The winter wind whipped down the concrete canyon of Financial Street, kicking up swirls of gray slush and road salt.
On the wide sidewalk directly outside Taichu Yanjing Central Tower No. 1, twelve young men and women were shivering violently.
Their imported cashmere sweaters and custom designer coats had been confiscated by court bailiffs as part of their family asset liquidations. Instead, they wore stiff, oversized neon-orange volunteer vests with black reflective lettering across the back: COURT-ORDERED COMMUNITY SERVICE.
At the head of the crew stood Young Master Murong Xuan.
His hands were wrapped in thin cotton work gloves that had already soaked through with freezing water. Blisters were forming across his palms, which had previously only held titanium golf clubs and steering wheels of limited-edition supercars.
Beside him, Han Shao was leaning heavily on an iron snow shovel, his knees knocking together in the biting cold. His lips were blue, and thick snot was freezing beneath his nose.
“Xuan,” Han Shao whimpered, wiping his face with a wet sleeve. “My toes have no feeling left. If we shovel for another hour, the doctors will have to amputate both my feet.”
“Shut up and shovel!” Murong Xuan hissed through violently chattering teeth. “Do you see that bailiff over there? If we stop moving for more than thirty seconds, he adds three days to our service term!”
