Chen Xiong smiled. "Our interest is 4% monthly. Borrow ¥5 million, repay ¥7 million. Sign a ¥7 million IOU first."
"Also, you need collateral—house, factory, car, anything."
Zhang feigned hesitation, then pulled out his property deed. "This place is worth over ¥5 million, plus a ¥300k Benz. That cover it?"
Chen Xiong checked the deed, pleased but played coy. "Mr. Zhang, this is at most ¥4-5 million. Lending you ¥5 million? I'd lose."
Zhang's face went shocked. "Mr. Chen, please help! I need cash badly."
"Wire me ¥4.5 million today, and I'll take that!"
Chen and Hu exchanged a glance—mockery in their eyes. Their business thrived on desperation.
"Nope, not worth it."
After haggling, they settled on ¥4 million. Zhang demanded the money that day.
Loan sharks are ruthless but efficient. The cash hit his account quickly.
Zhang smirked inwardly. This money? For Chen, it's like feeding meat to a dog—gone for good. (Wait, does that insult himself? He chuckled.)
He left with the money, grinning.
Behind him, Chen and Hu laughed loudly. "Hahaha! That fool took ¥4 million and ran. This deal's pure profit—¥2-3 million easy. Our month's set!"
Hu leaned on the desk. "Boss, he signed so fast. Is the house legit?"
Chen waved the deed. "It's real. With this and the IOU, he can't escape. We'll seize the house, even sell his organs overseas. We never lose."
Zhang glanced back at the loan office, sneering. "Such nice guys—giving me free money."
He'd never see Chen or Hu again. Chances are, they'd freeze to death in the doomsday cold in a month.
Now he had ¥9 million. More than enough for his plan. With deposits, this stretched to tens of millions in buying power.
No need for more—though he could've hit other loan apps.
He drove to Zhanlong Security, a top firm in Tianhai, catering to billionaires and celebrities. Sometimes even officials hired them.
Zhang chose them because, in his past life, he'd heard they built a billion-dollar doomsday bunker for a Jiangnan tycoon's son—who lived lavishly through the apocalypse.
He entered Zhanlong, told the reception his purpose. A business manager soon escorted him to a lounge. A barista served fresh coffee.
Then a burly man in a tight black suit walked in—Wu Huairen, business manager. He looked like a "suit-wearing thug," his clothes straining at the seams.
Wu sat down. "Sir, I'm Wu Huairen. What can we do for you?"
Zhang sipped coffee. "I need a doomsday-level safe house. The best money can buy."
Wu's eyes turned serious. To others, this would sound ridiculous. But for Zhanlong? The ultra-wealthy and paranoid loved this stuff. Foreign billionaires spent billions on bunkers. Now more followed suit—some fearing disasters, some fearing enemies. Zhanlong's doomsday shelters were a booming business.
Wu grew polite. These big-ticket clients were rare.
"Mr. Zhang, Zhanlong is world-class. We'll meet your needs."
Zhang asked, "Can you renovate a 24th-floor apartment into a fortress?"
Wu's gaze shifted—usually, safe houses were mansions or underground. Rarely apartments. But he nodded. "No problem. We're top-tier."
Zhang made up his mind. He'd turn his apartment into a fortress—to watch his enemies die firsthand.
Wu handed over a tablet. "Our services are custom. Pick what you need—prices are listed."
Modern tech made this smooth.
Zhang took the tablet, browsing carefully.
Truly professional. As long as money's there, Zhanlong could do anything—build 100-meter underground or undersea shelters.
But Zhang only had a month. Those projects took too long.