The mob surrounded Dr. Chen's clinic like wolves circling prey.
Marcus counted fifteen men armed with ax handles, iron pipes, and construction hammers. They pressed against the narrow building's entrance, shouting in the crude English of dock workers and day laborers.
Smoke from distant fires cast everything in hellish orange light.
"Goddamn Chinamen started this!" The leader, a barrel-chested man with scarred knuckles, hefted a crowbar. "Their heathen magic brought God's wrath down on us!"
"String 'em all up!" another voice called.
Marcus crouched behind an overturned cart twenty feet away. The clinic's front window had been smashed, glass scattered across the cobblestones.
Through the broken frame, he glimpsed movement inside—Dr. Chen treating injured patients while the mob worked up courage for violence.
Second objective: Protect Dr. James Chen. Eight hundred RP, plus bonuses for minimizing casualties and maintaining cover identity.
The smart play was intervention through misdirection. Shout "Fire!" and scatter the crowd. Create distraction while Dr. Chen escaped through the back exit.
Clean, efficient, low-risk.
But Marcus had read about the 1906 pogroms. Chinese immigrants beaten to death while police looked away. Families burned out of Chinatown by "concerned citizens" who blamed earthquake damage on foreign devils and opium dens.
Dr. Chen wasn't just an objective. He was a real person about to die because terrified people needed someone to blame.
"You men! What's happening here?"
Marcus stepped into the street, adopting the confident posture Michael Brennan's muscles remembered from construction sites. Authority earned through physical labor and willingness to use it.
The mob leader turned. "Who's asking?"
"Michael Brennan, Pacific Construction." Marcus gestured toward the clinic. "My foreman sent me to check on the Chinaman doctor. Company's got workers hurt bad, needs proper medical care."
"Chink medicine ain't proper," the leader spat. "Probably poison half your crew."
"Maybe so." Marcus shrugged. "But Mr. Hennessy don't care about proper when men are dying. He cares about getting them patched up so they can work again."
Several mob members shifted nervously. Patrick Hennessy owned construction contracts throughout the city. Cross him, and dock work disappeared fast.
"Sides," Marcus continued, "you boys got bigger problems than one old Chinaman. Gas main's ruptured three blocks south. Whole district's gonna burn unless someone organizes fire crews."
Half-truth. The gas mains were damaged, but not critically. Yet.
But fear of fire trumped racial hatred in a city built from wood and good intentions.
"Fire crews are handling it," the leader said, but uncertainty crept into his voice.
"With what water?" Marcus gestured toward the rubble-choked streets. "Half the hydrants are buried, other half got no pressure. You want to save the neighborhood, get men with shovels clearing debris from water access points."
The crowd wavered. Some men glanced toward the distant smoke columns, calculating personal risk versus mob satisfaction.
"Besides," Marcus added, "Chinaman's got morphine and proper surgical tools. Your boys get hurt fighting fires, you'll want someone who knows how to dig out glass and sew up cuts."
Self-interest won. Three men peeled off immediately, heading toward the smoke. Two more followed after nervous consultation.
The remaining group looked less like an unstoppable force and more like confused individuals wondering why they'd followed a stranger's bloodlust.
"This ain't over," the leader growled, but his grip on the crowbar had relaxed.
"Course not," Marcus agreed. "City's got plenty problems for everyone. But maybe start with the ones trying to burn us all alive, yeah?"
The mob dispersed gradually, men drifting toward more pressing concerns than ethnic scapegoating. The leader held his ground longest, glaring through the broken window where Dr. Chen continued working with steady hands despite the violence brewing outside.
Finally, he spat in the street and walked away.
Marcus waited until the last footsteps faded before approaching the clinic. He knocked on the door frame, speaking loudly enough to be heard inside.
"Dr. Chen? Michael Brennan, Pacific Construction. Got injured workers need attention."
A voice responded in accented but clear English. "Door is unlocked. Please come in carefully—much glass on floor."
Marcus stepped inside, boots crunching on window fragments. The clinic occupied a single room barely twenty feet square, crammed with medical supplies that looked primitive by modern standards but represented serious investment for 1906.
Dr. Chen knelt beside a Chinese woman whose arm bent at an unnatural angle. Despite the mob outside, his hands remained steady as he set the broken bone.
"You disperse the angry men?" Dr. Chen asked without looking up.
"Temporarily. They'll find other targets."
"Or return with more friends." Dr. Chen finished splinting the woman's arm and helped her to a makeshift bed against the far wall. "I am grateful for intervention, Mr. Brennan. Most white men would not risk themselves for Chinese doctor."
Marcus studied the older man—mid-forties, silver-touched black hair, intelligent eyes behind wire-rimmed glasses. His English carried university education along with immigrant accent.
This wasn't some back-alley herb dealer the mob had imagined, but a trained physician treating anyone who walked through his door.
"Got workers hurt bad in the quake," Marcus said, maintaining his cover story. "Need proper medical care."
"I will help if possible." Dr. Chen gestured toward his supplies. "But earthquake creates many injuries. Chinese families have nowhere else to go—other doctors refuse treatment, or charge prices we cannot afford."
Around the room, Marcus counted eight patients. Children with cuts and bruises, adults with obvious broken bones, an elderly man whose shallow breathing suggested internal injuries.
All Chinese, all afraid to seek help elsewhere.
A notification appeared in his peripheral vision:
𝙃𝙄𝘿𝘿𝙀𝙉 𝙊𝘽𝙅𝙀𝘾𝙏𝙄𝙑𝙀 𝘿𝙄𝙎𝘾𝙊𝙑𝙀𝙍𝙀𝘿: 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝘿𝙧. 𝘾𝙝𝙚𝙣'𝙨 𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙩𝙨
𝙍𝙚𝙬𝙖𝙧𝙙: 50 𝙍𝙋 𝙥𝙚𝙧 𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙨𝙪𝙧𝙫𝙞𝙫𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙣𝙚𝙭𝙩 24 𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨
𝘽𝙤𝙣𝙪𝙨: 𝙀𝙨𝙩𝙖𝙗𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙝 𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 (+500 𝙍𝙋)
The Game wanted him to make a larger commitment than single rescue. Protect not just Dr. Chen, but his entire patient base from mob violence and official neglect.
"Doctor," Marcus said, "you're gonna need more than medical supplies to keep these people safe. Mob I just scattered? They'll be back with friends once they get liquored up."
"Perhaps. But I cannot abandon patients who need care."
"Didn't say abandon. Said keep them safe." Marcus examined the clinic's defensive potential. Single entrance, windows on two sides, back exit leading to narrow alley.
Defensible for someone who understood crowd control, but Dr. Chen was a healer, not a fighter.
"What do you propose?" Dr. Chen asked.
"Help me get my injured workers patched up, I'll make sure this place stays protected. Got friends in construction trades—men who understand the value of good medical care regardless of who provides it."
It was a gamble. Promise protection he might not be able to deliver, in exchange for medical services that might save lives at other objective sites.
But the alternative was letting good people die because of racial hatred and disaster panic.
Dr. Chen considered this. "Your workers—they are seriously injured?"
"Some. Others might be by the time this day's over." Marcus met his eyes directly. "City's gonna burn before this earthquake's finished. Lot of people gonna need help from anyone willing to provide it."
"Then we have agreement, Mr. Brennan. Bring your workers. I will treat them as I treat my own people."
𝙊𝘽𝙅𝙀𝘾𝙏𝙄𝙑𝙀 𝘾𝙊𝙈𝙋𝙇𝙀𝙏𝙀𝘿: 𝙋𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙩 𝘿𝙧. 𝙅𝙖𝙢𝙚𝙨 𝘾𝙝𝙚𝙣
𝙍𝙀𝙒𝘼𝙍𝘿: 800 𝙍𝙋
𝘽𝙊𝙉𝙐𝙎: 𝙉𝙚𝙜𝙤𝙩𝙞𝙖𝙩𝙚𝙙 𝙤𝙣𝙜𝙤𝙞𝙣𝙜 𝙖𝙡𝙡𝙞𝙖𝙣𝙘𝙚 (+300 𝙍𝙋)
𝙃𝙄𝘿𝘿𝙀𝙉 𝙊𝘽𝙅𝙀𝘾𝙏𝙄𝙑𝙀 𝘼𝘾𝙏𝙄𝙑𝙀: 𝙋𝙖𝙩𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙩 𝙥𝙧𝙤𝙩𝙚𝙘𝙩𝙞𝙤𝙣 (0/8 𝙘𝙤𝙢𝙥𝙡𝙚𝙩𝙚𝙙)
Marcus shook Dr. Chen's hand. The grip felt firm, calloused from years of precise work with difficult tools. A man who understood that healing required more than good intentions—it demanded skill, persistence, and willingness to face down those who would prevent mercy.
Outside, smoke columns rose higher against the morning sky. The earthquake was over, but San Francisco's real trial had just begun.