I am a necromancer, and I absolutely love America.

Chapter 159 The Person Scouting the Spot Outside (10K-word long chapter, please vote and subscribe)

Miranda's fingers were still trembling when she hung up the phone.

Coach Edmund's voice carried a hint of businesslike indifference: "Miranda, this is the boss's decision, there's nothing I can do about it."

Then came the busy signal.

Miranda sat on the sofa, her phone slipped from her hand, hit her thigh, and fell into the sofa cushions.

She didn't pick it up.

She got fired!

It wasn't taken down from the center position, it was directly relegated to the sidelines!

I've been in this team for seven years!

Seven years!

Miranda clenched her fists.

Now you've kicked me out with a call that lasted less than thirty seconds?

Miranda looked down at her phone screen.

The video is still frozen on the moment Debbie lands.

It rotated three times and landed without moving an inch.

Miranda stared at that image for a long time.

Why?

How was she able to do this?

She clearly couldn't do it a few days ago!

One word flashed through Miranda's mind: drugs!

Debbie is on drugs.

Correct!

That must be it!

She's on drugs!

The saint was on drugs—this is a huge scandal!

Miranda picked up her phone and started recording a video: "Debbie used banned substances; her progress is not in line with normal physiological laws..."

'

Miranda paused after she finished speaking.

Her finger hovered over the send button, hesitant to press it, her heart pounding wildly.

What will happen if I send it out?

The Giants will definitely retaliate!

Can I handle it?

Nine times out of ten, they won't be able to hold on.

Miranda's hands trembled violently; she was afraid.

Miranda didn't dare post it, so she deleted the video and dialed Madeline's number.

It rang seven or eight times before the other end finally answered.

Madeline's voice was very low, as if she had walked into a corner: "Hi?"

"Madeline, what's wrong with Debbie today?" Miranda asked quickly. "She could never have done that before, you know! How did she manage it today? You saw it clearly on set, did she... use something?"

There was a two or three-second silence on the other end of the phone.

Then Madeline said in a very vague voice, "—I'm not quite sure, but I did play really well today. Um—I have something to do, the coach is calling me, I'll hang up now."

The phone was disconnected.

Miranda listened to the busy tone in the receiver, her fingers gripping the edge of the phone tightly until her knuckles turned white.

Madeline was avoiding her; she could tell.

That bitch who had been following him around for three years, saying "Debbie is just a newbie," is now keeping her distance!

Miranda called several more players, but none of them answered.

Miranda's emotions instantly collapsed, and she shouted angrily, "Damn it! These bitches are ostracizing me! How dare they ostracize me!"

She was the captain of the Giants cheerleading squad, and she was always the one who ostracized others.

Now that this had happened to her, she couldn't accept it for a while.

After venting her anger for a while, Miranda sat down on the sofa, panting, and finally realized something:

From now on, no one will be on her side.

Ding Dong!

My phone vibrated.

Miranda immediately glanced down and saw a message from Madeline: "Miranda, I know you're feeling down, but don't do anything stupid. Watch this video."

77

A link followed below.

Miranda clicked on it and saw that the Giants' official account had just released a new promotional video.

The cover is a still image of Debbie spinning in the air against a backdrop of dark blue training gym walls, with white lights shining on her.

Miranda clicked on it.

The video is short, only one and a half minutes long.

The film opens with Debbie walking into the training facility on her first day, wearing a brand-new uniform, and innocently saying to the camera, "Hi, I'm Debbie."

Then came a series of failures: landing crookedly, not turning enough, knees hitting the edge of the mat, gritting his teeth to get up and walk back.

Then came the second, the third, the fourth...

The screen dimmed briefly, and a subtitle appeared: "From Zero to Three Weeks".

Then she was doing the basic movements by herself, jumping vertically, jumping on one foot, over and over again.

Finally, the scene cuts to a high-speed shot: a jump, mid-air, triple rotation, eyes closed, landing, frozen on one foot.

Miranda stared in shock at the close-up shot of Debbie's closed eyes; her eyes hadn't opened since she took off and only opened upon landing.

"impossible!"

Only professional cheerleaders know how difficult this move is.

Miranda dragged the progress bar back, watched it several times, and then collapsed onto the sofa.

Drugs can make Debbie jump higher and spin faster, but they can't make her complete the movements with her eyes closed, like the three-week blind fall.

Closing your eyes means you have to rely entirely on your body's proprioception to determine your location.

That's pure physical talent; no drugs can give athletes that.

Miranda closed her eyes in anguish.

She lost, completely lost.

Debbie's media day video has started circulating online.

Miranda watched numbly, noticing more things in the video than she had previously missed:

A crucifix was hung at the edge of the field, and the GG sign in the corner had been replaced with a Catholic symbol. Several people in dark suits were sitting in the stands, with small cross badges pinned to their chests.

Crosses and images of the Virgin Mary are everywhere!

Even the company that was playing "GG" on the sidelines had a Catholic background.

The Giants' cheerleading arena has been completely transformed into a Catholic stadium!

Miranda finally understood.

He simply couldn't afford to offend Debbie.

Those Catholics spent so much money to buy the Giants' GG rights; they could definitely make a disobedient cheerleader disappear without a trace.

Miranda sat on the sofa, neither crying nor throwing anything; she simply sat quietly for a long time.

Within half an hour of the video being posted, the comment section exploded.

WTF!

"This move is too difficult!"

"Three weeks of blindness? Can anyone tell me just how difficult that is?"

A highly-rated comment was pinned to the top, with someone explaining in the replies: "Simply put, the triple jump has very high height requirements; the shorter you are, the easier it is to complete. Many gymnasts from various countries can do it, but they are all around 1.5 meters tall. There are no more than ten NFL cheerleaders who can do this move, and they are all around 160 cm tall, petite. I've never seen anyone who is 1.7 meters tall do this move; gymnastics teams would eliminate anyone that height."

Another reply added, "What's even more outrageous is doing it with your eyes closed. Doing a triple somersault with your eyes open and doing it with your eyes closed are completely different concepts. Doing it with your eyes closed means you're controlling your body entirely through proprioception. Not many gymnasts can do that, and I haven't seen anyone dare to try it on a hard surface. But Debbie did it."

The number of likes doubled within minutes, with most people giving a thumbs up.

"Debbie's progress is that fast? She couldn't even finish two weeks on the first day, and she's already finished three weeks in just one week?"

"That's what geniuses are like."

"I suspect that the video of the repeated failures might have been filmed a long time ago?"

"Open your eyes! Didn't you see the arena where the Giants' cheerleaders were? Saint-Debbie just joined the Giants, how could you take pictures of her beforehand?"

"Perhaps it's a disguise?"

"Impossible, you can't fake that. I'm a high school cheerleading coach. Debbie's performance when she first joined the Giants cheerleading team was about the same as my team members, clearly a step below the NFL level. That can't be faked. But I also can't understand what she achieved a week later. It's beyond my comprehension. I can only say... the Saintess truly can do what ordinary people can't!"

"Saint-Debbie!"

"I feel like Saint-Debbie's jumping movements are very floaty, unlike the other team members."

"You read that right, I feel the same way."

2

"It was God who lifted Debbie into the air!"

This comment garnered a lot of likes.

"OMG!" Sawyer covered his head and jumped up from the chair, moving with agility that belied his size.

He was having tea in his office at St. Patrick's Cathedral when Seth handed him the tablet and he couldn't hold back his excitement after just one glance.

"Giants release Debbie's promotional video, three weeks blindfolded" shocks the audience.

Sawyer's hands started shaking halfway through the book.

When he saw the frame where Debbie landed with her eyes closed, he jumped up from his chair, the chair legs scraping against the floor with a screeching sound.

"What is she doing?!" Sawyer's voice almost blurted out, forgetting even to use honorifics: "She, she, she's insane! Doing this with her eyes closed! What if she falls! What if she breaks her neck?!"

Sawyer paced back and forth in his office twice, his large body making a dull thud on the floor, then stopped and looked down at the playback again.

"OMG!" Sawyer wailed again.

Then he slumped back into his chair, wiped the cold sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief, quickly picked up his phone, and dialed Debbie's number.

The phone rang twice, and then the voice on the other end answered, "Your Excellency the Archbishop?"

Sawyer's voice carried a sense of relief and grievance: "Your Highness—next time, could you please tell me beforehand? I'm getting old, my heart can't take it."

Debbie's nonchalant voice came from the other end: "It's okay, I'm confident."

You have it, but I don't! Sawyer wanted to cry.

He suddenly realized that when Debbie joined the Giants cheerleading squad and did stunts, it wasn't Debbie risking her life, it was him risking his life.

Manhattan Anti-Aging Blood Collection Point.

Richard had just finished the previous blood draw when the system notification sounded.

"Ding! Due to repeated charging and discharging, the maximum capacity of the [Blood Remains Chest] has been increased to 30 units."

1

I'm finally 30.

Richard stopped what he was doing and did some mental calculations.

Starting with 21 units, it takes three hours at the blood collection point to fill the [Blood Box] from zero.

Now, I have 30 units. It will take four and a half hours to accumulate them.

If it is gradually increased to 40 units later, it will take six hours to accumulate enough.

The time cost is getting higher and higher.

Currently, the fastest liposuction procedure is still performed at the Katarina Clinic.

We still need to reopen the Katrina Clinic as soon as possible. I wonder how well Daniel is gathering evidence against Eugene, and whether he can take action now.

Richard glanced at the panel; the progress of [Flesh and Blood Forging] had reached 175/1000, with most of it consumed on the Shadow.

Richard leaned back in his chair and began to ponder.

Afterwards, I enhanced [Fresh Flesh] to an abundance of 20. Where should I use it?

Debbie has now proven that an abundance of 7 is enough to bring her to the level of a top athlete.

Giving her "fresh flesh" with an abundance of 20 would definitely cause all sorts of trouble, and she doesn't need it anyway.

Richard is not willing to strengthen himself for the time being. He needs to wait another 1-2 months to see if there are any unexpected results from Debbie's strengthening.

After all, when it comes to changing oneself, the more cautious one is, the better.

Another problem is the issue of magic.

A level 20 [Fresh Flesh and Blood] requires a large amount of magic.

He now relies almost entirely on the unorthodox faith of the few believers at Baytop Manor to restore his magic power, which is very inefficient, taking him thirty or forty minutes to fully restore it once.

There's a bunch of despicable pseudo-believers in the Baytop Manor. Only two or three of them can offer a non-belief, so we need to get Debbie to brainwash them!

Richard's current method is to generate 10 units of "fresh flesh" with an abundance of 20, and then rest for one or two hours.

After resting, Richard can transform into 10 more units, and so on, allowing him to continue for a long time.

Just like many people can't run ten kilometers in one go, but if you let them run and stop intermittently, they can run a long distance.

There was no one to donate blood at that moment.

Richard stepped out of the blood collection point to get some fresh air.

Across the street, a man in a gray hoodie was squatting in a corner smoking, his hat pulled low, looking like any homeless person you might see anywhere.

But it doesn't quite seem like it; his hoodie is too clean, and the soles of his shoes don't have much wear.

Richard's gaze lingered on the top of his head for a moment.

Greed, malice.

The two flames burned fiercely, especially the one fueled by malice, which almost reached the point of killing!

Richard's gaze, however, did not detect any malice. Was it not directed at me?

Richard subtly withdrew his gaze, pretended to stretch his shoulders, and strolled back and forth in front of the store.

The other person did not follow his gaze.

It's confirmed; this guy's target isn't me.

Perhaps they were gang members who came from who-knows-where?

Richard returned directly to the blood collection point without alerting the other party.

It's pointless to drive him away; it will only arouse his suspicion. It's better to be more vigilant and see what he's up to.

As Richard returned to the store and passed by Han Qing's office, she called out, "Richard."

Richard turned his head.

Han Qing hesitated for a few seconds, then stepped forward and handed Richard a thermos: "Here you go."

"What?" Richard asked, taking the question.

"I made these meat buns myself." Han Qing deliberately acted nonchalantly, as if explaining something unimportant: "They were a return gift for the cream puffs you gave me last time."

"You can even make steamed buns?" Richard opened the insulated box.

Ten large steamed buns, plump and fluffy, with a slight sheen of oil on the dough, clearly handmade.

"Did you make this yourself?" Richard picked one up and took a bite.

Pork and scallion filling, thin skin and generous filling, the meat juice seeps into the dough, keeping it warm very well, even a little hot.

"Yes." Han Qing nodded: "My mom taught me."

"It smells delicious." Richard finished one in two bites. It was really not easy to find authentic Dongda-style steamed buns in the United States. He exclaimed, "Thank you."

For international students like Han Qing, life isn't easy. They're usually extremely busy, yet they still have to go to the supermarket to buy ingredients to make steamed buns and bring them over.

The sentiment was very thoughtful.

This Han Qing isn't so heartless after all.

Han Qing pursed her lips and said, "You're welcome."

Richard quickly ate another one; it was delicious. Han Qing's cooking skills were really good. He wiped his hands and reminded her, "By the way, be careful. That guy in the gray hoodie at the door seems to be scouting the place; he's been watching our shop the whole time."

"Scouting the location?" Han Qing was surprised. Crime was something too far removed from her. She glanced outside and saw a Black man in a gray hoodie squatting on the ground smoking, looking around as if he were any other person on the street. "Aren't you being too sensitive? He just looks like an ordinary thug. Are you—overthinking it?"

Richard didn't explain further, and since he couldn't figure out what the other person wanted to do, he returned to his workstation and said, "Just be careful."

Han Qing hesitated for a moment, then glanced at the door again.

The man was squatting in the corner smoking, his posture casual, and he certainly didn't look like a bad person.

Han Qing watched as Richard returned to his position and continued working.

A rich second-generation heir who drives a Porsche goes to the blood donation center every day and sits there for two or three hours at a time. What else could he be doing but chasing girls?

But she had never seen Richard pursue other girls.

Then the only option left is to pursue yourself.

Han Qing patted his forehead helplessly.

In short, he gave me two cream puffs, which cost about three or four dollars.

I gave him 10 steamed buns. In my family, a bun this big would cost two yuan, so 20 yuan would be about three or four US dollars.

We're even now.

Around 4 PM, Richard filled the Blood Remains Chest and packed his things to leave.

Richard was passing by Han Qing's office when he decided not to bother with her. But then he thought of the meat buns and knocked on the door and opened it.

Han Qing was sitting in front of the computer when he heard the noise and looked up.

"That guy's still at the door," Richard asked. "It's getting dark. Do you want me to take you to the bus stop?"

Han Qing's scalp tingled.

Again!

He really did want to take me home.

Then, naturally, I asked for the address, and naturally, I started picking him up and dropping him off every day, and then...

I'm already exhausted from being alone in the US, and I don't want to deal with a relationship where I could be dumped at any moment.

Han Qing took a deep breath, trying to make her tone sound non-aggressive, and said cautiously, "Richard, I want to go alone. I think... being alone is actually quite nice."

Han Qing stared intently at Richard's face, afraid that he would get angry.

You absolutely must not offend this rich second-generation heir who is also your mentor's academic successor.

Richard was a little confused; this was too strange.

Richard looked at her for two seconds and finally realized what the girl was worried about. No wonder she had been acting strangely. He chuckled and said, "Han Qing, you misunderstood. I just felt that the person at the door was a bit odd."

"9

Han Qing didn't speak, but her expression clearly said: Do you think I believe that?

"Never mind then." Richard smiled, turned and left: "Senior Sister Han, be careful."

"7

Han Qing watched Richard's figure disappear at the end of the corridor and finally breathed a sigh of relief, wondering if he had offended Richard.

She bit her lip and sat back down in her chair.

Should we ask our advisor to change the blood collection point?

The thought had barely crossed my mind when I suppressed it.

It's making a mountain out of a molehill to bother your supervisor with something as busy as this.

Just then, someone knocked on the door.

dong dong dong.

"Come in."

Han Qing looked up, and a young Black female blood collection worker poked her head in, a typical obsequious smile on her face: "Manager, is that Richard bothering you again?"

Han Qing's face turned cold: "Is there something you need?"

"No, no." The black blood collection clerk quickly waved his hand: "I just wanted to remind you that he hangs out at the store every day, leaving before the appointed time, and he keeps running to your office for no reason—I feel like he's trying to hook up with you, he's probably a jerk."

Using that "I'm doing this for your own good" tone to sow discord is too classic. Han Qing had seen it many times in the girls' dormitory during his university years. He coldly replied, "Just do your own thing."

The blood collector's smile froze for a moment, then she nodded: "Okay, manager."

Han Qing was busy working on her thesis in the office when she looked up and saw that it was already dark outside and all the staff had left work.

She was the only one left.

Han Qing was a little scared, so she quickly packed her things, closed the door, and left.

One of the streetlights outside the blood donation site was lit, casting a dim, yellowish light that illuminated a small circle.

Han Qing paused for a moment as she walked out the door.

A man was squatting under the streetlight!

Her figure and silhouette were exactly like the one Richard had shown her that afternoon.

Han Qing's heart skipped a beat, and she gripped the bag strap tightly.

At that moment, the man stood up.

Han Qing shuddered and almost cried out.

The man stretched, turned around, walked to the trash can next to him, and bent down to rummage through it.

He turned out to be a homeless man.

It was a false alarm.

Han Qing froze for a few seconds, then lowered her head and walked quickly past, not daring to look back.

She didn't completely relax until she got on the bus.

Han Qing leaned against the car window, watching the streetlights flash by outside, feeling a mix of exasperation and amusement.

Richard's "scout" turned out to be a homeless man.

I knew you wanted to pursue me.

Han Qing closed her eyes, then opened them again, and sighed as she looked at her reflection in the car window.

It's so difficult. All I want to do is get a PhD.

Back in her apartment, Han Qing locked the door, put her bag on the shoe cabinet, kicked off her shoes, and collapsed onto the bed, letting out a comfortable groan.

I feel incredibly safe.

The mattress was firm, but she was used to it.

She rolled over.

There was a thin crack in the ceiling that stretched from the light fixture to the corner of the wall.

Han Qing lay down for a few minutes to regain her strength. After washing up in the bathroom, she changed into a thick teddy bear pajama and sat cross-legged on the bed.

The warm yellow light from the table lamp illuminated a small patch of the bed sheet. It was very quiet all around, with only the occasional distant sound of cars coming from outside the window.

This is the only time of her day that is completely her own.

Han Qing picked up his phone and opened the game.

Timi's notification sound rang out in the room.

The game begins with selecting a hero, laning, team fights, and pushing towers.

Han Qing wasn't very good at the game, but he was very engaged.

After one game, most of the day's fatigue dissipated, and I felt like I was alive again.

I lost, and I felt really frustrated, angry, and wanted to curse.

"I'll go to sleep after I win one game!" Han Qing said through gritted teeth.

Another game started.

Another game started.

Another game started...

An hour later, her face was ashen, and she was cursing under her breath.

The phone rang.

Han Qing glanced at the top of the screen, and the three words "Christina" felt like a bucket of cold water being poured over his head.

She sat up straight abruptly, her previously relaxed shoulders instantly tensing.

"Hello, tutor."

Christina's voice came through the receiver, calm and unhurried: "How's the paper coming along?"

Han Qing's mind raced as he tried to switch from gaming mode to academic mode: "—I've written about a third of it and am currently organizing the data. I should be able to finish the first draft next week."

"Okay, I'll take care of it on Monday," Christina said.

Han Qing felt her stomach clench slightly: "Okay, mentor."

Christina didn't hang up immediately; she paused for a moment before continuing, "How is the blood collection site operating?"

"Very good." Han Qing quickly reported, "The number of blood donors has been stable in recent weeks, the equipment is operating normally, and there have been no compliance issues."

"What about Richard? Is he doing well at work over there?" Christina asked.

That was her real purpose for making the call: if her employer was in trouble, she should help resolve it in advance.

Han Qing unconsciously rubbed her phone tightly: "————Smoothly, he sometimes comes for two or three hours, sometimes he doesn't come, but the blood collection efficiency is very high, and he hasn't caused any trouble."

Aside from being a lot of trouble for me.

"That's good." Christina was relieved.

Han Qing hesitated for a moment, but finally couldn't help but ask, "Teacher, what exactly is Richard's identity?"

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone.

Christina's voice shifted from calm to wary: "Oh? What do you want to ask?"

"He—" Han Qing carefully chose her words, "He seems to have a bit of a crush on me. He keeps reminding me to be careful, and today he even offered to take me home. My mentor—"

Christina breathed a sigh of relief and interrupted her: "If he's pursuing you, that's the luckiest thing that ever happened to you."

Is it really necessary to go to such lengths? Han Qing was stunned.

The greatest luck in this life?

"But I don't like rich kids. They just play with people's feelings."

"7

A very soft sigh came from the other end of the phone, so soft that Han Qing almost mistook it for static.

Some people, even when luck is practically handed to them, will still push it away themselves. Christina's advice could only go this far; she couldn't explain any further: "It's okay, don't overthink it, just let things take their course. In short, continue to cooperate with all of Richard's requests."

"Do we still need to cooperate?" Han Qing's face almost collapsed.

"All requirements," Christina repeated, her tone flat. "You should understand what that means."

"————" Han Qing felt that she was not attending a proper university.

"Also, the paper is due on Monday."

The pain was doubled! Han Qing grimaced.

The phone hangs up.

Han Qing placed her phone next to her pillow, turned over, and pulled the blanket up to her chin, revealing only her small nose and big eyes.

I just want to pursue a PhD...

Han Qing turned over and fell asleep. In her sleep, she mumbled, "Ugh, so annoying. I'm just an insignificant little PhD student, Richard, please stop staring at me."

The night is like water.

The streetlights outside the window cast a thin streak of light on the ceiling through the gaps in the curtains.

"You're Irving." Andrew stood warily in the doorway, his gaze shifting from the house number to Irving's face.

He stood very straight, with his shoulders slightly forward, as if he were ready to deal with any unexpected situation.

"It's me. Come in." Owen smiled and made way for me.

"This is it." Sean also came out.

Upon seeing Sean, Andrew finally breathed a sigh of relief.

The first thing he did upon entering the room was to observe the surroundings.

This was an empty street-front shop that Irving rented and turned into the first headquarters of the Christian Mutual Aid Society (CMCS).

It was originally a closed convenience store, and faded price tags still remain on the walls.

The ground was concrete, with some potholes, and in the corner were a few folding chairs and a table that looked like it could fall apart at any moment.

Irving simply cleaned up a bit and cleared out a usable space.

A moment later, Meryl arrived.

This was a white girl who wasn't particularly pretty, with fine freckles and light brown hair casually tied back.

She was about 160 centimeters tall, wearing a beige cashmere sweater and a pair of well-tailored dark trousers. Irving didn't recognize her, but he could tell the fabric wasn't cheap.

Meryl wore a small crucifix on her chest, made of silver, with a simple and antique style, showing signs of wear, as if she had worn it close to her body for many years.

When she saw Irving, a friendly smile involuntarily spread across her face: "Meryl Sinclair. You're Irving Morris? Hello! Your article is very well written; my father and I both read it."

Meryl sensed a special aura emanating from Owen that made her want to get closer.

"Owen Morris." Owen shook her hand, his grip firm but not too tight.

Andrew stood near the door, his hands hanging naturally at his sides, blocking half of the doorway.

The bulge at his waist likely indicates the concealment of a gun.

Sean clapped his hands. "Alright, everyone's here. Sit down."

The group found folding chairs and sat down, with Meryl taking the initiative to sit next to Owen.

Irving was a little surprised, but didn't say anything.

Andrew sat in the seat closest to the door, where he could always see it.

Meryl stood with her knees together, appearing very well-mannered, and took out a notebook, ready to jot down the key points.

Sean spoke up: "Let me introduce you, Owen, this is Andrew Gallagher. A former Delta Force instructor and a devout believer."

Andrew nodded to Irving: "Your article was very well written, I liked it very much, but I don't know if you're a boastful guy."

Irving didn't refute, but simply said solemnly, "Welcome to the team!"

Sean added, "This is Meryl Sinclair. Former Deputy Director of Public Relations at Eternal Paradise Television. She knows better than you or me how to talk to people at the bottom."

Meryl tilted her head slightly and corrected, "I'm not the former deputy director; I'm still in my position. I just applied for a part-time position on a public service project with the boss. Every endeavor needs a voice; I'm here to speak for everyone and let more people hear. By the way, I majored in law in college and interned at a law firm for two years, so I can help with any initial legal issues."

Ou Jia nodded, and solemnly shook hands: "Welcome, Meryl, welcome to our business."

With archery skills, publicity, legal support, and funding, the work finally began to get on track.

Meryl's eyes narrowed with laughter; she looked very happy.

Sean spread a document out on the table and pushed it so that all four of them could see it: "So, starting today, CMCS (Catholic Charitable Mutual Aid Association) is officially established, and the four of us are the founding team."

He pointed to the document title, CMCS, the full name written in smaller print below: Catholic Mutual Charitable.

Society.

"The first batch of funding, $80, has arrived." Sean's gaze swept across everyone's faces. "Following O'Car's suggestion, we'll pilot it in three neighborhoods first. The initial tasks are simple: contact the local priests, borrow the church or parish living quarters, and distribute food to everyone who comes; help lower-class believers repay small loans at half the interest rate of loan sharks; provide basic security, dispute mediation, neighborhood mutual assistance, and lookout patrols."

Sean immediately became serious: "However, I have a few points to remind you: CMCS, we will register as a legal non-profit organization, in New York State. One of the membership requirements is: baptized Catholic believers. Initially, we will not pursue rapid expansion, nor will we recruit non-believers. We cannot call it a theocratic organization in any context; it is a mutual aid society. We don't talk politics, and we don't say anything against anyone. We just want to do one thing: believers know they can come to us if they need anything. That's it."

Meryl wrote a few words on a sticky note: "No problem, I'll handle the registration materials."

"I'm not finished yet." Sean raised his head: "Charity X also has a key organization, the Thorn Knights (TK) under CMCS. It's run by Andrew and is also legally registered. It's a civilian security patrol team."

He glanced at Andrew: "The official duties are: neighborhood patrols, dispute mediation, and constant preparedness for emergencies. If a security issue is discovered, report it to the NYPD immediately; no private investigations are allowed. Recruit 10 to 20 long-term Catholic male parishioners from the nearby community, requiring good character, no criminal record, and signing a pledge of faith and a liability waiver. Oujia will be responsible for vetting the personnel. Assessments will be conducted quarterly; those who fail will be dismissed."

Andrew spoke up: "It's possible. I know a few NYPD sheriffs who would be willing to take action if we could provide them with evidence of gang activity—locations, times, people, transaction records. It's their achievement. We provide the leads, they get the short end of the stick—it's a win-win situation. However, they won't work for free; they'll need credit."

Ou Jiamu remained calm: "Where there is light, there is darkness. No problem, as long as the price is right, I'll agree."

He no longer cared about his wife using force, let alone trampling on the boundaries of the law.

Since you can't protect civilians within the boundaries, then these boundaries are useless and serve you. So why should I obey them?

Andrew nodded: "Then I'm all set."

Meryl wrote another line on the sticky note.

Ou said, "Our next step is to conduct on-site visits and community outreach. I suggest holding three or four private meetings on each of the three streets, with about 30 to 50 people each time. Avoid large gatherings to prevent provoking the NYPD and City Council. After that, hold them at a fixed time every week. If the local priest agrees, the location will be a church; otherwise, it will be here. We want to let good people know we're here first. Also, I need a little bit of publicity."

Meryl nodded: "No problem. I can try to get a one-minute news segment or feature interview with Eternal Paradise TV Network every week. At first, we'll avoid charity content and controversial topics. Once we've established ourselves, we can gradually increase the amount of content."

Sean continued, "No matter what, you must be careful about guns. Shootings are extremely dangerous. We are different from gangs; we are a legal organization, and I don't want to see you arrested by the NYPD or the FBI."

Ou Jia raised his head, his expression unwavering. "No! If we don't fight, the enemy won't retreat. If we're afraid to use force, they'll become even more emboldened. This place is full of guns and gangs. If we don't dare use force, we won't be able to develop, let alone hold onto this small outpost!"

Sean's breath hitched, and he remained silent for a few seconds before speaking: "I know. But in the beginning, CMCS hasn't even established itself yet, and if they rush in recklessly, the NYPD will wipe them out. Okay, you need to give the mutual aid association time to grow, and give everyone time to grow. You absolutely cannot use violence first! Nor can you openly threaten to use violence!"

Ou did not reply immediately.

The sunlight moved from the windowsill to his feet, the dappled light lingered on his shoes for a moment before continuing to move forward.

Ou Jia recalled his own experience.

Would the outcome be different if we changed the location or the person?

will not.

Shi Pi will always be like this.

Violence is the greatest power.

"OK. But I absolutely cannot promise not to use violence. That's my bottom line."

Sean looked at him for a few seconds, then said, "Just don't advertise publicly. New York is full of guns; nobody's going to specifically promote a community mutual aid society. As long as you don't shout 'Take up arms and kill Wall Street' at public rallies, nobody cares what you're thinking."

Irving nodded.

"Let me outline the performance targets." Sean pushed another sheet of paper over, on which were written several thick, bold characters: "One year, establish a firm foothold. Develop 500 formal members, at which point we will owe the second installment of funds, 200 million. Note that I need believers, especially devout believers; you can't try to fool me with mediocre people."

"In the second year, we aim to reach 2000 official members and 1000 million."

"In the third year, with 10,000 members, I will make a fourth payment to guarantee your satisfaction. If you can elect your own city councilors, you can have a face-to-face meeting with the boss."

"The average New York City district has about 170,000 people, with about 80,000 to 90,000 active voters. That's less than 20% for each city council member. If you can get 10,000 of those votes, you become a city council member, and then people will have to stand by you."

There was a moment of silence after the oath was made.

European drivers begin to drive around dust.

With 10,000 members, and their families, and the influence of their families, it should be possible to win 40,000 votes.

If 10,000 members are concentrated in one constituency, they can control almost every aspect of the entire constituency.

If they are spread across multiple constituencies, they might be able to secure 3 or 4 city council seats.

Of course, things won't be that simple. Once things develop to that point, we'll inevitably face even more complex struggles.

"No problem, this is our chance to shine! The evil NYPD has created a shameless 'bad ward' policy by dividing citizens into different groups, and nobody cares about the people in those bad wards. We'll save them from hell!"

Sean nodded, stood up, and shook hands with Ou Jia: "Start working tomorrow. May God bless you."

"May God bless you." Andrew stood up, nodded to Oja, and turned to leave.

Meryl, who has no wife: "Excuse me, I'd like to ask you about the specific arrangements for the follow-up visits."

The others left.

The shop quieted down.

Ou Jia gathered the driving documents on the table into a stack.

Meryl stood still beside him, less than half a step apart.

She didn't back down, nor did she make excuses for standing so close to him; instead, she looked down at him.

"Okay. Take me to that community outreach tomorrow." Her voice was a little softer than before, and her speech was a little slower. "The only thing I can do is promote it. I lived in a slum for two years when I was in college. I know how to knock on doors and how to get the interviewee to talk to me. I can go with you."

Ou closed the file folder, looked directly at her, and his gaze held a hint of scrutiny.

He hallucinated that this woman was inexplicably close to him, which seemed a bit abnormal.

Meryl's ears felt a little hot, but she didn't have a wife.

"Okay. So, we'll meet here at 7:30 tomorrow morning?" Ou Jia asked.

Meryl straightened the chair, touched the worn cross around her neck, exhaled, and whispered, "Okay."

Ou drove away.

Meryl took two steps and then turned back to look at Ou Jia's back. She felt inexplicably happy and her pace quickened. The wind lifted a corner of her sweater, as if a crack had been opened in her heart.