Samir and an accountant were counting the first batch of sales returns in the small room next door. The table was piled high with cash.

"The price is set too low. Although the volume is large, the profit is less than expected." The accountant frowned, "Moreover, the retailers below reported that the purity is too high, some old customers couldn’t handle it, leading to several incidents (referring to overdosing). The police haven’t taken large-scale action yet, but the abnormal records from the hospital might draw attention."

Samir was counting the money, also calculating in his mind. The goods are good, but the Africans’ approach is too aggressive, disrupting the original market balance and ’safety boundaries.’ He feared it would attract unnecessary attention.

"Tell the people below to mix something into the new goods (referring to impurities) to lower the purity; the price can be raised slightly. We can’t disrupt the market all at once." Samir instructed, "Also, tell Costa that in the next deal, we need to push down the price. The Africans are eager to open the market; they are willing to talk."

He walked out of the room, observing the busy scene in the warehouse. Money was flowing like water, but the sense of unease was growing heavier. These Africans were unlike traditional partners; they were more like an invading army, carrying their own rules and weapons. Collaborating with them felt like discussing ways with a tiger.

However, before Samir could adjust his strategy, more shocking news arrived.

"Scorpion" contacted Costa through an encrypted phone, proposing a new "cooperation suggestion": They didn’t need Costa and Samir merely as distributors. They wished to directly participate, or even lead the wholesale network in Marseille and surrounding areas, and were willing to provide "security assurance" and "competitive cleanup" services – bluntly speaking, using African mercenaries to help Costa’s gang strike against and eliminate other uncooperative local trafficking groups, monopolizing the market, then sharing the profits.

"They want to replicate Africa’s model here." Costa said over the phone to Samir, his voice revealing no emotion, "Using guns and drugs, establishing dominance swiftly."

"This is madness! This is Marseille, not Sangar Town!" Samir protested, "Large-scale clashes would bring the military in!"

"But what they say isn’t without reason." Costa said slowly, "Marseille’s setup is too old; Corsicans, Arabs, Albanians, Turks... fighting all day long, wasting money and energy. If someone can provide sufficient firepower and cheap sources, unify the market, the profits would multiply. And..." He paused, "Do you think the police and the government really care who fights whom? They care if order isn’t disrupted too openly, the tax revenues aren’t reduced. If we can ’quietly’ monopolize, maybe some would secretly support it because it’s easier to ’manage.’"

Samir felt a chill down his back. Costa was clearly tempted. The enormous profit prospects, along with the temptation of possibly using African forces to clear out rivals and dominate Marseille, were overpowering the fear of risks.

"We need a meeting with other family members..." Samir tried to suggest.

"Other families?" Costa sneered, "Scorpion’s next target might just be ’other families.’ They are informing us, not asking for our opinion. Samir, the era has changed. Either join the newcomers and eat meat together, or be eaten as meat."

The phone hung up. Samir stood in the warehouse, looking at the white powder, as if he could see the blood that would soon dye the streets of Marseille. The Africans brought not just drugs but an underworld storm. And they were already caught in the eye of the storm.

October 15, 1997, Marseille, Northern District.

This area was traditionally controlled by North African gangs, with narrow streets, old buildings, and all sorts of illegal transactions filled the night. Samir had many businesses and connections here.

But tonight, the atmosphere was unusually tense.

Samir sat in the second-floor private booth of a shisha café he frequented, looking grim. Facing him sat several key figures of the local Arab gang, the mood was heavy.

"Samir, what exactly do Costa and those African barbarians intend to do?" a bearded leader questioned, "Their people have been wandering near our territory recently, selling ’Black Pearl’ at low prices, stealing our customers! This is disruptive to the rules!"

"Also, is it true that they intend to create a ’unified market’?" another young leader asked with a fierce look, "Marseille is not Africa; they have no right to meddle here!"

Samir felt immense pressure. Costa sent him to "communicate," essentially to test and exert pressure. He attempted to console them: "With new sources, everyone can earn money. Prices can be negotiated, territories too..."

"Negotiate a fart!" the bearded leader slammed the table, "Let Costa and those black scoundrels come talk themselves! Sending you as a middleman, what is that supposed to mean? We have no shortage of buyers for our goods (referring to traditional hashish and marijuana from Morocco)! No matter how cheap African powder (referring to ’Black Pearl’) is, it won’t be sold on our turf! If we see their people again, we’ll hit them one by one!"

The negotiations ended unpleasantly. Samir knew that conflict was inevitable. Costa and the Africans wouldn’t back down, and the local gangs would not relinquish their territory and interests. Caught in the middle, he might become the first sacrifice regardless of which side he chooses.

He walked out of the café with a heavy heart, got into his car. Just as he started the engine, his phone rang; it was an unfamiliar number.

He picked up, and "Scorpion’s" cold voice came through: "Mr. Samir, the talks didn’t go smoothly, we know. It seems some people need more direct ’persuasion.’