Blackstone Code-Chapter 549: The Little Pink Bunny

Pfft
The sound was even softer than a fart—dull, tearing, with a faint metallic undertone. The farmer began to struggle, while the man who had stabbed the knife into his throat stepped aside.
The two men stood by the car, watching. The farmer staggered back while pulling the knife from his throat. He turned and ran toward the lounge chair. He knew he was going to die.
A throat wound didn’t guarantee death—he’d been in prison and had seen someone survive a slit throat. What really killed was blood loss, blood filling the lungs, or swelling of the windpipe that blocked oxygen.
These were the true causes of death—and they all stemmed from an open throat wound.
He could feel death closing in. He knew he didn’t have time to save himself. His breathing was already failing. Even with great effort, all he could manage was a spray of blood foam—air was barely getting through.
Death wasn’t far off now. He lunged for the chair, determined to at least take one of them with him.
Unfortunately, he hadn’t studied well enough to know that intense physical exertion would only accelerate his oxygen depletion. He couldn’t breathe. Dizziness crashed against his mind like violent waves against a shore.
Almost there—just a few more steps!
Got it!
He grabbed the gun, turned, and fired. The recoil threw his body backward, and he collapsed onto the ground.
The two men by the car flinched at the sound of the final desperate shot. The one in the passenger seat gave his partner a reproachful look. Then they calmly began cleaning up.
Fortunately, their boss had picked an extremely remote location for the farmer. No one usually came by, so they had time to deal with everything.
They dug out the bloodied soil, packed it into small bags, then carried the body to the bed to stage the scene.
After combing through the place, they gathered anything of value to take with them. They even searched the basement. Almost everything that could be moved was taken.
Then they set the place on fire.
By the time county police arrived, there was nothing left but a collapsed ruin and a charred body, far too burned to be worth an autopsy.
In many fire cases, autopsies revealed that victims didn’t actually die in the fire—but that only applied if the fire was extinguished early. When fires burned unchecked, sometimes not even a trace of the body remained.
Watching the flames rise, the two men drove off. It would be days, maybe weeks, before the site was discovered.
That night, Ora received a call and, filled with unease, returned to her father’s house.
She had moved out as soon as she was legally allowed to live independently. To some, that made her seem especially mature—unlike the spoiled, near-useless children raised with excessive parental care. At sixteen, Ora had already started living on her own.
She hadn’t been back in years. Her father had never called, never asked her to return. But today he had called—so she had to come.
When she entered, she saw her senator father sitting on the sofa, glasses on, watching TV. He glanced at her sideways, and that single look sent a chill down her spine.
“All these years, I’ve never interfered with your life. You’ve used my name to build your show, Ora 90,” he said.
“As a father, I’m proud of you. But you’ve angered people you shouldn’t have. And now you’ve put yourself, me, and many others in danger.”
“Starting February, your show will be canceled,” he continued calmly, but with an authority that allowed no resistance. “There will be a live broadcast accident. The show will be pulled, and we’ll arrange for other events to cover up the disruption. Understand?”
Ora bit her lip hard. The taste of blood didn’t weaken her resolve—it only made her lips redder. But she felt no pain. Or maybe a deeper pain was numbing the physical one.
Everything she had built was about to be destroyed.
“You can’t do this!” she shouted, summoning all her strength to defy him.
The old man turned to her again. “You’re still so naïve. I’m doing this for your own good. Your uncle died today.”
Ora was stunned. Her uncle had gone into hiding in the west after getting out of prison. Last she heard, he was in decent health. How could he be dead?
She had a terrible feeling—but she didn’t dare believe it.
Her father’s gaze remained calm, detached. “You really are reckless. Your uncle hid so far away, and you still got him killed.”
“You can disobey, but be prepared for the consequences. Maybe next time it’ll be your brother. Or… you.”
“You need to listen. Understand?” he said, standing up. “Only I won’t hurt you.”
If this were a film, the camera would now zoom out quickly to Ora’s apartment. Beneath the floor under her bed, there was a secret compartment. Inside it, a small, faded pink bunny hair clip lay in an ordinary jewelry box.
Over the next few days, Lynch kept appearing in interviews and shows. The media loved him—any story involving him was sensational.
Some started calling him
Mr. Billionaire
.
Lately, Lynch felt he really needed a personal assistant—someone to manage his schedule, remind him about things like Ora 90, and lighten his daily workload.
Eminence was the best place in the Federation for the rich to thrive. Here, money was God and could do anything. Lynch simply had Lime pass the word, and soon a crowd showed up.
Talent agencies, headhunters—everyone wanted to serve Mr. Lynch. Whether he was truly part of high society didn’t matter. Just working for him was an honor.
There were so many applicants that most didn’t even get to speak before being dismissed. Those who sent résumés but didn’t show up in person were immediately rejected.
Many of them were job-hoppers—serving one company while secretly hunting for the next opportunity. If they found a better offer, they’d jump ship immediately. If not, they’d stay put.
Lynch didn’t like those types—even if they were competent. To him, loyalty mattered more than skill. A loyal fool could take a bullet for you. A brilliant but disloyal person might shoot you in the back.
One by one, candidates were eliminated.
Then a new girl came in and placed her résumé on Lynch’s desk. There were a lot of women applying today.
All kinds of girls. For some reason, they seemed to think women were better suited for the job.
A few even stripped as soon as they walked in, offering Lynch a
trial
.
Some girls walked in with cold expressions and an air of arrogance, as if they were lowering themselves to serve Lynch and he should feel honored.
There were all kinds of people—so many that Lynch didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
The nickname
Mr. Billionaire
brought him some positive attention, but it also came with baggage—like unwanted advances.
After rejecting a flamboyant man who claimed to be
one of the girls
, a new applicant walked in.
A woman—not particularly fashionable. About 5′7″ (170 cm), and given her flat shoes, that height seemed accurate.
She wore a crisp women’s business suit—something that had become popular in recent years. Though labeled as womenswear, it leaned more toward a neutral, professional look suitable for business settings.
She was young, fair-skinned, dressed conservatively yet sharply, and wore square, thick-rimmed glasses. She wasn’t as striking as the previous applicants, but gave off a dependable vibe.
“Helen…” Lynch glanced at her résumé and smiled slightly.
The smile wasn’t suggestive—just a reaction to the commonness of her name. Nothing remarkable.
After skimming through the résumé, he asked, “You went to an ordinary university. You don’t have any impressive work experience. No notable family background. So what makes you think you’re qualified for this job?”
It might’ve sounded harsh, but it was a fair question. Many assumed being an assistant just meant following orders—but it was more than that.
Assistants often had to deal with unexpected situations, and a single misstep could put their boss in an awkward position. Quick thinking under pressure was one of the most critical skills.
Lynch was testing her.