "Have someone process the lifting of the lockdown tomorrow."

"Yes." Nikolai nodded solemnly with a look of awe.

Having resolved this troublesome matter, Pushkin closed the ledger and pushed it aside, turning to the next topic: "How's things going on with the US?"

Those with foresight can now see that the Soviet Union won't last much longer, and once the Soviet Union falls, the United States will become the world's only superpower.

Pushkin knew he couldn't just cling to his small territory in Eastern Europe, so he began planning his way into that "land of freedom" early on.

Upon hearing this, Nikolai's expression turned serious, and he hurriedly reported, "Sir, we have initially established a foothold in New York, and Brighton Beach is basically under our control. The local small gangs have either submitted or been driven away by us. However..."

Nikola paused, then added, "This area originally belonged to the Colombo family. Our expansion has crossed their line. Last month, two of our brothers were cornered and beaten up in an alley, and they told us to 'learn some manners'."

Upon hearing this, Pushkin did not get angry. Instead, he bent down and pulled out a bottle of vodka from the cabinet under the table. Without even using a glass, he pulled out the cork and took a big gulp.

The liquor flowed down his throat, suppressing the rising hunger in his heart.

Pushkin came from a very ordinary background.

He was born in 1932 into a Jewish family in Leningrad. His parents were ordinary workers, and his childhood was relatively peaceful and happy until he was twelve years old—when the Siege of Leningrad broke out.

During the siege that lasted for nine hundred days, the first thing young Pushkin did every morning was to look for food, anything he could put in his mouth—rats, tree bark, and scraps of boiled leather belts.

Fortunately, he survived that hell on earth; unfortunately, for decades afterward, that hunger followed him like a groove etched into his body that could never be filled.

It was this almost insane hunger that drove him step by step forward, joining "The Law Thief," founding Chernobog, and ultimately reaching the pinnacle of the underworld, second only to one man.

His hunger was temporarily relieved, but whenever he encountered obstacles, provocations from rivals, or business bottlenecks, that hunger would resurface, pushing him forward and causing him to eat even more.

Pushkin slammed the vodka down on the table, then slowly said, "I'm having dinner with the Kolumbo family."

Nikolai was taken aback: "A dinner invitation?"

"Courtesy first, then force," Pushkin raised his eyelids, his unfathomable eyes coldly fixed on Nikolai's face, "It would be best if we could sit down and talk, but if they don't give us that face—"

He paused for a moment.

"You know what to do."

Nikolai's pupils contracted, and the next second, a bloodthirsty light gradually rose on his face.

"Yes, sir!"

Nikolai nodded heavily, turned around, and strode out, his footsteps pounding on the floor.

The office fell silent again, and Pushkin picked up his pencil once more.

Outside the window, another sightseeing boat on the Danube passed by. The boat's lights shone through the glass windows, casting a patch of light that shifted and moved slowly, alternating between bright and dark, on the side of his desk.

Pushkin did not look up.

His pen scratched across the paper, like a low, ceaseless nibbling.