Inside the standalone second floor.
The fat man ate seared steak, sipped expensive red wine, turned to the two beside him. “Take out the supplier—Cross family no source, they die fast. Then underground meds Salt Lake—all ours. Old rule—Yuan family no face. Pickup, distribution, collection—you handle. We take seventy, rest split.”
“Cross dead—still official channels compete,” left middle-aged wiped mouth.
“Heh—official?” Fat man sipped, grinning. “We partner official. Pharma company agreed—raise thirty percent. We cheapest. No comparison—those sick bastards smile pay?”
“Yeah—solid.” Right thin man smiled, raised glass. “To Cross quick death.”
“Haha—cheers.”
Three laughed, slow raised glasses.
Sudden footsteps.
Snow-frosted youth climbed stairs.
Fat man looked stair mouth, frowned.
