He talked a lot, but in the end, he hesitantly took the money out of his pocket and placed it on the table.
Two thousand dollars, outside, he could pick up a gun, kill an enemy, but here, just taking out this two thousand dollars, he felt almost unable to lift this small stack of money.
He still remembered everything that day in the hospital; his father remembered too.
The man reached out and picked it up, all in ten-dollar bills, two stacks, thick, and emanating that particular odor of money.
During its use, fingers would leave grease on the surface of the bills, which would be absorbed into the currency, eventually undergoing a complex cycle of fermentation, drying, further fermentation, and finally presenting itself as it was now.
He had never earned so much money in his life, still so bewildered, "I... I can't take it, Enio."
"I earn enough to support myself; you can take this money and do whatever you want with it."
