Inside the makeshift workshop in the tea house basement, Scott Lang stared at his computer screen, his fingers tapping rapidly against the keyboard.
His leg injury had mostly healed, leaving only slight discomfort when he walked.
Several hand-drawn interface sketches lay spread across the desk alongside the project requirements document Zhou Mo had handed him.
The document title was simple: *”Connect” Social Platform Development Framework*.
“Instant messaging, group features, personal profile pages, file transfers…” Scott read through the feature list.
“Boss, where did you get these ideas?
The chat software on the market right now is pretty primitive.” Zhou Mo sat in the chair opposite him, holding a teacup.
“Imagine the future of social interaction.
Not the clunky email or web forums of today, but real-time, convenient tools capable of connecting anyone anywhere.” “Sounds ideal,” Scott said, pulling up his code editor.
“But to pull this off, we’ll need servers, bandwidth, and a user base.
This isn’t a small project.” “So we start with core functionality.” Zhou Mo set down his cup.
“I’ll give you one month to build a functional beta version.
The budget is fifty thousand dollars—if it’s not enough, I’ll add more.” Scott whistled.
“Boss, are you sure you want to dump this much cash into a single piece of software?” “This isn’t ordinary software.” Zhou Mo stood up.
“This is the future.
Done well, it will bring us a steady cash flow.
Done exceptionally well, it will change a great many things.” Walking toward the door, he added over his shoulder, “I reviewed your equipment list.
Remy will source everything for you.
Focus on coding and leave the rest to us.” “Got it.” Scott turned back to his screen.
For the past half-month, he had spent his days recovering and his nights writing code.
The framework design Zhou Mo provided was remarkably mature, requiring almost no structural changes—just pure execution.
Sometimes he wondered how the owner of a Chinese medical clinic understood software architecture so deeply, but he quickly dismissed the thought.
The boss paid, he worked—it was as simple as that.
During that same week, Chinatown grew restless.
The Irish Gang was acting like a pack of rabid dogs, biting at everyone in sight.
Their men went door-to-door through the docklands, commercial streets, and residential areas, asking if anyone had seen a man in his forties with a leg injury.
On Wednesday afternoon, six Irish mobsters barged into a laundromat controlled by the Wah Ching.
“Hey, lady, seen this guy?” The leader yanked out a blurry surveillance screenshot of Scott.
Aunt Wang, running the counter, shook her head.
“Never seen him.” “Don’t be so quick to say no.” One of the lackeys kicked over a laundry basket.
“Think carefully.
Maybe he came looking for medical care or buying medicine.” “This is a laundromat, we don’t sell medicine.” “Cut the crap!” Another Irish mobster grabbed Aunt Wang’s arm.
“You—” Before he could finish, four Wah Ching members walked through the door.
Leading them was Frank, gripping a steel pipe in his hand.
“Let go of her,” Frank said coldly.
The Irish mobsters turned around.
“Wah Ching?
This is none of your business.” “This is our turf.
You tell me if it’s our business.” Frank waved his hand, and the other three spread out to surround them.
The clash erupted instantly.
The Irish mobsters struck first, throwing a punch at Frank.
Frank side-stepped, slamming his steel pipe onto the man’s shoulder with a sickening crack of breaking bone.
The remaining Irish mobsters drew knives, but the Wah Ching were prepared—two of them pulled machetes from behind their backs.
The brawl lasted barely three minutes.
Jars and bottles smashed across the floor, washing machines were overturned, and a burst water pipe sprayed everywhere.
In the end, the Irish Gang left behind two injured men while four retreated.
The Wah Ching suffered three injuries, with one member stabbed severely in the abdomen.
Frank called Skinny Monkey to report.
“Monkey, the Irish mobsters came to cause trouble on our turf.
Three of our brothers were hurt.
Little Ma took a knife to the gut and was sent to the hospital.” A few seconds of silence hung over the receiver.
“Understood,” Skinny Monkey said.
“Heighten security across all venues.
If they come again, don’t hold back—beat them out.” “Got it.” Over the next three days, similar conflicts flared up four more times.
The Irish Gang picked fights at casinos, restaurants, and freight companies along the edges of Chinatown.
The Wah Ching struck back every time, and casualties began mounting on both sides.
By the weekend, the Wah Ching had lost two men, while the Irish Gang suffered five dead.
On Monday morning, inside the FBI San Francisco Field Office: Special Agent Donald Ressler stood before the Special Agent in Charge’s desk, presenting conflict reports and casualty statistics.
“Director, the clashes between the Irish Gang and the Wah Ching this week have resulted in seven dead and over twenty injured.
If this continues, all of Chinatown is going to explode.” The Special Agent in Charge was a white man in his sixties with silver hair and a stern expression.
“Why are they fighting?” “The Irish Gang is searching for someone they suspect is connected to the Wah Ching,” Ressler explained.
“They don’t have evidence, so they’re just harassing everyone.
The Wah Ching are acting in self-defense.” “Self-defense kills five people?” “The Irish Gang initiated every attack, and on Wah Ching territory.” Ressler handed over crime scene photos.
“We need to step in, or this will devolve into a full-scale gang war.” The Director studied the photos for a few minutes before picking up the phone.
“Get me the Commercial Attaché at the Irish Consulate,” he ordered, then gestured to Ressler.
“Pay a visit and deliver a ‘friendly reminder.’ Tell Sean Murphy, the head of the Irish Gang, that the FBI is watching him.
If he causes any more trouble, we’ll start auditing his taxes and labor compliance.” “Understood.” Ressler exited the office.
He knew it was merely a temporary fix, but it would at least cool down the situation for now.
At the exact same time, inside SHIELD’s San Francisco Command Center: Phil Coulson stood before an intelligence board displaying photographs and connection diagrams.
Melinda May stood beside him.
“Confirmed,” May reported.
“FBI Assistant Special Agent in Charge Richard Vaughn and Supervisory Special Agent James Costa.
Over the past two years, the two of them received a total of four hundred thousand dollars in ‘consulting fees’ from Weyland-Yutani.
Bank records, transfer slips, secret testimony—we have everything.” Coulson pointed to another photograph.
“What about him?” “SHIELD Level 6 Agent Adrian Cross,” May said, dropping her voice.
“Tech Support Division.
He was responsible for monitoring Weyland-Yutani’s communications, but he suppressed the warning intel.
We traced a secret account under his wife’s name in Switzerland—one million dollars was deposited recently.” “Hydra?” Coulson asked.
“Possibly, or simply bought off,” May replied.
“Regardless, Weyland-Yutani tracked our movements through him.
The evacuation notice sent an hour and a half before the laboratory raid came directly from him.” Coulson stared at the photo.
He knew Cross—they had worked together three times.
Cross had always seemed like an ordinary tech bureaucrat.
“When do we move?” May asked.
“Tonight,” Coulson said.
“Three teams acting simultaneously.
Grab Vaughn and Costa at the FBI building, and take Cross at his home.
Ensure none of them have the chance to destroy evidence or raise an alarm.” “Should we notify FBI leadership?” “Only the Director,” Coulson said.
“The rest…
we’ll talk after they’re in cuffs.” May nodded and began organizing the operational plan.
Coulson walked to the window, gazing out over the city below.
The information provided by the anonymous informant had been proven correct once again.
*Who is this person?
How do they possess so many secrets?* He recalled the memory card containing the FBI mole list, the strangely empty facility during the lab raid, and the Foot Clan’s mysterious retreat.
The waters in San Francisco ran far deeper than he had imagined.
On Friday night, inside the Renxin Hall secret room: Zhou Mo watched Scott demonstrate the beta build of “Connect.” The user interface was clean and the core functions were operational: user registration, friend requests, one-on-one messaging, and file transfers.
“I rented Amazon cloud servers for now—they’ll suffice for the early stage,” Scott explained.
“The encryption uses my own custom algorithm, which is far safer than most commercial chat apps.” “What’s the user acquisition strategy?” Zhou Mo asked.
“Start with universities.” Scott pulled up another document.
“UC Berkeley, Stanford, San Francisco State.
Free registration, campus promotion, word-of-mouth spread.
Once college students start using it, it’ll naturally leak out to the broader public.” “How much launching capital do you need?” “A marketing budget of around one hundred thousand, plus roughly five thousand a month for servers and maintenance,” Scott said.
“If user growth explodes, we’ll need heavier investment later.” Zhou Mo nodded.
“I’ll give you two hundred thousand for the first three months.
Let me know if you need extra hands.” “Thank you, Boss.” Scott hesitated briefly.
“About my daughter…” “We’ll bring her over next week,” Zhou Mo said smoothly.
“I’ve already contacted a pediatric cardiothoracic specialist at Stanford Medical Center and booked an initial consultation.
Don’t worry about the costs.” Scott’s eyes glistened with tears.
“Boss, I…” “Focus on writing code,” Zhou Mo said, rising to his feet.
“That’s your most important task right now.” He left the basement and walked back to the clinic’s first floor.
Outside, the Chinatown night was quiet; the Irish Gang’s disturbances had temporarily subsided.
A text message from Remy popped up on his phone: *SHIELD made arrests tonight—two FBI, one internal.
Low profile, but their internal hierarchy is definitely in for an earthquake.* Zhou Mo replied: *Understood.
Keep monitoring.* Putting away his phone, he walked to the apothecary cabinet to organize his herbs.
White peony root, angelica, astragalus…
batch after batch of traditional herbs were sorted, weighed, and stored neatly in jars under his hands.