Skip to content
Novel Catalog
Chapter 100: Start a Career and Recruit Subordinates
Wynter’s words cut through the tension like a blade.
“Those were the only two things you didn’t make me deal with.” She gave Carl a lazy smile, almost as if she found the whole situation amusing. “It doesn’t make a difference whether you take my orders or someone else’s. You might as well work for me—at least my work is legal.”
Carl froze, his mind spinning. How did she know he’d been doing this kind of work for others? The types of shady jobs that paid well but came with too many risks. He had helped track down cheating husbands, intimidated people, even forced elderly men to give up their homes for their ungrateful relatives. His life had been a mix of dark jobs and shady clients, things most people wouldn’t dare do. But this was different. This girl—who had just flattened half his gang—was offering him a chance to work for her.
“I’m not suggesting anything too wild,” Carl muttered, still unsure how to respond. “We won’t do anything crazy.”
Wynter chuckled softly, her eyes glinting. “I’m a doctor. I treat patients. How outrageous can I be?”
Carl’s skepticism only grew. He was about to ask her how she could possibly be a doctor, but she cut him off.
“That boy—” she nodded towards the young gangster with the limp. “He was injured in a car accident. His leg still gives him pain on rainy or cloudy days. It happened recently, didn’t it?”
The young gangster’s eyes shot wide open. “How do you know that?” he asked, his voice tinged with disbelief.
Wynter raised an eyebrow, her tone as casual as ever. “Is it that surprising? Any doctor can tell you what’s wrong with a patient, no matter how far along the injury is.”
Carl’s eyes widened, his disbelief slowly turning into something else. He leaned forward, a tremor in his voice as he asked, “Can you fix his leg? We’ll pay you anything.”
Before Wynter could respond, the young gangster, whom Carl had called “Whitley,” spoke up, his voice small and reluctant. “Uncle Carl, I don’t need treatment. It’s not that bad.”
Carl scowled and smacked Whitley on the back of the head. “Whitley, keep quiet!”
Wynter’s gaze softened as she took in the scene. Whitley, despite his rough company, looked like a kid trying to hide his vulnerability.
She looked over at Carl, her eyes narrowing. “He called you Uncle Carl. Are you related?”
Carl ran his fingers through Whitley’s short, white hair—an unusual color that stood out even in the dim light. “Yes,” he said with a slight smile, but there was an unspoken weight behind his words.
Wynter lowered herself slightly to Whitley’s height, her gaze sharp. “Did you pick him up from a dumpster half a year ago?”
Whitley’s face tightened, and he quickly turned his gaze to the ground. “Uncle Carl, let’s go. I don’t need any treatment.”
Carl’s face darkened, but he stayed calm, offering Wynter an apologetic smile. “Miss, he’s a little… ignorant. Please don’t mind him.”
Wynter smiled warmly, her tone genuine. “I understand. I have a child I picked up from the streets, too.”
At those words, Whitley’s eyes flickered with something—surprise, curiosity, maybe even hope. He looked up, but didn’t say anything. The air between them shifted, and Wynter took advantage of the moment.
“Treating his leg won’t be difficult,” she said, her tone light. “If you work for me, I’ll pay you regularly. I don’t care what you do or where you go, as long as you don’t cause trouble for others.”
Carl’s eyes lit up, his hope rekindled. “You’ll pay us? We’ll do anything, as long as you can help him!”
The other young gangster’s eyes, which had been dull before, now gleamed with excitement. “Wait, you mean we can get paid for this?”
Wynter gave him a wry smile. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
Carl, now fully convinced that Wynter was the real deal, turned his attention back to her. “Can you really heal Whitley’s leg?”
Wynter shrugged lazily, “So far, there’s no disease I can’t treat.”
Her eyes lingered on the small red mole between Whitley’s eyebrows, and a smile tugged at the corners of her lips. “Besides, Whitley and I are… destined to cross paths.”
Dalton, who had been quietly watching the entire exchange, raised an eyebrow, his gaze flicking between Wynter and Whitley. Something about the moment felt off, but he didn’t speak.
Carl, not catching the subtle exchange between Wynter and Dalton, nodded eagerly. “As long as you can treat Whitley’s leg, we’ll do whatever you ask.”
Wynter held out her hand. “Give me your phone.”
Carl, still not entirely sure what was going on, handed it to her. She scanned the code and then said, “Come to the Empathy Clinic tomorrow at 10:00 am.”
Carl’s heart skipped a beat. “The Empathy Clinic?” He knew of it—well-known in certain circles for its reputed success with unconventional treatments. But now, it was his turn to be part of it.
He nodded, his tone more subdued now. “Okay, we’ll be there.”
