Chapter 555 - 362: Justice from Above

Chapter 555: Chapter 362: Justice from Above

Five hours ago, Warner Bros. Burbank Studio.

"Why aren’t they leaving yet..."

Jason Miller had just poured himself a third cup of coffee.

He sat on a small scissor lift opposite the props department. It was already 7:00 PM. Aside from a few actors chatting in hushed tones, the vast majority of the crew had clocked out and left for the day. Only Sheldon Sinclair, the head of the props department, remained diligently at his post.

Today was the day they were supposed to receive the batch of thirty-six sets of metal armor. Jason had been keeping a close watch all day, but he hadn’t seen the warehouse doors open once. Just as he was about to go for his fourth cup of coffee, Sheldon finally packed up his laptop and stood up from his chair. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he walked out and nodded at Jason across the way.

"Haven’t gotten off work yet, Jason?" he asked with a smile. "Being that dedicated?"

"Could say the same for you." Jason put down his paper cup and hopped off the lift. "Are you heading out?"

"Not yet. A new batch of props just arrived," Sheldon said. "I’m going to sign for them."

"Oh," Jason replied, before suddenly adding, "I’ll go with you."

Sheldon froze for a moment. "You... you want to inspect them with me?"

"Jason," he continued, "inspecting props is the props department’s job. You’re the investors’ project representative; this isn’t within your scope of duties—"

"It is, Sheldon," Jason interrupted. "My job is to ensure every penny of the investors’ money is spent where it should be. I’ll tag along and snap a few pictures. It makes everyone look good."

Sheldon stared at him for two seconds before breaking into a smile. "Sure," he said. "Let’s go together."

The two of them arrived at the prop warehouse behind Stage 9, where a white box truck was parked out front. Seeing Sheldon approach, the truck’s doors opened. A short, chubby, and bald white man jumped down from the passenger seat, followed by two movers. Catching sight of Jason behind Sheldon, the bald, chubby white man shot Sheldon a questioning look.

"He’s the investors’ representative," Sheldon introduced vaguely. "Don’t mind him. Just unload the goods."

The chubby white man nodded in greeting. The movers opened the back of the truck, revealing layers of small cardboard boxes stacked inside. Jason stepped forward and checked the labels. They looked perfectly fine.

He grabbed a box to help the movers carry it into the warehouse. The moment he lifted it, he noticed something was wrong—it was way too light. Finding a box cutter, Jason sliced open the first carton. After pulling aside the foam packing peanuts, a silver-gray chest plate was revealed. At first glance, the craftsmanship seemed passable.

But when Jason reached out and picked it up, his heart sank. It felt exactly like a plastic shell coated with a layer of metallic spray paint. This kind of cheap trick might fool a big boss, a layman, or an investor, but if he were the one buying it, it would cost 800 USD a set, tops. Yet, the purchasing price for this garbage was a staggering 13,000 USD a piece. They were completely looking down on Li Wei, treating him like a complete sucker to be ripped off.

"Done looking?" Sheldon’s voice drifted over from behind him, light and airy. "It’s thirty-six sets of armor, right? No problems?"

"This piece of crap is 13,000 USD a set?" Jason Miller sneered. "Where exactly did you find this prop vendor, Sheldon?"

"You don’t understand, Jason," Sheldon replied with a smile. "This is a new type of composite material."

"Then I’ll go tell Director Del Toro. I’ll tell Li Wei, and I’ll tell Netflix," Jason nodded. "I’ll let them know that Sheldon Sinclair, head of the props department, says this is a new type of composite material armor that costs 13,000 USD a set."

The smile on Sheldon’s face faltered. He licked his lips, glanced around, and took two steps deeper into the warehouse.

"Jason, I hope you understand that Hollywood isn’t a game of house," he said. "You and I are both just trying to make a living here. You’re a man with a wife and kid too, aren’t you?"

He pulled a roll of USD from his pocket and shoved it into Jason’s hand.

"This isn’t something I can handle on my own," he continued. "Take this money, walk out that door, and pretend you were never here today.

"From today on," he paused, "you’ll have this amount coming into your account every single month."

Jason glanced down, his thumb rubbing against the roll of USD. It was at least 10,000 USD. As long as he closed his eyes and pretended not to notice anything, he could get 10,000 USD a month? This was 10,000 tax-free, and it would make his job significantly easier. All he had to do was turn a blind eye.

But...

"Alright," he smiled. "You have a deal."

Sheldon beamed and patted Jason on the shoulder. Pocketing the money, Jason left the warehouse.

As soon as he was outside, his expression instantly darkened. Looking around, he found a secluded corner and pulled out his phone. Just as he raised it to unlock the screen—

A sudden whistling sound tore through the air behind him. In a flash, a wave of agonizing pain erupted from the back of his head. Jason let out a muffled groan, his vision going black as he lost consciousness.

...

When Jason Miller woke up, his first sensation was as if someone had pressed a branding iron to the back of his head; the pain was accompanied by a fiery, burning sensation. It was paired with a wave of intense dizziness that made him want to vomit. He tried to move his hands, only to find them bound behind his back.

"Fack..." he groaned. "What’s going on?"

He looked around and realized this wasn’t Warner’s prop warehouse. Above him was a rust-mottled tin roof with hanging lamps casting a dim light, one of which flickered incessantly. The floor was cracked concrete, stained with oil and littered with scraps of paper. Peering through the crack in the door, he could see it was completely dark outside.

Directly in front of Jason, three men were gathered around a makeshift folding table, eating. Jason recognized one of them—the vendor representative from outside the prop warehouse that afternoon, the short, bald, and chubby white man. The other two were strangers, both built like tanks and covered in identical tattoos that crawled all the way up their necks.

Hearing Jason’s groan, one of the tattooed men turned his head and jerked his chin toward the short, chubby white man. The chubby man turned, looked at Jason, and cracked a smile. Grabbing a handful of napkins, he wiped the grease from his mouth and fingers before slowly standing up. Holding a cup of cola, he sauntered over.

"Awake?" he asked, taking a sip of cola through the straw.

Jason Miller glared at him, remaining silent.

"Your name is Jason Miller, right?" The chubby white man tilted his head and took another sip. "On-site representative for the investors, former line producer for NBC. Your wife is Megan Miller, a washed-up, D-list actress, and you have a six-year-old son named Jack Miller.

"You live in the San Fernando Valley, at 14736 Lankershim Avenue. You drive an ’08 Camry."

The expression on Jason’s face finally cracked.

Noticing his reaction, the bald, chubby white man chuckled.

"Don’t be nervous. Our conflict isn’t entirely irreconcilable, right?" He took another sip of cola and shrugged. "We’re businessmen, understand?

"Los Angeles is just a pretty hooker with a nasty case of syphilis in her panties. She looks glamorous on the outside, but the moment the pants come off, you want to puke," he continued. "In this Hollywood food chain, some people eat the meat, some drink the broth, and naturally, some people—"

He pointed the straw at himself. "—gnaw on the bones.

"Sheldon already gave you a very dignified way out," he said, shaking his head. "Ten thousand a month to do absolutely nothing but go home and spend time with your wife and kid.

"But you? You took the money and turned right around to make a phone call."

"So what are you going to do?" Jason’s voice trembled slightly. "Kill me?"

As if he had just heard the funniest joke in the world, the bald, chubby white man exchanged a few words with the tattooed men in a language Jason didn’t understand, and they all erupted into roaring laughter.

"Kill you?" He slapped his thigh. "Jason, sure, we’ve done some terrible things, but we aren’t bloodthirsty maniacs. Trust me, killing someone is far more complicated and troublesome than you think. We don’t usually go around casually murdering people.

"Besides, you’re just some lowly bean counter." He shook his head and casually tossed his cup aside. "What do I get out of killing you? Bringing a mountain of trouble down on myself? The FBI? The Los Angeles Police Department? What, am I crazy?"

He paced a couple of steps before turning back around. He didn’t seem the least bit rushed, smiling at Jason like a cat playing with a mouse.

"But a lesson... a lesson still needs to be taught."

He waved his hand at the men behind him. The tattooed man swallowed the Hamburg in his mouth, dusted the breadcrumbs off his hands, and stood up. Rummaging through a canvas tool bag on the floor, he pulled out an entirely ordinary screwdriver and handed it to the short, chubby white man.

The short, chubby white man ran his fingers over the sharp tip of the screwdriver while sizing Jason up, a look that sent chills down Jason’s spine and made his entire body tense.

"Let me tell you something," he said, standing in front of Jason and looking down at him. "Do you have any idea how many people are involved in the stuff you’re looking into here in Hollywood?

"The head of the props department, middlemen, the studio, and even a few actors in your own crew. We’re talking about a business worth millions, tens of millions of USD every single year."

He scoffed. "And you want to play hero all by yourself? Go wag your tail in front of that yellow-skinned sports star? Beg him to toss you a bone to chew on?"

The tattooed man walked over and pinned Jason’s arms behind his back, locking him firmly in place against the chair.

"If you want to see how Hollywood truly works, you have to pay a little price." The short, chubby white man grabbed Jason’s face with one hand. "For example, how about an eye?

"That way, you can literally turn a blind eye the next time you audit the accounts."

Amused by his own joke, he raised an eyebrow at the tattooed man behind Jason. Watching the screwdriver draw closer and closer to his eye, Jason’s body began to tremble uncontrollably.

He clamped his eyes shut as tightly as he could, but the tattooed man pried his eyelids open, tearing at them so violently that Jason felt as if his eye sockets were being ripped apart. Yet, the agony of losing an eye would probably be ten times worse than this.

"Don’t struggle too hard. After all, you can still live without an eye," the short, chubby white man said, pressing one hand against Jason’s face and raising the screwdriver with the other. "But if you ever decide to stick your nose where it doesn’t belong again, it won’t be as simple as an eyeball. We might need to add six more hands to the mix."

Jason Miller’s nose stung as tears welled up and streamed down his cheeks.

"What happened to your eye, Jason?"

"What’s wrong, Daddy?"

The imagined voices of his wife and son echoed back and forth in his mind, over and over again. But these thoughts were utterly powerless in the face of his terror. They couldn’t help him break free from the chair, nor could they make the screwdriver in front of him disappear.

"Why are you crying, Mr. Jason?" the short, chubby man laughed. "You’ll get used to it. People always think they won’t be able to adapt, but they always do."

He aimed the screwdriver directly at Jason’s eye.

Suddenly, a massive crash erupted from the roof of the warehouse. It sounded as if a massive boulder had smashed into the building, shaking it so violently that the hanging lamps swung wildly. Everyone froze in place.

"What was that?" The short, chubby white man paused, looking up at the ceiling.

An instant later, the glass skylight shattered. The hanging lamps blew out one after another with a loud CRACKLE. In the blink of an eye, the entire warehouse was plunged into pitch-black darkness.