I bought a prison in the United States.

Oil traders know how to talk to other oil traders, bankers know how to talk to other bankers, and manufacturing bosses know how to complain to their manufacturing peers about Japanese competition.

But a Chinese person who runs a prison?

On these people's social maps, this is an unmarked blank area.

The social sphere of capitalism and capitalism itself follow similar logic.

People tend to trade with those who are similar to themselves because similarity means predictability, and predictability means lower risk.

The identity of a Chinese-American prison warden is shrouded in mystery.

In their view, Chinese people usually run restaurants, laundromats, or grocery stores.

Prisons are usually run by the government, not by private businesses.

Putting these two concepts together causes a brief pause in most people's brains.

The result of a pause is often to politely end the conversation and move on to the next, more familiar, and easier-to-categorize conversation partner.

Ringo walked through the crowd for about twenty minutes, and still only had Peterson's business card in his hand.

His coffee had gone cold, and the edge of the paper cup was slightly deformed from his grip.

Just then, he saw Mr. Danforth again.

The old manufacturing man was standing in the corner of the conference room by the window, talking to a tall man in a gray striped suit.

Mr. Danforth's posture was somewhat unnatural; his shoulders were slightly forward and his head was lowered slightly, as if he were trying to hear what the other person was saying.

The tall man's posture was completely the opposite.

He stood upright, chin slightly raised, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a glass of light-colored liquid, probably gin and tonic, even though it was only a little past three in the afternoon.

After observing carefully for a while, Lin Ge finally confirmed the identity of the face.

He had seen this person in the relationship chart that Parker had given him.

Vernon Bayless!

The owner of Bellers Building Materials Company and vice president of the Tulsa Building Materials Association.

The man who used substandard asphalt shingles to renovate the roof of the county courthouse.

Lin Ge did not go over.

He stood still, picked up his now-cold coffee, took a sip, and kept observing.

Baylors is speaking.

His lips moved rapidly, and he wore a condescending yet friendly smile.

The smile that successful people show to less successful old acquaintances.

Mr. Danforth was listening, his face expressionless, but his fingers were clenched tightly around his coffee cup.

Lingo was about ten meters away from them and couldn't hear what they were saying.

But he could see that the mood label above Mr. Danforth's head was changing.

"Repression" turns into "humiliation," and the color deepens, almost turning black.

Clearly, the elderly man is under immense pressure.

Lin Ge closed his eyes, concentrated, and pushed open the door.

[Gain: 15% Humiliation]

At the same time, fragmented sounds also entered his mind.

That was the voice in Mr. Danforth's heart.

The sound was deep and muffled, like the groan of an old diesel engine under heavy load.

"...You make it sound so easy..."

"Close the factory and switch to building materials..."

"Don't think nobody knows what you owed Crawford back then..."

"Even if my factory loses money, it can still support dozens of workers. Who does your building materials company support? Besides yourself..."

The sound disappeared.

Lin Ge opened his eyes.

Mr. Danforth had finished his conversation with Bayless and was walking toward him.

His face regained its rough calm, but his hand still gripped the coffee cup with a slight pressure.

"You're here."

Mr. Danforth walked up to Ringo, his voice more tired than usual.

"I was just about to look for you. Tomorrow is the delivery date, that trial order..."

"Mr. Danforth, please rest assured, the goods will be delivered on time."

Lin Ge revealed a confident smile:

"For every 1,000 pieces, the scrap rate should be kept below 10%."

"I went back to the prison this morning and saw that more than 800 qualified products have been produced."

"It will all be finished by noon tomorrow."

Mr. Danforth's expression relaxed a little, and the gloom he felt while talking to Bayless dissipated somewhat.

"That's good, GM is pushing us hard."

"I told them I'd found a new outsourcing provider, but they kept pressing me for details, so I had no choice but to tell them the truth..."

"You better not make me look like a clown in their eyes."

He took a sip of his coffee, found it was cold, and frowned.

Ringo remained composed.

"Rest assured, I will let them know that you have found a trustworthy partner."

"I hope so... By the way, did you see the person who was talking to me just now?"

"Yes, Mr. Vernon Bellus, the vice president of the Tulsa Building Materials Association, is that right?"

There was a hint of disappointment in Mr. Danforth's voice:

"This man's words carry a lot of weight in Tulsa."

"But he just told me that I should close the factory and sell the land to him to use as a building materials warehouse."

He said that the manufacturing industry is not doing well now, but the building materials industry can still be done because the county government is renovating public buildings, and he has connections to get contracts.

He also said he could give me a "friendship price," but it would still be 10% higher than the market price.

He looked at the cold coffee in his cup and said helplessly:

"In that person's dictionary, the word 'friendship' means 'I'll lie to you less this time.'"

"You refused?"

"Of course I refused! That's the factory my father worked so hard to build!"

"He worked there his whole life. I myself was sweeping iron filings in the workshop when I was sixteen. That was my place!"

His voice lowered, almost drowned out by the noise in the conference room.

"...That's my place."

Ringo didn't say anything more, he just stood there and kept Mr. Danforth company as he finished his cold coffee.

At the other end of the conference room, Bayless was chatting and laughing with several men in dark suits.

His laughter was loud, with a booming quality characteristic of successful people.

He held a new glass of gin and tonic in his left hand, and gestured something in the air with his right hand.

Everyone around was smiling along.

The emotional labels above their heads are bright and cheerful: "pleasant", "satisfied", and "identified".

A group of people who are doing very well within the network of relationships they have woven themselves.

In a corner of the conference hall, an elderly businessman with gray hair looked at the smiling man and recalled the afternoon when he was sixteen years old, sweeping iron filings in his father's factory.

This is America.

Same room, same drink, two completely different lives.

What brought them together wasn't some shared ideal or belief, but simply a list of chamber of commerce members.

Mr. Danforth placed the empty glass on the windowsill, looked at the young man beside him, and said:

"Come on, I'll take you to meet a few people."