Empire of Shadows

Mr. White was a typical middle-aged man of the Federation, carrying an air of gloom about him. His pale complexion made the dark circles under his eyes even more pronounced. His unkempt, light brown hair hung messily over his head, and he wore a short-sleeved white shirt that had been washed so many times it was now yellowing. His light blue pants bore the telltale signs of numerous repairs.

His wife, Mrs. White, looked ill—timid and uneasy. She dared not lift her head to meet Lance’s gaze or that of the two officers beside him, keeping her head lowered at all times. Even when Officer Brayden asked them questions, it was always Mr. White who answered.

”This gentleman says he has vague memories of getting lost when he was about five or six years old. Someone took him to a carriage and hid him under a pile of hay,” Brayden explained.  

”He was sold to a regular family and worked for them without pay.”  

”Recently, his adoptive father passed away. He now hopes to find his biological parents. I was moved by his desire to return home, so I went through the missing persons reports in Jingang City from that time.”  

”Among them was your report. When I compared his description with your family, there does seem to be a resemblance.”  

Mr. White, his half-closed eyes scrutinizing Lance, nodded. ”Yes, he does bear some similarity to me when I was younger. But that doesn’t confirm he’s Steven.”  

”Besides...” Mr. White hesitated before continuing, ”As a father, though I don’t want to admit this, I believe my child might already be dead.”  

Despite mentioning the possibility of his son’s demise, Mr. White’s tone lacked sadness. Perhaps his grief had already been consumed by countless moments of sorrow over the years. He stated his beliefs calmly, but Officer Brayden wasn’t ready to accept that.  ”Mr. White, I understand that suddenly gaining a family member might be hard to accept, but I must mention this—this child inherited a sum of money from his adoptive father...”  

These words made Mrs. White glance up at Lance for a brief moment. Her plain face was pallid, and after holding her gaze for three or four seconds, she lowered her head again.  

Mr. White’s expression shifted subtly. ”I’m sorry, but can I ask... how much did you inherit from your adoptive father?”  

”Two hundred dollars.”  

Two hundred dollars wasn’t an enormous amount in some contexts, but considering the average monthly income of ordinary folks was about thirty-five to forty dollars, it represented about six months of wages. And after paying taxes and covering daily expenses, managing to save ten dollars a month was often a testament to diligent living.  

Two hundred dollars—nearly two years of savings—might not mean much to the wealthy, but for a struggling family, it could be transformative.  

”I’d like to talk with Mr. White alone,” Lance requested. Mr. White considered for a moment and agreed.

The two moved to the side of the house, which was a standalone structure with a C-shaped yard that included a front, side, and backyard. The backyard was lush with shrubs and some small crimson flowers Lance couldn’t identify. The yard was clean and well-kept, with no fallen leaves in sight.  

The side yard held an old swing set, clearly aged. Without even sitting on it, Lance could imagine the rusty metal joints creaking noisily when swung.  

However, being located in the outskirts, the standalone house with its yard wasn’t worth much.  

”You can tell I’m an Imperial,” Lance said bluntly, getting straight to the point. This was a transaction, plain and simple.  

Mr. White nodded. ”Yes, and that’s why I know you’re not Steven. He wasn’t an Imperial.”  

Lance pulled out a pack of filtered cigarettes. At this time, not all cigarettes in the Federation had filters. Tobacco companies denied smoking was a primary cause of lung diseases and even presented “evidence” to back their claims—non-smokers with severe lung issues. This rebutted medical findings linking smoking to lung disease. Still, to ease public concerns, they started adding filters to some cigarettes.  

These filters were rudimentary, often just compressed cotton, and could make smoking more effortful. Yet, seeing the tar caught in the cotton gave smokers a false sense of security. Filtered cigarettes were also more expensive than unfiltered ones.  

”Want one?” Lance offered, holding one out. Mr. White hesitated for a few seconds before accepting.  

Lance lit the cigarette for him, noticing Mr. White’s hand trembling slightly as he held it.  

”Not much different from the ones we roll ourselves,” Mr. White remarked. ”The flavor’s weak.”  

Lance smiled but didn’t respond. Instead, he continued, ”We were saying I’m an Imperial, and your son Steven was from the Federation.”  

Mr. White nodded. ”That’s right.”  

”I currently don’t have a legal identity. I can’t register a company or do what I want to without proper documentation.”  

”Mr. White, I deeply regret and sympathize with what happened to Steven, but life moves forward, and so must we.”  

Mr. White raised his hand to stop him. ”Just say what you want to say. My brain doesn’t work well sometimes, and I don’t understand you rich folks’ roundabout way of talking.”   ṟåＮＯΒÈS̈

Lance wasn’t offended and smiled. ”I’d like to use Steven’s identity to register a legal Federation identity for myself.”  

Mr. White took a deep drag from his cigarette, his trembling hand now steadier. After a moment of thought, he replied, ”The price is two hundred dollars.”  

Lance, not wanting to leave room for uncertainty, added, ”For no more than two years. After that, I’ll relinquish Steven’s identity, and the police will treat it as an error. Steven’s records will remain his, and I’ll have what I need.”  

Mr. White took another long drag, then, with his hand steadier still, said, ”Four hundred.”  

Lance shook his head. ”Officer Brayden found over seventy families with children matching the description. Someone will accept two hundred dollars. Right?”  

Mr. White tried again. ”My wife is sick, and my daughter needs money.”  

”Two hundred and twenty.”  

Mr. White finished his cigarette, dropped the butt to the ground, and crushed it underfoot. He extended his rough, calloused hand. ”Deal!”  

After shaking hands, Lance said, ”Let’s inform Officer Brayden and complete the paperwork at the station. Any issues?”  

”For two hundred and twenty dollars, no issues at all!”  

Returning to the front yard, Lance’s expression showed that the matter was settled. Officer Brayden was visibly pleased. After exchanging a knowing look with Lance, he resumed his duties.  

”Mr. White, you’ll need to visit the station with me to update your missing person report and sign a couple of documents. Then, it’ll all be done.”  

”I have no problem with that.”  

”Neither do I,” Lance added.  

On the drive to the station, Officer Brayden floored the accelerator, completing the journey in record time. At the station, he retrieved the Whites’ old report and prepared a case closure form.  

”No one cares about an old missing person case being closed or left open anyway,” Brayden remarked.  

But Lance cared and had stressed the importance of handling the case properly, citing “customer experience.” Brayden took note.  

With everything finalized, Mr. White walked away with two hundred and twenty dollars. Brayden informed Lance that his identity and social security number would be ready within a month. After receiving a fifty-dollar tip from Lance, he promised it would be ready within a week.  

”Lance, if you send people my way, I’ll cut their fees in half. Consider it my thank-you!” Brayden said with a laugh.  

Lance didn’t voice his thoughts: Thanks, my . Instead, he shook Brayden’s hand. ”You’ve solved a major issue for the President!”  

Brayden paused, then burst out laughing. ”Let’s hope he doesn’t throw me in jail for it!”  

”Alright, I have other matters to attend to. If you run into trouble in my patrol zone, call the station, and I’ll come right away!”  

Leaving the station, Lance took a deep breath. The clouds above moved lazily across the sky, mirroring the calm, unhurried mood of the people below.