Summer came early to San Francisco in 1997.
The air in Chinatown was a thick mix of cooking oil, laundry detergent, and the scent of money.
Matthew Vance stood in his second-floor office above the newly acquired Old Canton Tea House, looking down at the street through the window blinds.
It was three in the afternoon—past the lunch rush—yet seven or eight tables were still occupied.
Neighborhood elders were chatting, students were doing homework, and two young Wah Ching gang members sat in a corner talking in hushed tones.
“Boss, the ledgers.” Old Wallace, the tea house’s original manager, handed over a folder.
“This month’s revenue is up fifteen percent compared to last month.” Matthew flipped open the folder.
Old Canton was a thirty-year-old establishment with authentic food but outdated decor.
Operating under his alias “Marcus Vance,” Matthew had purchased it for eighty thousand dollars.
He had retained all the original staff, replacing only the accountant with Archie’s distant cousin, Linus—a twenty-year-old accounting major.
“Good work,” Matthew said, closing the folder.
“Next month, replace the kitchen’s exhaust system.
Summer gets too hot.
Budget five thousand, and hire a reliable crew.” “Will do, Boss,” Old Wallace nodded.
“Also, Aunt Wang from the laundromat wants to see you.
She said she has something to discuss.” “Have her come up at four.” After Old Wallace left, Matthew opened another document—a status report detailing the four properties controlled under the “Marcus Vance” identity: *Old Canton Tea House*: Purchase price $80,000; monthly net profit ~$3,000.
High intelligence value.
*Good Fortune Laundromat (2 locations)*: Package deal $50,000; monthly net profit ~$2,000.
Surveillance nodes.
*Tonghui Wire Express (remittance service)*: Purchase price $120,000; monthly net profit ~$4,000.
Capital funnel.
Total investment: $310,000.
Monthly cash flow: ~$9,000.
It wasn’t a fortune, but the foundation was solid.
*** At four sharp, Aunt Wang from the laundromat arrived.
In her fifties, she was an immigrant from Fujian who had operated laundromats in Chinatown for two decades.
“Boss Vance, I need help,” Aunt Wang said, wringing her hands.
“Those Vietnamese gang members have been coming by to cause trouble.
They claim our detergent smell is too strong and ruins business for their restaurant across the street.
But really, they just want protection money.” Matthew poured her a cup of tea.
“How much are they asking for?” “Five hundred a month.
I told them we’re a small business and can’t afford that.
Yesterday, they jammed the coin slots on two of our dryers.
Repairs will cost over two hundred dollars.” “I understand,” Matthew said smoothly.
“I’ll handle it.
Return to business as usual.
If any of the Vietnamese gang members show up over the next few days, tell them the owner is working on a solution.” Aunt Wang offered her heartfelt thanks before departing.
Matthew called Remy.
“Did you hear about the laundromat?” “Just found out,” Remy replied.
“The Vietnamese gang is strapped for cash.
They opened a new underground casino down south, but business has been terrible.
So they’re trying to squeeze extra protection money out of Chinatown.
It’s not just the laundromat—three small grocery stores were harassed too.” “What does Skinny Monkey say?” “He thinks the Vietnamese gang isn’t much of a threat, but taking direct action might trigger a chain reaction.
The Mexican cartel might use it as an excuse to step in.” Matthew pondered for a moment.
“Pass a message to him.
Suggest he hold off on violence and hit them economically instead.
Doesn’t the food supply for those Vietnamese restaurants run through Shunda Freight’s channels?” “One of them does.” “Starting next month, raise that restaurant’s freight rates by thirty percent.
Cite fuel surcharge adjustments or route optimization.” Remy chuckled over the line.
“Boiling the frog in warm water.” “Also, gather intelligence on recent transactions between the Vietnamese gang and the Mexican cartel.
Look specifically for any conflicts of interest.” “Already on it.
The Mexicans hijacked a shipment of smuggled cigarettes from the Vietnamese last month; both sides are sitting on a powder keg.” “Then let’s give them a spark,” Matthew said calmly.
“Send anonymous tips to both sides hinting that the other is plotting retaliation.
Keep the details vague but credible.” Hanging up, Matthew walked over to the far wall of his office.
Pinned to the wall was a detailed map of Chinatown, color-coded by gang territory: Wah Ching (green) held the core; the Vietnamese gang (red) occupied the eastern edge; the Mexican cartel (yellow) controlled the west; and the Foot Clan (black) hovered around the outer docklands.
He drew a red circle where the Vietnamese gang and Mexican cartel territories overlapped.
His phone vibrated with an encrypted text message: *[Brad handled.
Accidental drowning; police ruled it a drunk fall.
Of his three remaining henchmen, two have left SF.
The last will be dealt with tonight.]* Matthew deleted the message.
Brad’s fate didn’t matter to him; what mattered was Skinny Monkey taking absolute control of the Wah Ching gang while growing dependent on Matthew’s “advice.” *** At seven in the evening, Remy arrived at the hidden room beneath Renxin Hall.
“Movement at Warehouse B7.” He spread several photographs across the table.
“The Foot Clan has beefed up security.
At least eight ninjas now, split into two patrol shifts.
They’ve also installed a new infrared security system.” Matthew examined the photos.
It was a standard industrial building, but the doors and windows had been reinforced, and a sniper position had been established on the roof.
“Are you certain the K-Series cargo is inside?” “Positive.
I tracked a delivery truck registered under the Weyland-Yutani Corporation.
Armed escorts, very cautious handover.” Remy paused.
“There’s one more thing.
Operatives from The Hand were spotted nearby too.
Looks like they’re watching the Foot Clan.” “Shadow Fox?” “Unclear, but highly skilled.
Not lower-tier ninjas.” Matthew leaned back against his chair.
The Foot Clan, The Hand, Weyland-Yutani Corporation…
layered over the Wah Ching, the Vietnamese gang, and the Mexican cartel.
San Francisco’s underworld was a pot of water on the verge of boiling over.
“Focus on the Chinatown cleanup plan first,” Matthew decided.
“Once we have total control over the core district, we’ll deal with the Foot Clan.” “Understood.” Remy gathered the photos.
“Livewire asked when the next field training session will be.” “Next week.
The target will likely be a Vietnamese gang stronghold, depending on how the cleanup progresses.” “Do you need me involved?” “Handle intelligence and extraction support,” Matthew said.
“Let Leslie take the lead attack to test her progress.” After Remy left, Matthew turned on his computer.
The screen displayed the stock brokerage account registered under “Marcus Vance,” showing a balance of $420,000.
Short-term trading over the past two weeks had yielded another $120,000 in profit.
He transferred $50,000 into the real estate operating account and another $50,000 into Remy’s intelligence fund.
The rest remained to compound.
Finance, physical assets, intelligence, and martial force.
A table requires four legs to stand firm.
The phone rang again.
It was Skinny Monkey.
“Dr.
Vance…
I’ve begun putting your suggestion into action,” Skinny Monkey said in a lowered voice.
“The freight rate increase, and those anonymous tips.” “How are the results?” “The Vietnamese and the Mexicans are already at each other’s throats.
Almost broke out into a gunfight on Broadway yesterday—only dispersed when the cops showed up.” Skinny Monkey paused.
“But isn’t this approach too slow?
The boys want to strike directly.” “Strike directly, and even if you win, it’ll be a Pyrrhic victory,” Matthew replied evenly.
“You don’t want a Pyrrhic victory; you want a complete victory.
Let them drain each other’s strength.
Make them feel that doing business in Chinatown is becoming impossible.
When they can’t take it anymore and want out, you step in under the guise of ‘mediation’ and offer them an honorable exit.
You reclaim the territory without losing a single man.” Skinny Monkey went quiet for a few seconds.
“Dr.
Vance really sees the big picture.
I’ll stick to the plan.” “By the way,” Matthew added, “waive protection fees for the laundromat and those small grocery stores for the next three months.
Cover the deficit from the gang’s central fund, and tell them it’s out of consideration for local business struggles.
Reputation matters.” “Got it.” The call ended.
Matthew walked over to the window.
Beneath the night sky, Chinatown blazed with bright lights.
Tea houses, laundromats, remittance shops, freight services…
these seemingly mundane businesses were weaving a fine, dense net.
And at the center of that net sat Renxin Hall—a modest Chinese medicine practice.
He opened the secret room’s intelligence board and pinned four photos under the *Core Asset Control* section: *Old Canton*, *Good Fortune*, *Tonghui Express*, and *Shunda Freight*.
Then he drew lines connecting the Wah Ching, the intelligence network, and Livewire.
The chessboard was filling up.
“Next step,” Matthew murmured softly, “clean up the yard.”