Hong Kong variety show: The mastermind behind the scenes is emerging.

On the streets of Kowloon, the black bulletproof Mercedes-Benz, like a swimming deep-sea shark, isolates the hustle and bustle of the city from the outside world.

Inside the carriage, the air was thick with the smoke of cigars, creating a suffocating atmosphere of oppression.

Mr. Hung gripped the expensive mobile phone tightly, veins bulging on the back of his pale hand. Ruan Wen's elegant and confident self-narration was like a poisoned steel needle, precisely piercing his previously relaxed nerves.

"Works? You're that counterfeit money dealer?!" Hong Wengang's voice became somewhat shrill with shock.

"This is my private, encrypted number, known only to a select few of my closest partners... How could you possibly know it?"

"Mr. Hong Wengang, this question is foolish."

On the other end of the phone, Ruan Wen's voice was elegant and composed, exuding a mysterious nobility. She casually retorted, "I can get my hands on intaglio printing presses, regulated acid-free paper, and even color-changing ink used exclusively by the US… is getting your mere phone number that difficult?"

silence.

A suffocating silence.

Hong Wengang's facial muscles twitched slightly, and his eyes behind his gold-rimmed glasses shifted between light and shadow.

Yes, if the other party can get their hands on state-controlled supplies like buying cabbage, what's a phone number to them?

This all-knowing intelligence capability ironically became the best endorsement of the opponent's strength.

Hong Wengang took a deep breath, took out a handkerchief to wipe the cold sweat that had broken out on his forehead from excitement, and adjusted his posture. The arrogance in his tone vanished instantly, replaced by shrewdness and ruthlessness.

"As expected of a painter, your methods are indeed remarkable... But Mr. Painter, you called me specifically not to demonstrate your intelligence capabilities, were you?"

"I'm here to discuss business."

Ruan Wen's voice carried a hint of languor, "Let's talk about my 'paintings,' would you be interested in collecting them?"

"Haha, you jest, sir," Hong Wengang let out a dry laugh, his usual shrewdness returning. "I believe no one in the world would be uninterested in your masterpiece. However, even the best artwork is hard to sell if the price isn't right. After all, I'm just a small business owner."

"One to five."

Without wasting words, Ruan Wen directly stated his bottom line: "How do you feel about this ratio?"

"?!"

Hong Wengang's cigar trembled, and hot ash fell onto his custom-made trousers, but he didn't bother to brush it off. His expression was distorted with extreme shock.

"A 1:5 ratio? Are you sure you can achieve that ratio?!"

One real dollar bill exchanged for five counterfeit dollars. That's 20% of the purchase price!

This is the "golden ratio" in the international top counterfeit currency industry. For many years, Hong Wengang has been getting his goods from Mr. Yao at this fixed price, and sometimes he even has to pay extra depending on Mr. Yao's mood.

Now, a new player dares to set prices that only industry leaders dare to set?

"Of course, Mr. Hong, I'm here to do business, not to joke around."

Ruan Wen's tone became more serious, exuding an undeniable confidence.

"This price is indeed very tempting... But, 'sir' painter, that little... flaw on your banknote doesn't seem quite perfect."

Those who praise or criticize are the buyers; those who applaud are the bystanders.

When Hong Wen started finding fault, it meant he was interested and wanted to lower the price, or rather, he wanted to test the other party's bottom line.

"Flaws?" Ruan Wen chuckled lightly, a hint of insight into human nature in his laughter. "I've heard that your business is mainly concentrated in Southeast Asia?"

"Do you really think that any smugglers or gangsters who can't even read English would actually use a magnifying glass to study the microtext on Franklin's collar?"

"For them, as long as it feels real and the money detector says it's real, then it must be real."

These words directly broke through Hong Wengang's psychological defenses.

That's right, his clientele simply doesn't have that level of expertise. Aside from experts, who could tell this banknote is counterfeit?

"Haha, you're right," Hong Wengang laughed and shook his head, his greed no longer concealed. "It seems impossible to get a small advantage from Mr. Painter. Just tell me, when is the deal? I want counterfeit bills worth ten million!"

"very good!"

Nguyen Van gave a time and place, "Have cash ready, I don't like being late."

That's right.

Before Hong Wengang received the call, this order worth ten million yuan belonged to Mr. Yao of an international counterfeit currency group.

But a second later, the deal changed hands.

……

In the study of the villa, Lu Chen put down his listening headphones and a cold smile curled at the corner of his mouth.

As for Nguyen Van's blatant sale of counterfeit money to scum like Hong Van Gang, who profits from human suffering, will it cause harm to society?

This is not a problem at all.

Because these ten million counterfeit bills will never enter the market.

According to the plan, the moment Hong Wengang completed the transaction and received the suitcase full of counterfeit money, the spies and the task force, who had been lying in wait, would descend from the sky.

The perpetrator was caught red-handed.

The ten million in counterfeit bills will be used as evidence in court and will eventually be destroyed by the police. Hong Wengang, that scumbag, will spend the rest of his life in Stanley Prison, or worse. As for the arms dealer who was used to leak the information, he has already been taken into custody by Lu Chen's men. Apart from the one given to Tan Cheng, none of the counterfeit bills ever entered the market.

This not only dealt a blow to Mr. Yao, but also did the police a favor, and conveniently cleaned up some social scum.

Three birds with one stone.

On Lu Chen's chessboard, these heinous human traffickers and organ traffickers have no human rights; they are merely consumable tools, to be used and discarded.

……

Meanwhile, at the headquarters of an international counterfeit currency syndicate.

Beneath that luxurious office building door lies a huge underground cavity.

This is the heart of the group—the money printing factory.

The air was thick with the pungent smell of ink and pulp, and several large offset printing machines were running at full speed, emitting a deafening roar.

"Hurry up!" Tan Cheng urged grimly from the high platform in the workshop. "All machines must run 24 hours a day!"

Originally, in order to maintain the "value stability" and "scarcity" of the counterfeit currency market, Mr. Yao had always strictly controlled production and engaged in scarcity marketing.

But now, with the appearance of that super-sized US dollar bill, Mr. Yao knows that times have changed.

Time is running out for him.

If he doesn't take advantage of the fact that he can still sell them now and quickly liquidate his inventory and raw materials, once that batch of super-dollars hits the market, these old counterfeit bills in his hands will become a pile of waste paper!

Adhering to the spirit of "scamming as many customers as possible and running as fast as possible," Mr. Yao instructed Tan Cheng to issue a crazy order: everyone work in three shifts, with machines running non-stop! Make sure that everyone who comes to buy counterfeit money in the future can take the goods away on the same day!

He is now racing against time.

"Ring ring—"

The urgent ringing of the telephone interrupted Mr. Yao's instructions.

He picked up his mobile phone and saw that the caller ID showed it was Hong Wengang.

A smile appeared on Mr. Yao's face. It seemed that the old sick man was still anxious. Although the 20% discount was painful, it was still a big order.

"Old friend, is this a request to expedite the delivery?"

He took a deep breath, smiled, and answered the phone, "Don't worry, I've already arranged for someone to handle your ten million..."

"Cough cough, Brother Yao." On the other end of the phone came Hong Wengang's slightly embarrassed yet resolute voice, accompanied by a few weak coughs.

"That batch of ten million dollars in counterfeit money... hold off for now."

Mr. Yao's smile froze on his face: "Stop? Hong Wengang, we had an agreement. The machine is already running, how can I stop it!"

"There's nothing I can do about it."

Hong Wen started making things up, saying, "I'm a bit short on cash lately. There's been a problem with the payment from the last batch of customers, so it might be a while before I can pick up the goods."

"Alright, Brother Yao, I have an important surgical meeting to attend, so I won't bother you any longer. Once I've got some cash flow, I'll definitely treat you to a drink! God bless you!"

"Beep—beep—beep—"

Before Mr. Yao could speak, the phone was abruptly disconnected.

Hearing the busy tone from the receiver, Mr. Yao felt the veins on his forehead throbbing wildly, and his blood pressure rushing to his head.

Are you experiencing cash flow problems?

fart!

Organ traffickers have plenty of cash flow, how could they possibly have cash flow problems?

He wasn't stupid; he knew all too well why Hong Wengang had called to return the goods.

It's simply that he found a new source of goods! He found that damned counterfeit money organization!

"That damn counterfeit money dealer..." Mr. Yao gripped the phone tightly, his knuckles white. "He actually managed to get the price down? Is he crazy? How can he make a profit with that cost?!"

An unprecedented chill shot from the soles of my feet straight to the top of my head.

Mr. Yao truly felt the crisis. It was like the Empire State Building swaying before it collapsed.

"No! We can't just sit here and wait to die!" Mr. Yao slammed the phone on the table. "We have to get rid of the goods we have! Converting them into real money is the only way!"

Since that old fox Hong Wengang has run away, let's find someone else!

Mr. Yao has been making counterfeit money for decades, starting with the previous generation's leader. In all those years, buyers have always begged him to take their goods; this is the first time he has proactively called customers to promote his products.

He opened the secret phone book that only he knew and began dialing numbers one by one.

"Feed? Old Sha, it's me, Yao..."

"What? You just became a monk? Don't pretend. I heard yesterday you were chasing women in Pattaya... What? No money? Feeding? Feeding?"

The first call ended.

"Hey? Mr. John, this is Mr. Yao. I have some good stock coming in, I'll give you a discount..."

"Um, you said your wife just gave birth, and you want to accumulate some good karma by not touching this line of work for a while..."

The second call ended.

……

Half an hour passed.

Mr. Yao made more than a dozen phone calls.

Unfortunately, those qualified to do business directly with him were all extremely shrewd individuals.

These old foxes, seasoned in the business world, have a keen sense of smell. The moment they heard the usually arrogant Mr. Yao start offering discounts and promotions, they immediately realized something was amiss.

There must be some better new products coming out soon, so I need to clear out my inventory now!

then.

One person is broke, another's wife is sick, and yet another says they're preparing to become a monk.

There are countless absurd reasons, but the core meaning is only one: We don't want your goods!

"Fuck!!!"

"A bunch of damned old foxes! Opportunistic bastards!"

Mr. Yao angrily slammed the expensive mobile phone to the ground, sending parts flying everywhere.

He rubbed his temples hard with both hands, his chest heaving violently, and took more than a dozen deep breaths before he could barely suppress the urge to kill.

But he knew that getting angry wouldn't help.

The market has been muddied up by that mysterious seller.

"Have the factory...stop production for now."

He slumped into the chair, his eyes filled with malice.

"Since these old foxes aren't taking the bait... I'll have to go myself and find those uninformed 'foolish buyers'."

……

Meanwhile, the Hong Kong Island General Department.

The atmosphere inside the spacious and brightly lit conference room was somber.

The girl, dressed in a smart police uniform, stood in front of the projector. Her face wore a professional seriousness, but her eyes sparkled with excitement.

"Sir, according to the information provided by our informant, Mr. Song, Hong Wengang, a major client of an international counterfeit currency syndicate, will soon be conducting a huge counterfeit currency transaction in Hong Kong Island."

The boy pointed to Hong Wengang's photo on the screen, "This person is involved in multiple transnational human and organ trafficking cases and is a key target of our crackdown. This transaction is the best opportunity for us to catch him red-handed."

The foreign police superintendent, seated at the head of the table, looked at the intelligence report in his hand and nodded in satisfaction.

This intelligence is incredibly detailed; it even includes the intended transaction amount.

Although these foreigners have little interest in governing Hong Kong Island on a daily basis, only thinking about making money and enjoying privileges, their reaction speed and ruthlessness should not be underestimated when it comes to counterfeit money, which involves the core interests of the "British Empire," or a major case that could trigger a financial wave in Europe and America.

"very good."

With a wave of his hand, the superintendent announced, "I approve the establishment of the 'Fox Hunt' task force, with Inspector Ya Zi as the team leader, fully responsible for this case!"

"Yes, Sir!"

The boy saluted, then turned to look at a young policeman sitting in the corner.

The young man was handsome, and his eyes revealed a stubborn desire to prove himself.

Song Zijie.

With Ya Zi's strong support and recommendation, and with the endorsement of Song Zihao's identity as an informant, Song Zijie was exceptionally admitted to this high-level task force.

"Song Zijie," the boy called out.

"Here!" Song Zijie stood up abruptly and saluted.

"Tonight's operation, you'll come with me and be in charge of the frontline arrests."

"Yes, sir! Thank you, sir!"

Song Zijie's voice trembled with excitement. He had finally waited for this opportunity, a chance to personally apprehend the criminal and wash away his shame.

"Everyone, listen up!"

The boy looked around, exuding a commanding presence.

"Target: Black Lagoon. 24/7 surveillance; apprehend the target immediately upon detection of any transaction!"

"yes!"

At this moment, a vast net targeting the greedy was quietly cast.