Rupert Lawrence didn't go home after work. Agitated and stressed, he desperately needed to see his "confidante" to pour his heart out.
Or, as they say in America, his mistress.
As the Head of Security for a Pacific Standard Bank branch, Rupert's salary wasn't bad—definitely higher than the average working-class American.
But what actually allowed him to afford keeping a mistress was his other business.
"Honey, you haven't been here in days!"
The moment Rupert walked into the apartment, a hot Latina woman came over to greet him.
Many undocumented immigrants, desperate to survive in America, used whatever capital they had—including their bodies.
Usually, her enthusiasm and physical affection gave Rupert some comfort. But today, his anxiety was too heavy.
Sensing his mood, the mistress shifted gears. To last in this "profession," looks and body weren't enough; you had to provide emotional value too.
Rupert collapsed onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands, looking utterly defeated. His mistress quickly moved behind him, massaging his shoulders to soothe both his body and his mind.
"Honey, did something happen?"
" Sigh. I'm about to go bankrupt."
Rupert had clearly been holding this in for too long. He finally cracked.
Turns out, Rupert had been secretly working with certain gang members, using his position at the bank to stash contraband in safe deposit boxes. That was his real income stream.
But easy money breeds bad habits. For Rupert, it was gambling.
Gambling destroys values faster than anything.
Rupert racked up massive debts. To pay them off, he secretly "borrowed" some of the stashed contraband and sold it.
But now, the owners were coming to collect. If the gang found out their product was missing, Rupert was a dead man.
Local gangs didn't believe in polite conversation.
Hearing this, his mistress was terrified. She might not be in the life, but she knew how cartels and gangs operated. Even in America, they were brutal. If Rupert went down, she could get dragged down with him.
"Honey, what are we going to do?"
"The only way out is to get a large sum of cash and replace the goods before they notice!"
Rupert bit his lip, his mind blank.
Where in America could he get that kind of cash fast? That was the problem.
In the end, even his mistress couldn't offer a solution. Rupert wasn't in the mood for "exercise," so he left her apartment and wandered the streets aimlessly.
Without realizing it, he walked into a quiet alleyway—and found his path blocked by two men.
One had a thick beard. The other was bald and covered in tattoos. They looked like trouble. Rupert's internal alarm bells rang immediately.
As a security chief, he had some training. He carefully backed away, preparing to defend himself.
"Who are you?"
"Rupert Lawrence?"
Hearing his name, Rupert assumed his theft had been discovered. He turned to run—only to find an Asian man in a sharp suit and sunglasses blocking his retreat.
"Who the hell are you guys?"
Trapped on both sides, Rupert panicked. He reached into his pocket, trying to bluff that he had a gun.
But his tough-guy act was easily seen through by the Asian man.
"Relax, Mr. Lawrence. We're not here to give you trouble. We're here to give you money."
"Back off! Don't come any closer!"
As a born-and-bred American, Rupert didn't believe in free lunches.
"Mr. Lawrence, you need a large sum of cash urgently, don't you? We can help with that."
The Asian man's words froze Rupert. He had literally just told his mistress about his money problems. He hadn't told anyone else.
"How... how do you know that?"
"We have our channels. If you want to make some quick cash, come with us."
With that, the Asian man walked past Rupert, followed by the two white guys. They didn't threaten him. They didn't force him. They just walked away.
But the Asian man's words carried a strange, almost magical persuasion. In his desperate, confused state, Rupert felt a compulsion to trust him.
Gritting his teeth, Rupert made a choice. He followed them.
"Lawson, you sure he's gonna follow us?"
The three men were, of course, Lawson, Phil, and Dennis.
Donnie was absent because when Lawson went to the warehouse, Donnie happened to be out.
Lawson knew Donnie was an undercover cop, so him being absent was actually perfect.
He convinced Phil and Dennis to help him secure Rupert.
Joke's on them if they think Lawson is doing all the work. It's a team gig. Why should he do everything while they sit back and collect? Besides, he already spent $25k of his own money. He wasn't about to shoulder the labor cost too.
They got into Phil and Dennis's car. Rupert climbed in too. Dennis started driving, cruising aimlessly through LA.
Rupert couldn't hold back his questions any longer.
"Who are you guys really? How do you know my name? And what's this 'quick cash' you're talking about?"
Sitting in the back seat, Lawson pulled out his pack of '15' cigarettes. He handed one to Rupert and patted him on the shoulder with a friendly smile.
"Mr. Lawrence, it has a little something to do with where you work."
Rupert wasn't an idiot. He realized it immediately.
"You mean..."
"Shh! Don't say it. Mr. Lawrence, once you get in the car, there's no getting out. You understand what I mean, right?"
Rupert swallowed hard. The threat in Lawson's voice was unmistakable.
"Look on the bright side. With this money, you pay off your debts. You keep your respectable life. You don't divorce your wife, and you don't lose custody of your two daughters. Also, fun fact: in America, the average life expectancy of a middle-aged man who goes bankrupt and ends up on the street is only three to five years."