February 17, 2026. 2:00 PM.
Location: Steven's private boutique agricultural park, halfway up Doi Suthep, Chiang Mai, Thailand.
Hot.
This heat wasn't just from the vicious sun above the equator; it felt more like a restless, smoldering burn seeping out from deep within the Earth's crust. Temperatures had breached 42 degrees Celsius for three consecutive weeks, and the air was thick with the smell of burning rubber.
A shirtless Zhengnan (Steven) squatted in his high-tech greenhouse, holding a rusty parang normally used for peeling coconuts, carefully pruning the dead leaves at the base of a plant.
He was a typical Malaysian-Chinese man in his thirties, his skin tanned to a bronze hue from long hours of labor under the tropical sun. He didn't have those stiff muscles built in a gym, but rather a lean, sinewy physique honed from years of farm work. His gaze wasn't sharp; instead, it carried a certain slickness and caution characteristic of the working class.
"Sasa, fetch me that ice-cold beer, I'm dying of heat," Zhengnan called out toward the bamboo shed, wiping the sweat from his face.
Sasa lay languidly on a rattan chair, fanning herself with a small hand fan. She was an authentic Thai beauty with healthy wheat-colored skin, wearing a hot camisole and denim shorts that revealed a pair of long, slender legs. She rolled her eyes at Zhengnan, got up to fish a bottle of Singha beer out of the ice bucket, and casually sliced a plate of green mango, tossing it with chili powder and sugar.
"All you know is how to drink all day. When exactly is that big client coming?" Sasa handed the beer to Zhengnan, casually slapping him on the butt. "If this deal falls through, our money to build a house back in Malaysia goes up in smoke."
"Relax, my lady." Zhengnan chugged half the bottle of beer in one breath and let out a long burp. "This batch we have on hand is the most premium legal agricultural product in all of Chiang Mai... no, in all of Asia. The government issued us a gold medal certificate, and we're major taxpayers. What's there to be afraid of?"
Zhengnan looked at the rows of thriving plants in the greenhouse, his heart filled with pride.
He had poured three years of his blood, sweat, and tears into this strain called "Malaysian Golden Thunder". In Thailand, cannabis cultivation had long been fully legalized; just like growing durian or rubber, it was a legitimate agricultural business. Zhengnan was a law-abiding citizen; every one of his planting permits and tax invoices was neatly locked away in his safe.
But what he didn't know was that in the outside world, the word "legal" was turning into a joke.
The old radio resting on the crossbeam of the bamboo shed was broadcasting a chilling news report:
"...P-Pharma, in conjunction with the Global Health Security Agency, officially issued Executive Order No. 109 today: In light of the potential threat of the 'Omicron-X' variant virus, the fourth mRNA booster shot will be integrated into the 'Citizen Digital Credit System'. Those who fail to complete the vaccination within 48 hours will have their bank accounts placed in a 'silent freeze' state, and will be barred from entering supermarkets, hospitals, and public transportation..."
"...Additionally, the 'Future Protein' factory funded by Doctor B announced that to combat global warming, the slaughter of live cattle and sheep will be completely halted. Starting next month, all supermarkets will only supply 'synthetic plant protein meat'. Dr. B stated at the Davos Forum: 'This is a necessary path for human evolution. Although the "soy isoflavone complex" added to this meat will temporarily suppress male aggressive hormones and lead to a decrease in sperm motility, it is a worthwhile sacrifice for world peace and reducing carbon emissions.'"
"Fuck evolution! This is castration!"
Zhengnan spat fiercely and switched off the nauseating radio.
"Listen to this, Sasa, just listen." Zhengnan pointed at the radio, his fingers trembling. "What the hell are these bastards trying to do? No spending money without a shot? Starve to death if you don't eat that fake meat? I went to Bangkok last month and saw the young men on the streets—every single one of them as skinny as monkeys, unable to even grow a beard, speaking with soft, high-pitched voices. That's what eating those 'Dr. B Burgers' does to you!"
"Alright, alright, stop being so cynical." Sasa peeled a slice of mango and stuffed it into his mouth. "We're just ordinary folks. Let's just grow our weed, make enough money, and hide away back in the countryside. If the sky falls, the tall guys will hold it up."
Zhengnan sighed, squatted down, and opened a black, sealed storage jar at his feet.
Hiss—
Along with the sound of releasing air pressure, an incredibly rich, complex, and luxurious aroma instantly exploded into the sweltering afternoon.
It wasn't that low-grade grassy, fishy smell, but a mellow blend of ripe tropical mango, fresh lime zest, aged sandalwood, and a rich, creamy roasted macadamia nut scent. The fragrance was remarkably clean; just one whiff seemed to smooth out the very heat in one's brain.
This was the finished product he had meticulously cured for 90 days—"Malaysian Golden Thunder".
"Smells amazing..." Zhengnan muttered to himself. "This is the true scent of nature. No graphene from P-Pharma, no hormones from Dr. B. This is the scent of freedom."
Just then, a deep, unnerving roar of an engine shattered the tranquility of Doi Suthep.
It wasn't the kind of beat-up pickup truck driven by local farmers, nor was it a noisy street-racing motorcycle with a modified exhaust. It was the roar of a 6.2-liter supercharged V8 engine; it was the sound of an apex predator approaching.
"They're here."
Zhengnan hastily sealed the jar and wrapped it in black velvet cloth. He rubbed his hands together nervously and adjusted his old tank top bearing the "Tiger Beer" logo.
"Sasa, looks like our big financial backer has arrived. Go get that new grinder, and the best rolling papers."
Although Zhengnan was just a farmer, he knew that anyone driving a luxury car deep into the mountains was absolutely not to be trifled with. He subconsciously patted the phone in his pants pocket, then glanced at the parang thrown in the grass—his only tool for self-defense.
But on second thought: I'm legal! What am I afraid of?
An all-black, heavily armored and bulletproofed Cadillac Escalade barged through the roadside bushes like a steel behemoth and parked at the estate's entrance. The vehicle's body was pitch black, and even the windows were covered with opaque privacy film, radiating an aura of unapproachable chill under the blazing sun.
It was flanked by two black Chevrolet Suburbans. The doors opened, and eight burly men wearing black tactical suits and sunglasses jumped out. They had acoustic tube earpieces hooked over their ears, and the bulging shapes around their waists made Zhengnan's calves cramp in fear.
"Mother of God... this setup... are they here to buy weed or to wipe us out?" Zhengnan shrank back in fright, hiding behind a bamboo pillar.
The door of the middle Escalade slid open slowly.
First, a large foot wearing a limited edition Gucci x Adidas collaborative plush slipper stepped onto the red dirt ground, looking completely out of place. Immediately after, a tall, thin figure emerged.
The man wore an incredibly flashy golden Thai silk bathrobe embroidered with traditional dragon and phoenix patterns. Hanging around his neck were three thick gold chains, each as thick as a finger, blindingly bright in the sunlight. He wore a pair of massive sunglasses, sported his signature dreadlocks, and had an unlit cigar dangling from his mouth.
Standing there, even in the muddy countryside, he exuded a sense of relaxed ease, as if he were standing on the Grammy Awards stage.
"Yo..."
The man took off his sunglasses, revealing a pair of eyes that always seemed half-closed, slightly hazy yet gleaming with shrewdness. He took a deep breath of the estate's air, his nostrils flaring slightly, and then flashed his signature double row of big white teeth.
"In this air... there isn't that rotting stench of 'Epstein Island'. This is the scent of Freedom."
Zhengnan felt his brain explode with a "buzz". This uniquely raspy smoker's voice, this cadence that sounded like rapping...
"Holy shit..." Zhengnan's legs gave way, and he grabbed tightly onto Sasa beside him to keep from kneeling, stammering out, "Snoop... Snoop Dogg?! Boss?!"
Snoop laughed. He swaggered over with his signature crip-walk, completely ignoring Zhengnan's nervousness, and reached out to pat Zhengnan's stiff shoulder. "Relax, brother. Don't look like you've seen a ghost. There's no Godfather of Hip-Hop here, I'm just an old stoner driven crazy by that chemical garbage in California. My middleman said you've got the only good shit in all of Asia that could make God himself nod?"
"Yes... yes! Absolutely!" Zhengnan was so excited he was incoherent, turning and yelling at Sasa. "Wife! Quick! Bring over the best rattan chair! And coconut water! Hurry! Don't just stand there!"
Sasa was also surprised, but the resilience of a Thai woman made her much calmer than Zhengnan. She brought over two glasses of iced coconut water, her eyes warily scanning the bodyguards around them who looked like killing machines.
Snoop unceremoniously sat down on the rattan chair, stretching out his long legs as if he were in his own home. He looked at the velvet-wrapped jar in Zhengnan's hand, his gaze turning serious.
"Kid, do you know why I risked being assassinated by that old pervert Dr. B to come to this middle-of-nowhere place?" Snoop lowered his voice, his tone laced with a deep disgust.
"To... find inspiration?" Zhengnan carefully placed the jar on the table, his hands still trembling.
"Inspiration, my ass." Snoop spat. "It's to save my life. In L.A., Them—I mean P-Pharma and those biotech lunatics—are replacing all natural plants with GMO garbage. They're lacing weed with chemically synthesized THC, and something called a 'compliance agent'. My crew's been smoking it for six months, and now every single one of them has turned into a sheep, can't even get it up anymore."
Snoop pointed at Zhengnan's jar. "I heard that the stuff you have here is purely natural? That it has a 'soul'?"
Zhengnan swallowed hard and didn't speak. He twisted off the lid.
Hiss—
As the sealed lid was unscrewed, that complex aroma of citrus, mango, pine, and cream, aged for 90 days, exploded instantly under the bamboo shed like an invisible bomb.
The nonchalance on Snoop's face vanished instantly. He jerked up straight, leaned close to the mouth of the jar, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.
His expression was like that of a devout believer kissing a holy relic.
"Holy shit..." Snoop's voice changed, carrying a hint of a tremble. "This trim job... not a single extra sugar leaf. The humidity... a perfect 62%. This smell... it's alive."
As if admiring a rare treasure, Snoop pinched out a dense, plump bud from the jar. He skillfully picked up the grinder, and the crackle-crunch of the grinding sound seemed exceptionally pleasant in the quiet afternoon.
Flick.
Snoop pulled out a gold-plated Zippo lighter and ignited it.
Blue smoke slowly rose, and that citrus-cream aroma instantly materialized in the air. Snoop took a deep drag, held the smoke in his lungs, and paused for a full ten seconds.
Zhengnan held his breath, wringing his hands together, staring intensely at the reaction of this "Grandmaster".
The smoke was slowly exhaled, forming a perfect smoke ring.
"Clean." Snoop opened his eyes, and a trace of unprecedented clarity had actually appeared in his hazy gaze. "Goes down the throat as smooth as silk, with a mango aftertaste, doesn't burn the throat at all. And this kick... it comes up slowly, like someone massaging your brain, washing away all that anxiety implanted in me by P-Pharma bit by bit."
Snoop suddenly turned his head and stared dead at Zhengnan. "Kid, this isn't just weed. This is an antidote. This contains an energy I've never seen in any commercial cannabis. It can fight the control behind that 'list'."
Zhengnan was thoroughly confused and asked dumbly, "Boss... what list are you talking about? I just grow weed, I don't understand politics..."
"You'll know later." Snoop didn't explain, instead continuing to enjoy this rare tranquility.
Just then, from the dilapidated-looking bamboo house next door, walked out a middle-aged man wearing a white tank top, black wide-leg pants, and flip-flops. Though his hair was graying, it was combed meticulously, and he carried an exquisite birdcage holding a thrush.
The man looked very ordinary, like a retired uncle you could see anywhere on the streets of Chiang Mai.
That was Uncle Fa (Chow Yun-fat). Zhengnan's neighbor, a self-proclaimed retired chef from Hong Kong, who usually only made BBQ pork buns and walked his bird.
"Uncle Fa! Walking the bird?" Zhengnan quickly greeted him, trying to ease his own awkwardness in front of his idol.
Uncle Fa stopped, glanced at Snoop Dogg puffing away in the bamboo shed, and then looked at the heavily armed bodyguards. As a neighbor, he certainly knew what Zhengnan was growing, but he never asked, and he never called the cops.
Snoop turned his head, sizing up Uncle Fa through his sunglasses. The gazes of two men from completely different worlds met in the air for a second.
Uncle Fa smiled faintly, the kind of smile that had seen through the vicissitudes of life, even carrying a hint of compassion. He nodded and said in standard Cantonese, "Smells good. Zhengnan, remember to save some of this good stuff for your uncle to make tea with later. This scent can suppress murderous intent."
After speaking, Uncle Fa carried his birdcage and slowly strolled away, humming an old Cantonese song, "A Laugh in the Sea".
Snoop stared at Uncle Fa's retreating back, his previously relaxed body suddenly tensing up.
"That old man..." Snoop said in a low voice, the joint in his hand pausing in mid-air. "He's not simple. I smelled gunpowder on him. That's the scent of aged gun oil, it doesn't wash off. And just now, when he looked at my bodyguards, his eyes were locked on their carotid arteries. That old man is a seasoned butcher."
Zhengnan froze. That Uncle Fa, who only knew how to make BBQ pork buns and seemed to smile at everyone? A butcher?
Before Zhengnan could digest this information, a screeching sound of brakes suddenly rang out at the foot of the mountain.
This time, it wasn't luxury cars arriving. Through the bushes, Zhengnan saw an entire convoy. A uniform fleet of black Toyota Hilux pickups, with high-power signal jammers mounted on their roofs.
Printed on the car doors was a chilling white logo—a scepter entwined with two snakes (P-Pharma).
And beneath that logo was a small line of text, the nightmare of all growers:
"Bio-Asset Recovery Unit - Authorization Code: Epstein-09".
"I don't remember ordering takeout." Snoop frowned, gently placing his joint on the table.
"P-Pharma?!" Zhengnan's face instantly turned deathly pale as an instinctual fear from the bottom rungs of society surged up. He frantically tried to grab the parang thrown in the grass, but his hands were trembling too much to get a firm grip.
"How... how did they find this place? I've even paid all my taxes! I have a legal planting permit!" Zhengnan's voice cracked with a sob; he was just a farmer, he didn't want any trouble.
Snoop sneered, pulling out an engraved golden Desert Eagle from his waist and chambering a round.
"Because you grew something you shouldn't have, kid. In this castrated world, being awake is itself a capital offense. And your weed is the key to unlock the cage."
Snoop watched the mob jumping off the pickup trucks, dressed in full biochemical hazmat suits and wielding stun guns and tranquilizer rifles, and exhaled a thick cloud of smoke.
"Welcome to the real world, Zhengnan. Now, run, or die."