Passing through Wakan Street, Ryden unexpectedly saw two Asian men pushing a simple food cart.
A gas stove was mounted underneath, a wok set firmly on top.
Around it were noodles, vegetables, and other raw ingredients laid out neatly.
The older man poured oil with practiced ease, tossed in minced garlic, gave the wok a few sharp flips, then threw in the noodles.
Soy sauce. Salt. A few other seasonings.
In less than three minutes, a steaming plate of fragrant fried noodles was ready.
He packed it up and handed it to a man standing in front.
The man turned and ran.
He was trying to eat for free.
He didn't make it two steps.
Members of the Spades Gang, stationed nearby, grabbed him.
After a quick round of kicks and punches, they took the food back and returned it to the two Asian men.
The gang members then squatted by the roadside in small groups, smoking and laughing.
They looked exactly like bodyguards.
After the initial panic, the two Asian men resumed cooking with shaking hands.
They were terrified the gang would make things difficult for them.
To their surprise, two full hours passed.
No trouble.
The gang members simply let them cook, then split the earnings according to a fixed percentage.
Slowly, they relaxed.
A stable "job" was rare these days.
They were willing to take it.
They'd already forgotten that the gang had pointed guns at their necks earlier and forced them to cook.
Ryden hadn't expected Marlos to implement this so quickly.
These guys were efficient.
Especially in 1938.
There were poor people everywhere.
They said children from poor families learned to run a household early.
Cooking was a basic skill.
Unlike later generations who couldn't cook anything beyond instant noodles.
That wasn't strange.
When environments improve, motivation declines.
Different eras produced different habits.
It was normal.
Along the street, carts appeared every few dozen meters.
Some were run by Asians.
Some by down-on-their-luck Frenchmen.
Most were Asians.
They provided the labor.
The Spades Gang provided protection.
Anyone who tried to eat without paying got beaten.
Any rival gang that caused trouble was met with AK-47 fire.
Whether they died or were crippled didn't matter.
What mattered was sending a message.
Very quickly, no one dared interfere.
Everyone knew this territory belonged to the gang.
There was no chance to profit from chaos here.
At the Old Sailor Bar, Marlos and his men were counting money.
Coins piled everywhere.
Pennies. Nickels.
Individually worthless.
Together overwhelming.
Their hands cramped from counting.
It felt like earning five thousand dollars a month but being paid entirely in loose change.
Anyone's hands would hurt.
Even so, this wasn't a fortune yet.
"We've already made almost two thousand dollars, and that's just the nearby streets!"
Todd drained a beer, eyes shining.
"If we cover all of Brooklyn, won't we be swimming in cash?!"
A week ago, he'd been a stinking homeless man sleeping in a forest park, unsure where his next meal would come from.
Marlos smacked the back of Todd's head.
He was just as excited.
"Calm down. Let the brothers celebrate tonight. Hand out bonuses."
He leaned forward.
"And check on the chefs. Tell everyone-no bullying them. Anyone who does gets kicked out of the gang."
He cursed softly.
"Those are golden hens. Nothing can happen to them. Pay them their share down to the last cent. No skimming. Those are the Boss's orders."
Since yesterday, life had quietly improved for the poor in Brooklyn.
They were no longer completely defenseless.
Under the Spades Gang, they had safety.
And income.
Of course, they couldn't set up stalls independently.
Only those under the gang's protection were allowed.
Anyone else would face consequences.
Even so, it gave people a way to survive.
In a foreign land thousands of miles across the Pacific, there was no one to hear their complaints.
Back home was even farther away.
Ryden watched the scene with a faint smile.
He ordered fried rice, took a few bites, then set it aside.
He wasn't a saint.
If he could help, he would.
If he couldn't, he wouldn't force it.
For mutual profit, he'd lend a hand.
But saving the masses from fire and water?
No thanks.
He couldn't do it.
And he didn't want to.
He had better things to worry about.
He was a bastard.
Not a hero.
Wakan Street grew livelier by the day.
Pancakes. Roasted seeds. Steamed buns.
Snack carts lined the road, drawing crowds.
With gang members guarding the area, no one worried about trouble.
If something went wrong, one whistle would bring a swarm of brothers.
Good quality. Low prices.
Naturally, customers came.
This business model didn't exist in America yet.
Push a cart in.
Push it out.
Run if things go south.
The carts were cheap.
Even if they were smashed, it didn't matter.
Ryden didn't finish the noodles.
He needed room for dinner at home.
Thinking about his "relationship" with Aunt Sarah gave him a headache.
He didn't know how to face her.
Pretend nothing happened?
That felt too shameless.
Even a bastard had a bottom line.
Eat and run was what true scum did.
Those people got struck by lightning.
Face it calmly?
The age gap was huge.
But that wasn't the real issue.
The real problem was this-
Aunt Sarah was Steve Rogers' mother.
Imagining a fully grown, muscular Steve questioning him made Ryden certain he'd be beaten into paste.
When he got home, Aunt Sarah had already prepared dinner.
She was sitting on the sofa reading the newspaper.
When she saw her "young husband" return, her face lit up.
It was the smile of a wife welcoming her husband home.
She immediately brought him slippers.
"Master Ryden, you're back. Wash your hands. Dinner's ready. I'll bring it out."
All his inner conflict vanished instantly.
Ryden accepted the service without hesitation.
This feeling was excellent.
Being waited on hand and foot.
This was the life a bastard was meant to live.
Saving the world?
Forget it.
Saving thousands of beautiful women and wives?
That was worth considering.
Sera also came home early.
She hummed as she came downstairs, clearly in a good mood.
When she saw the sedan parked in the yard, she screamed.
"Whose car is this?! It's so cool!"
Ryden raised his head smugly.
"Do you even need to ask? Obviously it belongs to the super-invincible genius scientist-Ryden."
Sera rushed over and pulled him into her arms, rubbing his hair aggressively.
"I knew my brother was amazing! Haha! Hurry up, give me the keys. Let your sister take it for a spin!"
The first sentence was praise.
The second revealed her real goal.
Hah.
Women.
Untrustworthy.
Ryden struggled free before suffocating.
His sister's figure was no joke.
He tossed her the keys.
"At least wait until after dinner."
She didn't even look back as she changed her shoes and ran out.
"Dinner can wait!"
"The car can't!"
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