All three robbers were already well past eighty—so how young could their coworkers possibly be?
Some had dementia, some were seriously ill, and one even fainted right at the FBI entrance before he could make it through the door.
The hospital was furious, the FBI was miserable, and seeing the three old men looking as though they were ready to freeload off them for life, the supervisor finally waved his hand. "That's it. Not enough evidence—release them!"
If the bank had a problem with it, they could investigate on their own.
The news Bella saw the following afternoon said exactly that: insufficient evidence, all three released.
The FBI imposed no travel restrictions, no bans on leaving the country. Their attitude was basically: Run wherever you want. If you've got the stamina, run all the way to Antarctica—we don't care. If we have to chase you, we lose.
Bella didn't take it seriously at all—until Natasha showed up two days later. Only then did she realize just how un-American she really was.
"Such a perfect social practice topic, and you were literally part of the incident! You're not even curious about the outcome?"
Bella, still in her pajamas and half asleep, had her brain turned to mush by Natasha's rapid-fire questioning.
What topic? What incident? Had the airline finally paid out the compensation for the crash?
Panicking, she grabbed her phone—no missed calls. Turned on her computer—no emails telling her to go somewhere on some date to collect money. In desperation, she even ran out to the mailbox in her slippers and rummaged through it—still nothing.
Natasha stared at her. "What are you doing?"
"Looking for letters… isn't that what you meant? The practice… the practice thing…" Bella's hair looked like a bird's nest, her plaid pajamas were wrinkled to death, and she stood there completely confused.
It took Natasha a full five minutes to explain. No compensation. No letters. And for this upcoming "social practice project," they might actually have to spend time—and money.
Bella instantly lost all interest.
Like a puppet with its strings cut, she collapsed face-first onto the soft bed, her cheek sinking into the pillow. "…Goodbye. Take care. Close the door when you leave…"
But Natasha had already made up her mind. She grabbed Bella by the collar and forcibly yanked her upright.
"Do you know how many people are already paying attention to this case? Banks! Greedy capitalists! Elderly people pushed into a corner! It's the perfect topic! Do you have any idea how important this is?!"
Half an hour later, Bella had washed her face and slowly regained clarity.
She'd meditated too long the night before, lingering in a state of complete zen. Now her spirit was drained and her brain was running in slow motion.
Still, she had to admit Natasha was right. This "elderly bank robbery incident" was tailor-made for a high school or college social practice project.
Even though she didn't like how social practice was handled here, she couldn't say it was wrong. Studying was important—but understanding the real world mattered too.
"We're not going to be in danger, right?" She pointed at Natasha, then at herself.
With looks like theirs, going into poorer neighborhoods to do interviews didn't sound very safe.
"I know karate! I can protect you!" Natasha patted her chest confidently.
Black Widow's karate? Bella tried to recall. In her memory, Black Widow rarely beat superpowered heroes or villains, but taking down cannon fodder should be fine.
Besides, Bella herself would be there. What could three eighty-year-old men do? Fragile chickens. Old, fragile chickens.
Let's go.
This time, Bella changed into a ruffled crop top and jeans, paired with simple canvas shoes. She put on a baseball cap and applied sunscreen.
After all that fussing around, it was already afternoon by the time they left the house.
Finding the old robbers' neighborhood wasn't difficult. People as clueless as Bella were rare—half of Phoenix's students and reporters were already on the move. Everyone wanted firsthand information and a chance to make their name.
With so many people around, Bella's safety concerns evaporated. There were simply too many investigators swarming the area.
Walking through the streets, Bella and Natasha were stunned by what they saw.
Run-down houses. Cracked roads. Not a single car newer than the 1990s. Many elderly residents wore T-shirts with logos from a local amusement park—leftover uniforms from their former workplace. Those shirts were now their best clothes.
The steel factory and its buyer had frozen all pensions under the excuse of "re-reviewing and verifying the accounts."
The intention was obvious to anyone with half a brain: delay. Delay until when? These workers were already in their eighties. No money for doctors, no money for medicine—how long could they last?
Delay until they died. Once they were dead, the pensions would never need to be paid.
The bank was no better. Sweet-talking elderly people into buying "investment products," and when the investments failed, using their homes as collateral for repayment.
No pensions. Homes taken by the bank. What option was left besides robbing a bank?
After understanding the full situation, Bella was furious too.
Did big capitalists who could acquire a steel mill really need to pocket elderly pensions? No—they didn't. They were just habitually stingy.
Did banks really need to push risky investments onto retired seniors? No—they didn't. They were just habitually greedy.
"Which company bought the steel factory?" Bella asked.
"Seems like… Stark Industries. Let me check." Natasha flipped through her notes, confirmed it, then handed Bella two thin sheets of paper.
"Stark Industries?" Bella blinked at the summary Natasha had prepared, genuinely surprised.
But after a moment, she relaxed. The steel mill was ancient and small. An acquisition like this wouldn't involve anyone high up. Stark Industries was massive—its Phoenix branch alone could handle the entire deal. Headquarters probably just stamped approval.
"You know someone at Stark Industries?" Natasha asked.
Bella shook her head. "Of course not. I know him—he doesn't know me. Anyway, I met a few lawyers during the Flight 180 case. Let's collect evidence and help the steel factory retirees sue Stark Industries!"
Her eyes lit up with excitement.
Finally, this social practice project had real substance.