Morning.
Hunter left Stella's apartment feeling fresh, unlike his bed partner.
Stella was still dead to the world, buried under the duvet. The "Master Thief" had been thoroughly conquered. Hunter smirked as he closed the door. He didn't take a key; the high-security locks on her door were a joke to him now.
He bypassed Stella's Mustang and walked to his own ride. Today was business.
He drove straight to the real estate agency. A week ago, he had put down a retainer for them to find a suitable property. Today, they had results.
"Mr. Sun, please, have a seat."
The agent, a sharp-dressed middle-aged man, treated Hunter with the deference reserved for royalty. In America, cash was king, and Hunter's retainer had been substantial.
Hunter opened the thick dossier.
"This property is in Pomona, on the eastern edge of Los Angeles County," the agent explained, pointing to aerial photos. "Total area: 297 acres. 171 acres are woodland, protected by conservation laws, so the price is low—about $3,300 per acre. The remaining 126 acres are arable land, slightly further from the main water source, priced at $8,200 per acre."
Hunter nodded, scanning the data. Soil fertility, water tables, local zoning laws—it was all there.
"The property includes two residential houses, two barns, livestock, and machinery," the agent continued. "The asking price is $1.6 million, plus the assumption of the previous owner's debt of roughly $70,000."
Hunter did the mental math. 297 acres—nearly 1,800 mu in Chinese measurements. In the US, it was a small-to-medium farm, but perfect for his needs.
It was close enough to LA (30 miles) for convenience, but secluded enough to serve as a base. The woodland offered privacy. The distance from water? Irrelevant. With his Inventory and 3x stats, he could dig a reservoir himself in a week if he wanted to grind for XP.
"It's perfect," Hunter said.
The money wasn't an issue. He had half a billion in assets. But dropping $1.7 million in cash would trigger IRS alarms.
So, he used the "Soft Rice" strategy.
He had already coordinated with Stella. Officially, she was "lending" him $500,000 for the down payment. The rest would be covered by a low-interest agricultural loan (3% APR for 3 years) arranged by the bank.
To the outside world, Hunter Sun was a lucky artist living off his rich girlfriend.
To the IRS, the paper trail was clean.
Hunter signed the contract. The farm was his.
He didn't rush to visit. He wanted to survey it alone first, maybe plant some crops. The Chinese DNA in him demanded it; letting 300 acres of land sit idle felt like a sin against nature. Plus, Margie and Tally needed something to do besides spending his money. Running a farm would keep them busy.
Night. Stella's Apartment.
Hunter returned home after sunset.
As he approached the door, the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.
Surveillance.
He was being watched.
It was a familiar, prickling sensation. He wasn't surprised. He had killed almost all of Charlie's crew, but he had left Lyle (The Napster) alive.
Lyle was a tech genius but a coward. With his friends dead, he would have cracked instantly under police interrogation. He would have given them everything—the gold, the rivalry, the threats.
And that trail led straight to Hunter.
Hunter entered the apartment. Stella wasn't home yet.
He was debating whether to shower when the doorbell rang.
Ding-dong.
Hunter opened the door.
Two men in plainclothes stood there. Their posture screamed "Law Enforcement."
"Hunter Sun?" the older one asked, flashing a badge. "LAPD. Robbery-Homicide Division."
Hunter leaned against the doorframe, calm. "That's me. Can I help you, officers?"
"We have a few ongoing investigations where your name has come up," the detective said, his eyes hard. "We need you to come down to the station for questioning."
Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Am I under arrest?"
"Just assisting with inquiries," the cop replied, though his hand hovered near his hip.
"Sure," Hunter shrugged effortlessly. "My girlfriend isn't home yet. Do you mind if I leave her a note?"
The detectives exchanged a glance, then nodded. "Make it quick."
Hunter walked to the kitchen island. He grabbed a pen and a notepad.
He wrote a simple message for Stella: Don't worry. Call my lawyer. Meet me at the station.
He placed the pen down.
Hunter knew the game. They didn't have enough to arrest him—not yet. They were fishing. But Hunter Sun wasn't a fish. He was a shark in human clothing.
He turned back to the cops with a charming smile.
"Lead the way, gentlemen."
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