I bought a prison in the United States.

Morrison stood up and straightened his suit collar:

"Mr. Chen, to be honest, before I left, I was wondering if it would be a mistake to come to a prison to do business."

"Right now, I'm only thinking about one thing: why did our previous suppliers seem less efficient than your prisoners?"

Lin Ge smiled slightly:

"Because every time my prisoners complete a qualified item, they are earning themselves an earlier parole."

"And the workers outside, for every qualified product they complete, are only trying to earn more profit for the boss."

"These two incentive mechanisms have different effects."

Morrison nodded thoughtfully, folded the handwritten and revised draft, and put it into his briefcase.

After seeing off the GE visitors, Ringo returned to his office.

He picked up the contract with Frank Cao and signed his name in the signature column.

He picked up the draft contract from General Electric again and carefully checked the terms.

The two contracts, placed side by side, represent a veteran Chinese-American engineer's compensation for his past achievements and an American industrial giant's calculations for the future.

But they have one thing in common: they all recognize the prison's workshop as a qualified and reliable business partner.

As night fell, the machines in the factory continued to hum.

Starting today, the factory machines will not stop unless they break down.

One group of prisoners returned to the cell block, while the second group of prisoners, working in two shifts, were taken to the factory. The prison guards then handed over their shifts in the duty room.

Lin Ge sat alone in his office, with all the day's financial records laid out in front of him.

In the last two days, he signed contracts worth nearly $100,000.

The actual cash inflow will have to wait for the formal payment, but the contract itself can be considered an asset.

With these contracts, he can approach banks to discuss loans and to negotiate credit sales with more suppliers.

Because contracts represent future cash flows, and future cash flows can be discounted in the business world.

This is the most basic magic of capitalism:

"The future hasn't happened yet, but it can already be used to create value today."

He turned off the table lamp.

The safety light from outside the window cast a thin, orange beam that shone on the contracts.

The white paper of the contract gleamed faintly in the dim light, like something slowly accumulating energy.

Lin Ge closed his eyes; deep in his mind, the area where emotions were stored was still throbbing faintly.

The overuse from that night is still healing, and the pain is lessening.

He thought that perhaps one day he would fully master this ability.

Besides detachment and empowerment, Lingo hopes to proactively connect the consciousness of those around him with his own consciousness into a network.

That network, if used for centralized management of business information and internal communication, would become incredibly powerful and efficient.

In one prison, all inmates and guards are on the same consciousness network, and information is transmitted instantly without the need for walkie-talkies or patrol reports.

He opened his eyes and looked at the moonlight filtering through the curtains.

This idea is still too far-fetched.

What he needs to do now is to ensure that this month's interest is paid on time so that he can start production as soon as the new prisoners arrive.

At 5 p.m. on October 5, the low rumble of a diesel engine could be heard outside the gate.

Today is also a special day. This time, it's not a client who's here, but something even more important than a client.

It was a gray-blue GMC prison van with the Oklahoma Department of Corrections badge printed on the cargo compartment.

A bald eagle with outstretched wings grasps scales and keys, below which is a line of faded Gothic text:

Justice and Order

Seeing the preceding words, Lin Ge chuckled to himself. Are American police really arresting criminals out of a sense of justice?

However, he didn't care about the definition of the word. As long as someone could bring a constant stream of fresh blood to the prison, they were one of his own.

He stood at the prison gate, holding a cup of coffee that Mrs. Martha had brewed.

This time, the taste was much better than the one brewed by Hamon; at least you could taste the original bitterness and burnt flavor of the coffee beans.

The prison van slowly turned around in the parking lot, the diesel smoke from its exhaust pipe was a pale blue, the same color as the gray smoke coming out of the refinery chimney.

In Oklahoma, this color is almost everywhere: the sky, work pants, and even the velvet on the billiard tables in some cheap bars.

The car door opened, and a uniformed police officer jumped out.

He was about forty-five years old, as strong as a bear, with handcuffs, a baton, and a Smith & Wesson .38 revolver hanging from his belt.

The officer stepped forward and gave Lin Ge a quick look:

"Are you the head of the McLean County Correctional Center?"

"Yes, officer."

Lin Ge stepped forward and extended his hand.

"Lingo Chen, the person in charge here."

"Jim Sanders, Transfer Office, State Department of Corrections."

The officer grasped Linko's hand, and Linko felt his metacarpal bone being pressed against the calluses on the officer's fingers—marks left from years of handling guns.

He had no doubt that if the other party wanted to, they could easily grab him and make his face kiss the ground in the next second.

However, Sanders clearly didn't have that particular penchant for pranks; he merely gave a symbolic handshake before quickly letting go.

"There are 18 prisoners in total this time, some of whom were brought all the way from Oklahoma City."

Sanders took a red handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the sweat from his forehead.

In early October in Oklahoma, the temperature in the early morning was only a little over 50 degrees Fahrenheit, but he still sweated, after all, the long drive was tiring.

He put the handkerchief back into his pocket:

"We encountered some trouble on the road. A Ford's carburetor broke down on that rough road in Wittla County, which delayed us for several hours."

"These guys have been locked up in the carriage for almost eight hours, and they're all in a bad mood now."

"That section of road in Vitra District..."

Lin Ge thoughtfully took over the conversation.

"That dilapidated road should have been repaired five years ago."

Sanders rolled his eyes:

"That damn county council allocated the road repair budget to the chairman's brother-in-law's golf course renovation last year. Those guys deserve to have their asses shaken up."

His tone clearly carried a mild political sarcasm; after all, it's freedom of speech, and who cares if someone insults another person in private?

This is a kind of anger compressed into a joke after accepting the fact that nothing will change.

Ringo smiled; this Sanders seemed to be a sensible person.

After some time, the back door of the prison van opened.

A smell mixed with the odor of sweat and disinfectant wafted out of the carriage, quickly dissipating in the morning breeze.

One by one, the prisoners disembarked from the carriage, each wearing handcuffs and shackles, the chains dragging on the concrete floor with a rustling sound.