I Can Summon Paratroopers

A new café had just opened in the center of W City, its renovations completed, with workers making the final arrangements inside. In the meticulously cultivated little garden outside, a few elegant chairs were arrayed, paired with matching tables, exuding the distinctive British style of the Industrial Revolution era.

Truth be told, Gao Ning wasn’t fond of such chairs. They certainly pleased the eye, but the thinly padded iron seat was far from friendly to someone of his size. He’d barely sat for ten minutes, still tallying up the remaining construction expenses, when the chill seeped into him, making his backside uncomfortably cold.

It was already November, and at thirty degrees north latitude, W City was well into its cold season. Only the sea breeze imparted a false sense of warmth amidst the mingling coastal air.

“Hsss—”

Gao Ning shivered violently and instinctively stamped his feet. The deceptive morning sunlight had fooled his senses, convincing him to stow his prepared jacket back in the wardrobe.

Gao Ning, two years out of university, a civil engineering major. He’d intended to pursue architecture, but ended up as a junior supervisor at a renovation company—a position not too far removed from his aspirations. Supervising construction wasn’t difficult; the routines were familiar, and as long as he paid attention and kept a good rapport with the workers, nothing much ever went wrong.

But the accounting was a nightmare. Every day, every month, every year—numbers upon numbers. Gao Ning dreaded them now; just a dozen receipts and r