A knock at the door.
"Come in."
"Son, are you busy?"
Fang Ming looked up to see his father entering the office. At work, his father always called him "Chairman," even when speaking casually. This time, addressing him as "son" made it clear—this wasn't just business.
"What favor do you need?" Fang Ming asked with a resigned smile.
"Favor? Nonsense! This is about work."
"Sure, just tell me."
"Well, alright…"
Fang Ming already knew. Whenever his father approached him like this, it was to blend personal convictions with professional decisions.
"About the Korean refugees sent here by the Far East Army. Why not give them jobs?"
"You mean offer them jobs out of charity," Fang Ming corrected.
"It's such a waste of manpower to leave them idle!"
His father's argument about wasted labor was thinly veiled compassion. He wanted to save them.
"Just send them back to Korea," Fang Ming suggested.
