Chapter 118: Chaos
The four burly men from Eastern Coast were little more than thugs in uniforms, drunk on the power their positions afforded them. They'd long forgotten Qian Baocui's endless warnings to "play nice" with the public, to keep up the charade of a respectable establishment. In their arrogance, they'd bared their fangs—and in doing so, they'd driven a wedge between Eastern Coast and the people of Beitian. It was a crack that would only widen, the first splinter in the foundation of Qian Baocui's empire. Though none knew it yet, this was the beginning of the end.
The old doctor, Dr. Xin, had just administered a stimulant to the unconscious young man, pulling him back from the edge of death. The boy still lay limp, but his chest rose and fell with shallow breaths—a small victory. Dr. Xin straightened, wiping sweat from his brow, when he saw the four guards kick the boy's prone form. His blood boiled. "He's a patient," he snapped, his voice thin but steady. "How dare you?"
The largest guard, a man with a tattoo snaking up his neck, turned on him, his triangular eyes narrowing. "Old man, who the hell are you to lecture me? Keep yapping, and I'll kick your wrinkled ass into the gutter." He puffed out his chest, muscles rippling. Normally, he might've hesitated to antagonize a doctor, but he and the others had been drinking heavily in the staff lounge when the commotion erupted. Drunk and belligerent, they'd stumbled outside looking for a fight—and found one.
Dr. Xin, seventy years old with a snow-white beard and a spine straight as a rod, pointed a trembling finger. "You—you can't treat a human being like this!"
The guard laughed, a harsh, barking sound. "Look at this geezer, all fired up. For a guy your age, you sure get around. You chugging tiger bone wine to keep up? Bet you're out here chasing nurses instead of saving lives."
The other three guards howled, their laughter echoing off Eastern Coast's marble facade. "He's probably got a harem of grandmas!" one jeered. "Or maybe he's into younger stuff—ever check his medicine cabinet for 'special' pills?" another added, snickering.
Dr. Xin's face flushed crimson. He'd spent sixty years in medicine, treating the poor for free, earning respect as one of Beitian's most trusted physicians. He was proud, yes—stubborn, even—but he'd never endured such vulgarity. "You… you animals!" he sputtered, his voice breaking.
The tattooed guard, emboldened by the laughter, shoved Dr. Xin hard. The old man reeled back, tripping over his own feet, and stumbled four steps before catching himself. The guard smirked. "What's wrong, old timer? Can't take a little push? I could snap you in half with one hand."
The others joined in, their insults growing filthier by the second. "He's probably a fraud—got his license from a cereal box!" "Bet his 'medical skills' are just excuses to feel up patients!" "Hey, maybe he's the one who sold that kid the drugs! Ever think of that?"
Dr. Xin's vision blurred. He felt a sharp pain in his chest, like a fist squeezing his heart. He opened his mouth to shout, to defend himself, but all that came out was a strangled gasp. Then, "Poof!" A mouthful of blood sprayed from his lips, spattering the pavement. He pointed weakly at the guards, his body swaying, before crumpling to the ground.
"Dr. Xin!" The paramedics rushed forward, lifting him onto a stretcher. They tore open his shirt, attaching electrodes, their voices urgent. "Pulse is weak! Get the defibrillator!"
The guards stared, briefly sobered. Then the tattooed one snickered. "Looks like the old fart couldn't handle the truth."
That was the spark.
"Bastards!" someone in the crowd roared.
It was a middle-aged man, his face red with rage, who'd been watching from the sidelines. "That man saved my daughter's life last year! You animals!" He lunged at the tattooed guard, swinging a fist that connected with the man's jaw.
Chaos erupted.
"Kill the thugs!" someone else shouted.
The crowd—seventy, eighty people strong—surged forward. Fists flew. Stones, rotten vegetables, and half-eaten eggs sailed through the air,砸 (zá,砸ing) the guards. The four men, though trained in basic combat, were overwhelmed. The tattooed guard went down first, tackled by three men. Another guard, trying to flee, was tripped and set upon by a group of women, their slaps and kicks as fierce as any man's. The last two tried to shield themselves, but the mob was relentless—angry, unyielding, fueled by months of resentment toward Eastern Coast and its high-handed tactics.
The riot lasted twenty minutes before police sirens cut through the noise. Officer Liu, a tall, broad-shouldered man in his thirties with a face like flint, stepped out of a patrol car, his hand resting on his holster. "Break it up!" he barked, but the crowd only quieted when his officers moved in, separating the combatants.
Qian Baocui arrived moments later, flanked by five bodyguards. His eyes narrowed as he took in the scene: his guards, bloodied and unconscious, lying in the street like discarded rags; the crowd, still seething; the paramedics loading Dr. Xin into an ambulance. His jaw tightened.
"Officer Liu," he said, his voice tight but controlled, "what the hell happened?"
Officer Liu turned, his gaze cold. "Your men decided to pick a fight with a dying boy, then an old doctor. Then they insulted him so badly he had a heart attack. Now the whole city's ready to burn Eastern Coast down. You planning a rebellion, Mr. Qian?"
Qian Baocui bit back a curse. He'd worked too hard to build his reputation—charity galas, photo ops with officials, bribes wrapped in silk. Now this. "I'm a businessman, Officer. Rebellion? Don't be absurd."
Officer Liu gestured to the crowd, which had swelled to over a hundred. "Tell that to them. They say your men called the doctor a fraud, threatened to kill him, then kicked the kid like a dog. What do you want me to do? Arrest the whole crowd? Or arrest *you* for letting your thugs run wild?"
Qian Baocui's mind raced. He knew when to fold. "My men acted like animals," he said, his voice loud enough for the crowd to hear. "I disavow them. Do what you must—charge them, lock them up. Eastern Coast takes full responsibility." To prove his point, he lunged toward the unconscious guards, pretending to kick them. "Bastards! You've shamed me!"
His bodyguards "restrained" him, their表演 (biǎoyǎn, acting) ham-fisted but effective. "Boss, calm down!" one pleaded.
Officer Liu raised an eyebrow, clearly amused by the show. "Glad to hear it. We'll take them in for questioning. And I'll need a few witnesses." He pointed to three men in the crowd, who stepped forward, their faces set.
Qian Baocui nodded, his jaw working. "Do what you have to."
Officer Liu nodded, and his men dragged the guards away. The ambulance carrying Dr. Xin and the young man pulled away, its siren wailing. The crowd, sensing the moment had passed, began to disperse, but not before casting one last, venomous look at Eastern Coast.
When the street was empty, Qian Baocui turned to his bodyguards, his mask slipping. "Idiots," he muttered, his voice low and dangerous.
One bodyguard leaned in, his hand making a slashing gesture. "The old doctor—should we…?"
Qian Baocui shot him a glare. "No. Not now. Not with the police watching." He stared at Eastern Coast's glittering sign, his eyes dark. "Clean this up. And find out who's stirring up all this trouble. Someone's trying to bury us—and I intend to find out who."
His bodyguards nodded, but none spoke. The air felt heavy, charged with a sense that things were unraveling—fast.
Somewhere, in a security booth at Infinite, Wu Yifan would smile when he heard the news. The first domino had fallen. Now, he just needed to push the next one.