477: Chapter 472 Cash Settlement

"I told you to steal! I told you to steal!"

Slap! Slap! Slap!

The blows were dull yet fierce, one after another.

Shen Yan’s footsteps stopped outside the wooden house’s yard gate.

It was a dilapidated yard; the wooden fence was already leaning precariously, and a rusty pickup truck was parked nearby, its bed piled high with junk.

Inside the house, the sounds of beating and scolding continued.

Shen Yan did not barge in immediately.

He stood still, adjusted his breathing, and in an instant, all the fatigue and sternness on his face were replaced by an expression that was gentle and harmless.

He straightened his collar and smoothed his wind-tousled hair.

In his mind, he quickly formulated a perfect script.

He even practiced his smile in the air, ensuring it looked sincere enough while carrying a slight detachment befitting an artist.

Everything was ready.

Thump, thump, thump.

He raised his hand and knocked on the mottled wooden door.

The beating and scolding inside the house stopped abruptly.

A deathly silence fell.

After a while, the sound of shuffling footsteps came from inside the door.

Creeeeak—

The door was pulled open a crack.

A head full of messy hair poked out, a pair of cloudy, vigilant eyes staring intently at Shen Yan.

It was a white farmer, about fifty years old, with a full beard, wearing an oil-stained undershirt, exuding a smell of sweat mixed with cheap alcohol.

"Who are you?"

His voice was as hoarse as if it had been rubbed with sandpaper.

"Who are you looking for?"

Shen Yan wore a perfectly measured smile and replied in fluent American English without any discernible accent.

"Good afternoon, sir."

"Am I speaking with Mr. Miller?"

The farmer was startled, clearly not expecting this strange Asian face to know his surname.

His wariness intensified.

The hand gripping the doorknob unconsciously tightened.

"I am."

"Who exactly are you?"

Shen Yan acted as if he hadn't noticed the other's hostility, taking out a folder from his backpack and opening it naturally.

"My name is Shen Yan, and I am a photographer's assistant."

"My boss, Mr. Laurent, perhaps you have heard of him? He is a contributing photographer for *National Geographic*."

"Mr. Laurent?"

The farmer, Old Miller, clearly hadn't heard the name, but the mention of *National Geographic* made a hint of confusion appear in his eyes.

"We are currently shooting a photo series themed around 'Ranch Life' for the next issue of the magazine."

Shen Yan's voice was unhurried, carrying a convincing sense of professionalism.

"We are looking for scenes and people that are the most authentic, those that best embody the soul of this land."

"I have been traveling along the southern outskirts and saw your ranch and this house. It has so much character; it's exactly the feeling my boss is looking for."

Old Miller's gaze slowly shifted from suspicion to scrutiny.

He looked Shen Yan up and down.

The young man before him was dressed in simple casual wear, but both his demeanor and speech were completely different from the people he usually encountered.

That composure didn't seem feigned.

Shen Yan continued, his tone carrying a hint of earnestness.

"So, I wanted to take the liberty of asking if you would allow us to conduct our shoot here?"

"Of course, we will also look for suitable models to showcase the most genuine aspects of rancher life."

As he spoke, he glanced casually toward the interior of the house.

"Earlier... was I interrupting you disciplining your child?"

"I sincerely apologize."

Old Miller's expression instantly became somewhat unnatural.

"No... it's nothing, the kid was disobedient, just a little scolding."

He mumbled an evasive reply, his eyes flickering.

Shen Yan smiled, acting as if he completely believed him.

"I understand."

"However, if possible, I would also like to meet your family."

"Mr. Laurent often says that the faces of children and the elderly tell the best stories."

"Especially faces that have endured hardship."

Old Miller fell silent.

He was still hesitating.

He didn't believe in free lunches in this world.

Shen Yan noticed his apprehension and immediately played his final card.

He pulled a sheet of paper from the folder and handed it over.

"This is our Letter of Intent for the photography collaboration."

"If you agree, Mr. Miller, and are willing to be one of our models, we will pay you a considerable fee."

He paused and stated a figure.

"Five hundred US dollars per day."

"If your family members are also willing to appear, three hundred US dollars per person, per day."

"Cash settlement."

Five hundred dollars!

Old Miller's pupils contracted sharply.

This number was like a key, instantly unlocking the lock named Greed in his heart.

His income for an entire month might not even reach this amount.

Now, all he had to do was let these people take pictures on his property and show his face, and he could earn that?

His brain, somewhat dulled by alcohol, began to whir rapidly.

Doubt, suspicion, and greed intertwined on his face.

Shen Yan did not rush him, just stood there quietly, his face still wearing that gentle smile.

He knew the fish had taken the bait.

A long silence ensued.

So long that it seemed even the wind in the yard had stopped moving.

Old Miller's Adam's apple bobbed up and down.

He finally released the hand gripping the doorknob.

"Come in."

He stepped aside, clearing a path.

"Come in and have a glass of water first."

"We can sit down and discuss the specifics."

His weather-beaten face was now covered in a facade of false, enthusiastic smiles.

A flash of cold mockery crossed Shen Yan's eyes.

But the smile on his face grew even more sincere.

"Then I'll impose."

He stepped forward, entering the dim wooden house that reeked of mildew and unease.

The light inside the wooden house was even dimmer than outside.

The air was mingled with the stench of sweat, cheap tobacco, and a faint, almost imperceptible smell of blood.

A worn wooden table sat in the center.

By the table, a gaunt woman looked up at him with terror.

The woman looked about the same age as Old Miller, but the marks left by time on her face seemed deeper.

Her eyes were filled with fear of the stranger.

Behind her, a thin figure huddled in the corner, almost blending into the shadows.

It was the boy.

His blond hair was messily stuck to his forehead, and several fresh red marks and bruises on his face were still shocking in the gloom.

He kept his head down, not daring to look at anyone, his body trembling slightly.

Old Miller roughly shut the door behind him, blocking out the sunlight and making the atmosphere inside even more oppressive.

"Martha, this gentleman is..."

He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice sound less coarse.

"He's an assistant photographer from *National Geographic*, wanting to take pictures here at our place."