"Connorson, you're discharged."
Inside a ward at Massachusetts General Hospital in Boston, a nurse informed the burly man who was packing up, her voice slightly sharp.
Massachusetts General was a prestigious name.
Boston only had three truly renowned hospitals—excluding small clinics or private practices. The top three were Massachusetts General Hospital, Dana-Farber Cancer Institute, and Boston Children's Hospital.
Massachusetts General ranked as the second-best comprehensive hospital in the United States. Dana-Farber was fourth in cancer treatment, and Boston Children's held the top spot for pediatric care.
Naturally, such fame came with equally impressive treatment costs.
"Oh, thank you," the big man rumbled in a deep, gravelly voice as he responded to the nurse.
"Papaya…" The nurse rolled her eyes at him and swayed off with exaggerated annoyance. Hospitals, much like the entertainment industry, had their dark sides. Especially when it came to personal affairs.
Of course, this wasn't universal—there were good people in every profession—but in many cases, the bad outnumbered the good.
The same could be said for hospitals. In China, the private relationships in the medical field could be chaotic, and in foreign hospitals—especially in an open country like the U.S.—things could get even messier.
Think of all the drama people talk about in hospitals. There's usually a kernel of truth behind every wild story.
Despite being one of the top hospitals in the country, many of the nurses at Massachusetts General had... colorful personalities.
Connorson stood just over two meters tall, built like a tank. His treatment had involved the best medicine, and he'd stayed in the finest private room. Naturally, many of the female staff took notice. But for some reason, he seemed immune to their not-so-subtle advances—either oblivious or just willfully ignoring them.
At first, the nurses were patient. But eventually, their attitudes shifted—either coldly indifferent or, like today, openly annoyed. Connorson didn't change. That was just the way he was.
Carrying his things, Connorson stepped out of the hospital. As he reached the entrance, he spotted a police car parked outside.
"Get in."
He hesitated when he saw the car but eventually tried to walk around it. Before he could, the door of the passenger seat opened and someone called out to him.
Connorson glanced at the man, paused for a moment, then climbed into the car without a word.
"Where to? I'll give you a lift," said the driver with a smile.
If Jiang Hai were here, he would've recognized this man immediately—it was Doyle George. Back when the Gray Gang attacked Jiang Hai in Boston, Doyle had fought alongside him.
As Jiang Hai had suspected, Doyle was a "gilded" officer—someone from a powerful background who used a heroic incident to earn a political promotion.
After the incident, Doyle had been reassigned back to Boston and now served as a sheriff. Unlike China's police system, the U.S. ranks include officer, sergeant, lieutenant, sheriff, and inspector—though titles and powers can vary by state.
In a major city like Boston, a sheriff's authority was comparable to the head of a district police bureau—definitely not a small role.
That said, Doyle's true strength came from his family connections.
He had met Connorson after the shootout with the Gray Gang—Connorson had taken several bullets in that fight. After Bernice gave him some quick first aid, he was rushed to the hospital.
Doyle had also visited the hospital and recognized Connorson as the man who'd turned against the Gray Gang at a critical moment, preventing Jiang Hai and the others from becoming hostages. That intrigued him. He started checking in on Connorson occasionally.
Eventually, the two developed a friendship—an unusual but close one.
Though Jiang Hai had covered Connorson's hospital expenses, Doyle had helped him with the discharge process. Doyle also learned about Connorson's past as a black market fighter and became interested in recruiting him for the police force. That was another reason why he had come today.
"Thanks," Connorson said, still using that same deep voice, offering no destination.
"No need to thank me. Jiang Hai covered your treatment. But you need to be more cautious in the future—don't just trust anyone." Doyle, having spent some time around Connorson, understood what he meant with that one word and smiled as he replied.
"Jiang Hai… My benefactor… Please take me to him," Connorson muttered, his voice more resolute than before.
He had come to Boston looking for Jiang Hai, but through a series of misunderstandings, he ended up joining the Gray Gang and nearly harmed him. And yet, Jiang Hai had paid for his care.
To Connorson, that meant he owed Jiang Hai not just one—but two lives.
"Alright," Doyle said, smiling again, this time helplessly. He knew Connorson's personality—once he made up his mind, there was no stopping him. So he simply turned the steering wheel and headed toward Winthrop.
Meanwhile, in Jiang Hai's home in Winthrop, the atmosphere at the dining table was a little tense.
Mostly between Jiang Hai and Bernice—the other three were just caught in the crossfire.
"You've been bouncing around a lot lately. Picking up the habits of a spoiled rich kid? Can't stay home for more than a few days?" Bernice frowned, putting down her knife and fork. "You were gone for half a month, and now you're heading out again after only three days?"
Jiang Hai chuckled. "I'm really just going for business this time. Two days, three at most."
Honestly, if it weren't for the billion-dollar deal, he wouldn't even bother leaving.
People who knew Jiang Hai understood—he was actually pretty lazy. He liked a simple, predictable life.
He didn't chase thrills, or style, or artistic flair. He didn't see himself as a rich playboy or a tortured creative.
To sum it up: Jiang Hai was greedy, lustful, cowardly, selfish, and practical. He had no sympathy, no lofty ideals, no ambition. He was an average guy—maybe a little more cautious, maybe a little luckier—but otherwise just a regular man.
He didn't care about "great power, great responsibility," or saving the world, or making some grand impact. He just wanted a life that was safer, easier, and more comfortable.
He had his bottom lines, but beyond that, he was no different from any other young guy.
In the past, Jiang Hai had nothing to lose. The only thing he could've lost was his life—so he clung to it.
Now, with a manor, money, and status, he had even more reasons to be cautious.
Besides hiring bodyguards, he wanted some official layers of protection too.
In China, the best way to protect yourself might be to make friends in high places—second-generation officials or connected families.
But in America, it was different. Here, power didn't lie with government connections. This capitalist society worshipped money, not people. And even being rich wasn't enough—there were always people richer than you.
What you needed was leverage—like oil futures.
That was one reason Jiang Hai took this trip so seriously: he was afraid of dying. As simple as that.
"Whatever. Do what you want. You don't owe me any explanations—I'm not yours." Bernice's voice cooled.
She was irritated that he was leaving again. But then she reminded herself—why should she be upset? She wasn't his girlfriend. What right did she have?
So she brushed it off and lowered her head, slicing into her steak.
Jiang Hai glanced at her, slightly baffled. Is she mad? Why does she sound like a jealous girlfriend? I'm just leaving for a few days, not going to war…
Before he could say anything, the doorbell rang.