In this world, there are three things you absolutely should not mess with-each in a different country.
Tax evasion in America.
Drug trafficking in China.
Being a hostage in Russia.
In America, if you're caught evading taxes, losing everything you own is the least of your problems.
In China, drug trafficking gets you a bullet. No discussion.
As for Russia-if you're taken hostage, there's a good chance the police or military will kill the hostages first, then inform the terrorists: The hostages are dead. You have no leverage. Surrender.
As a hostage in Russia, asking the terrorists for a gun and joining them might actually give you better odds.
...
The IRS.
America's tax bureau.
A department that strikes fear into every American.
Its authority rivals-and sometimes exceeds-that of the FBI or CIA.
From sending undercover agents to take down mob bosses the FBI couldn't touch, to assigning low-level staff to monitor a restaurant's income for an entire year over suspected tax evasion-
Big or small, once the IRS sets its sights on you, people panic.
That was one of the main reasons Morin chose this profession.
What made it even more absurd was that it wasn't even a traditional state agency-it was a private company contracted by the federal government.
Completely ridiculous.
"America really is a magical place," Morin thought, sighing.
He walked into a phone store, asked about a model, opened his satchel, took out cash, and bought a phone.
The satchel had been provided by the system.
Inside were ten thousand dollars in cash, along with a passport, green card, IRS employee ID, and other documents.
All complete.
All valid.
All capable of passing scrutiny.
Back in the previous Fast and Furious world, Morin had received a similar satchel.
Aside from different licenses and IDs, everything-including formatting and structure-had been nearly identical, save for the dates.
At the time, Morin had personally verified everything.
The identity the system created for him was flawless.
Any unverifiable information-like parents-were conveniently "deceased."
Only records remained.
Unverifiable meant unquestionable.
Fake, but real.
"I have to admit, this thing is thoughtful," Morin mused.
"Otherwise, I'd waste forever just getting an ID and a job."
"It doesn't talk back. It doesn't scheme. It doesn't throw mandatory missions at me with a threat of erasure."
"Compared to those flashy, trash-tier systems people talk about... this one is way better."
Morin didn't know if the system was conscious.
That didn't stop him from praising it.
Gratitude cost nothing.
As for why he chose to be an IRS employee-
Morin stepped out of the store with his phone and SIM card.
Then stopped.
And turned back.
His sharp hearing had picked something up.
"I can't believe this yellow monkey has so much money. Must've stolen it from somewhere."
That crossed a line.
Morin wasn't planning to use violence.
He had better tools now.
Power.
This was a perfect chance to test something.
The clerk looked confused when Morin walked back in.
"Sir, can I help you?"
To be fair, the man was a decent actor. No impatience showed on his face.
Morin's expression turned cold.
"I'm an out-of-town special agent from the Langley City Tax Bureau," he said, taking out his badge.
"I'm here to investigate this store for tax evasion."
He held up the badge.
"You accepted my cash and failed to issue a receipt."
"You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law."
The clerk's eyes went wide.
His face went blank.
What the hell?!
This was just a small phone shop!
He'd seen Morin was Asian and assumed he didn't understand how things worked here.
So he skimmed the tax on a single transaction.
The saved money would've been half his bonus.
Enough to take a girl out.
And now-
An IRS agent?
Arrest?
For tax evasion?
If the clerk had known the term, he would've screamed internally.
A sting operation.
Of course, he didn't know that if he hadn't run his mouth, Morin wouldn't have singled him out at all.
"No-sir, please," the clerk said, legs starting to shake.
He couldn't tell if the badge was real.
But what if it was?
The IRS didn't need introductions.
If this was real, he was finished.
And he'd drag his boss down with him.
"You're the clerk," Morin said calmly.
"Where's the owner? Call him. I need to question him."
"I-I'll call him right now!" the clerk stammered, dialing immediately.
"What?" The boss on the other end sounded stunned after the rushed explanation.
"A special agent from the Langley City Tax Bureau?"
"Yes-yes," the clerk said, then added quietly, "I just thought he was Asian, so I-"
"He's Asian?" the boss snapped.
"How can an Asian be from the Tax Bureau? Are you sure the badge isn't fake?"
"I don't know how to tell!" the clerk protested.
"Fine. Tell him to wait. I'll be there immediately," the boss said coldly.
"It's ninety percent fake. I'll bring a cop friend, expose him, and have this bastard arrested."
"O-okay, boss."
With his boss backing him up, the clerk gathered some courage.
He was about to speak more firmly-
Then he met Morin's eyes.
Deep.
Calm.
Thoughtful.
All courage evaporated.
"Our boss said he's on his way..." the clerk said weakly.
"Heh."
Morin sneered softly and ignored him.
He leaned against the counter and started playing Snake on his new phone.
Of course, he'd heard everything.
But it wasn't surprising.
White supremacy was deeply rooted here.
Most people claimed they weren't racist.
In reality, they were.
Asians. Blacks. It didn't matter.
Morin had encountered this plenty when he first entered the Fast and Furious world years ago.
It only stopped after he got rich.
Money solved most problems.
Most of the time, money meant voice.
And power.
Not long after, a chubby store owner arrived-
With a chubby police officer beside him.