Blackstone Code-Chapter 529: Everything Will Be Fine

A man in a torn tank top sat up on a creaking bed, his face worn and defeated. The once light-colored, silky bedsheet had turned grimy, especially at the edges where a thick layer of black grease clung. Whenever he couldn’t stand it anymore, he’d flip the blanket over, but now, that made little difference to him.
He stretched lazily, scratched the itchy hair under his arm, then shivered. Though he hadn’t felt it when leaving the warmth of the covers, now the cold hit him sharply.
The room had heating—shared with neighbors through a common pipeline—a new winter measure to help those suddenly impoverished avoid freezing to death. The mayor had arranged public heating for those in need, though its effectiveness was limited and sometimes it shut off in the middle of the night. Still, it was better than nothing, allowing people to sleep without trembling.
He changed into clothes long overdue for washing, heavy with odor, and squeezed through the narrow door into the bathroom to clean himself. Looking at his reflection, he told himself, “Everything will be fine.”
Yes, everything would be fine.
When the disaster first loomed, he said this to himself while living in a lavish villa, surrounded by uneasy servants and a young wife nearly thirty years his junior who gazed at him with adoration, as if his every word were gospel.
When the disaster struck, he still said it. He had dismissed all the servants—he could no longer afford their expensive wages. His young wife looked at him with suspicion, unsure if he spoke the truth or was deceiving her.
After some time had passed, he continued to say it. His villa was repossessed by the bank, and he was evicted. His wife barely gave him any warning before suing him for divorce, claiming he failed to satisfy her in their intimate life.
He didn’t contest the divorce; he couldn’t afford a lawyer. Fighting would only worsen his situation.
He lost almost everything—except a small government-provided apartment he got through connections, and a factory with a pile of unsold backorders no one wanted to pay for.
Every day, he looked in the mirror and repeated his mantra: “Everything will be fine.”
He believed it because the newspapers said so—the federation had found ways to revive the economy. The joint development project with Nagaryll had made unprecedented progress, and the benefits from helping other countries would quickly restore the economy to pre-recession levels, making society a better place again.
When that day came, he would return to a big house, employ countless servants, marry a girl forty years younger, and exhaust himself in daily toil.
Snapping back to reality, he looked at his unshaven face in the mirror and nodded firmly. “Yes, everything will be fine.”
He squeezed back through the narrow door of his cramped apartment—a place meant for survival, not comfort, where every inch of space was squeezed out.
At the window, he opened it, and cold air rushed in. He wrapped his coat tighter. Despite the bitter winter, bright sunlight streamed in, offering a brief moment of warmth.
He picked up a newspaper from the floor, then brewed the cheapest coffee he could manage—stone-ground coffee beans boiled without filtering, more bean broth than coffee, but it was his only drink.
He heated a small packet of relief food from a charity center by placing it in the pot; the aluminum packaging safely warmed it through the water.
Minutes later, he sat at the table in the sunlight, sipping coffee, reading the latest news, and forcing the mushy relief food into his mouth.
“Good morning, Mr. Jonathan…” A voice passed by outside his window.
He smiled warmly and replied, “Good morning, Mr. Anderson…”
Watching Anderson’s retreating figure, Jonathan shook his head. Anderson was also a factory owner, once richer than Jonathan.
To escape debt quickly, Anderson had sold everything, including his factory. Otherwise, the loans would have crushed him. Even if the bank didn’t press for repayment immediately, the annual interest alone was suffocating. Anderson lost, and he admitted defeat. Now, as an insurance salesman, he was working hard to rebuild.
Jonathan, however, hadn’t sold his factory. He gambled on a feeling he couldn’t explain.
Many businesses had failed, but the federation would surely delay loan repayments, even offer low or no-interest plans, because otherwise, many would simply perish.
His gamble paid off. Though he had nothing and was deeply in debt, he still had a chance.
He searched daily for opportunity, learning much from the newspapers, especially about Nagaryll’s development.
He had a strange intuition that he was about to become wealthy again.
Nagaryll’s rapid growth would create strong material demand. The leftover orders in his factory could sell easily at a discount to active international traders.
Once he showed the bank he could make money again, he could try for another loan and restart production.
That day was not far off; he firmly believed it.
After finishing his meager meal, he rinsed his mouth with the last of his coffee, swallowing it all. Though the relief food was terrible, it was his last lifeline—he wouldn’t waste a crumb.
Just as he was about to head out for a walk, a sharply dressed young man appeared at the door, carrying a briefcase.
His hair was slicked with so much gel that not a strand was out of place despite the cold wind.
Jonathan’s first thought was that the man worked for a bank—only bankers carried briefcases disguised as document bags. They carried many important files that wouldn’t fit in normal folders.
“Hey, over here!” Jonathan called without hesitation.
The young man hesitated, stepping back to look at the door and the surrounding apartments, only approaching when he seemed certain Jonathan was the tenant.
“Mr. Jonathan?” he asked uncertainly.
Jonathan ran his fingers through his messy hair. “Not what you expected?”
Maybe it was his attitude, or perhaps the air of former wealth he still carried, but the young man believed him and smiled. “It’s good to meet you in person. I’m a special envoy from Golden Exchange Bank.”
He opened the briefcase, which wasn’t filled only with documents but divided into two sections.
On the left was a latest-model recorder without a speaker, meaning the user couldn’t hear the recording until played back on another device with speakers.
On the right were stacks of documents, sealed in different folders with various labeled stamps.
The young man pressed the record button and began speaking as he opened the first file. “Mr. Jonathan, from this moment, our conversation will be recorded as valid evidence for court if needed.”
“To ensure the recording’s legality and validity, I must inform you it is operating and will capture our entire dialogue on tape. Do you understand its purpose?”
“You may say you understand, don’t understand, or I can explain again.”
Jonathan suddenly felt nervous, unsure what this procedure meant, his heart pounding. He swallowed hard. “I understand. Our conversation will be recorded, right?”
The young man nodded approvingly. “Yes, that’s correct. Before we start the formal discussion…” He glanced inside, then decided to conduct the conversation in the hallway. “I must follow protocol to complete an inquiry process. You may refuse to answer or stop the discussion, but existing recordings will serve as evidence of your refusal, which can be presented to the court and judge if necessary. Do you understand?”
Mentions of court and judges only made Jonathan more anxious.