She screamed and fought back fiercely. No matter how determined she was, in that moment she still looked vulnerable.
Sensing that things were spiraling out of control, she shoved me away and cried out,
"Get out! You filthy vet, leave me alone!"
I staggered back, my mind still in a haze from the alcohol. Tears were streaming down her face—silent, heavy tears, as if she didn't know what to say or think anymore.
Before I could react, she suddenly grabbed an empty bottle from the floor and smashed it against my head. Pain shot through me like lightning, and I collapsed, dizzy, the room spinning around me.
She pinned me down, raising the bottle again.
"You dare treat me like this…" she shouted, her voice trembling.
But the strike never came. I instinctively grabbed the bottle and shoved her away, gasping for air. For a moment, with my head throbbing and my vision blurred, I felt an overwhelming sense of danger—like she truly meant to finish me off.
Even animals, when pushed to the brink, will resist for survival. I pushed her aside harder than I intended, both of us breathing raggedly.
"You dare… kill me?" she rasped, her back against the sofa.
The room was a storm of rage and confusion. I didn't even know what I was doing anymore—only that my heart pounded like a drum and fear twisted with anger inside me.
Then, the doorbell rang.
Both of us froze.
The sound of a key turning in the lock snapped us back to reality.
"Put your clothes back on—now!" she whispered urgently.
In a daze, I pulled on my pants. She quickly fixed her hair and straightened her clothes just as the door opened.
Five or six middle-aged women walked in, their voices filling the apartment. They looked at us curiously.
"Mom…" she forced a smile. "Why are you here?"
"Did you and Wenhao have a fight again? You two are about to get married, how could you still be talking about breaking up? And this is…?"
The women turned their questioning eyes on me.
"He's a vet from the pet shop," she explained smoothly. "I asked him to come over and bathe Wenhao's cat."
She bent down, quickly picked up some bills from the floor, and pressed them into my hand. Her voice dropped to a whisper, trembling but firm:
"Leave. Now."
My brain was buzzing, my chest heaving. I nodded stiffly, shoved the money into my pocket, and slipped out as her relatives marveled at how grand the apartment was.
Just as I was about to shut the door, I heard one of them gasp,
"Your face—what happened? Did Wenhao hit you?"
Her mother and aunts swarmed around her, voices overlapping in concern.
I closed the door behind me, slinking away like a thief in the night.
Would she call the police? The question haunted me as I stumbled down the street, rubbing the swelling on my head, staring at the bite marks on my hand. This woman was not the kind to swallow her grievances silently. If she had spared me just now, it was out of sheer necessity, not forgiveness.
Back at the pet shop, I was greeted with more bad news. Sister Hua told me bluntly that the boss had fired me—yet another customer complaint, my fifth this month.
Her lips moved like daggers, mocking me, lecturing me. I wanted to slap that smirk off her face.
Walking out in silence, I changed my clothes and sat on the cold steps outside. My ears rang, the city noise crashing into me like waves—engines roaring, people chattering, laughter echoing.
I had lost my job again. The little hope I had grasped slipped through my fingers.
Fear pressed down on me. Looking at the migrant workers nearby, sitting together by their woven sacks, playing poker, I envied them. They had each other; they could face life's storms side by side.
But me? I was alone.
No one knew the bitterness in my chest. No one saw the tears I buried deep inside.
I wanted to cry.
Would I survive in this city? Could I?
If I couldn't… what then?
My father was sick. My mother's legs were weak. They couldn't work anymore. They needed me.
But if I didn't keep struggling in the city, how could I ever pay off our debts? How could I save my father? How could my family's life ever get better?
The questions weighed on me, heavier than the entire skyline towering over my head.
I don't know how long I had been sitting there. Finally, I stood up and spat in the direction of the pet shop. Damn you. One day, when I have money, I'll smash it across your face and bury you in it!
Maybe it was nothing more than self-consolation.
I wandered over to the square across the road. Couples whispered to each other, children laughed and chased one another, elderly people strolled slowly under the lights. It was the perfect picture of city life—but none of it belonged to me.
Restaurants lined the square. At their doors, sweaty chefs in white coats flipped their woks as flames lit up their flushed faces. Inside, diners sat at crowded tables, laughing, clinking glasses, their joy almost tangible. But none of this belonged to me either.
I was like a stone tossed into this city—unnoticed, unwanted.
I bought a bowl of beef noodles and carried it back to my rented room.
That room sat deep inside a slum-like urban village. A narrow dark alley led to it. One single room with a tiny bathroom. A cracked little window. Freezing in winter, stifling in summer. No air conditioner.
I opened the second-hand laptop I'd picked up back in college, eating noodles while browsing a job site.
After sending out a few resumes, I clicked over to the civil service exam portal and downloaded the job listings.
Scrolling through, I froze. A posting for a women's prison caught my eye. The position required male applicants, with a psychology background. I burst out laughing. A women's prison hiring male guards?
Amused, I looked at a few more listings, but my mind kept drifting back to that one.
Later that night, I idly read some news articles about crackdowns on illegal activities. The images showed long-legged, fair-skinned women in heels and stockings being arrested. Suddenly a thought hit me: And where do all these women end up? Prison, of course.
My eyes lit up. A women's prison… full of women. And you're telling me there aren't any beautiful ones?
For someone like me—no background, no money, no connections—the path to success was almost impossible. The fairy tales of poor boys marrying goddesses never seemed meant for me. Maybe this job was my chance. At least it was a civil servant position. And if I got in… well, imagine it: me, surrounded by countless women.
The thought filled me with a guilty excitement. Without hesitation, I applied. At the time, my head was burning, and I'd forgotten that the world was full of unspoken rules.
The days that followed, I studied hard while still job-hunting. Life was brutal: no money, constant hunger, endless pressure. I failed the written exam—barely missing the cutoff. Fourth place, when only the top three advanced. Just one point short. I nearly fainted from frustration.
Then, unexpectedly, a twist: the candidate ranked first was disqualified for cheating, and my name was pushed up. I was in.
When I read the notice again, my heart nearly exploded.
On interview day, I wore my only suit and a pair of worn leather shoes. My nerves almost drowned me. I had already faced rejection from more than twenty companies—each with a different excuse.
I was the last to be interviewed. The man before me came out crying. My palms went cold.
Inside, five women sat as the panel. At the window stood a tall figure in black, back to me, elegant and striking. Probably the leader.
The five interviewers said nothing. They just stared at me, expressionless, for nearly ten minutes. My nerves shifted from tense, to confused, to nearly unhinged. Only later did I realize they were testing my composure.
Finally, one woman broke the silence.
"Zhang Fan, your résumé doesn't list any real work experience. Have you never held a proper job?"
Flustered, I admitted, "After graduation, I worked for a while at a pet shop."
At that moment, the tall woman at the window turned around.
My blood froze.
It was her—the woman from that night.
Her gaze was like ice, sharp with pride, cold with hatred.
My mind went blank. Somehow, the interview ended. But when I walked out, I still couldn't process what had just happened.
Later, sitting on the square again, smoking, I felt my heart sink into the depths of the sea.
This was the city's night sky: streetlamps glowing white, neon lights flashing in dazzling colors. Towers stood shoulder to shoulder, their windows glowing with warmth. Behind each window, families gathered for dinner, couples curled together on couches, laughter echoing.
They had been born here. They never knew hunger or cold. Their parents gave them allowances, supported their studies, found them jobs, even gave them apartments to marry into. Their children would inherit the same privileges.
But me? I was born in a poor village. I grew up hungry, barefoot, walking miles of mountain roads just to attend school. At night, I worked the fields with my parents. My sister sacrificed her own education so I could continue mine. I clawed my way into college—but once there, I knew nothing except how to bury myself in books.
No summer camps. No art classes. No opportunities.
I worked part-time jobs to survive. One girl once loved me, but she too left after graduation.
Now, I could return to poverty—or stay in the city and struggle. But in the city, I had no welfare, no safety net, no protection. Just endless rejection, endless uncertainty. Because I was not a citizen. I was a migrant worker.
At that very moment, while families laughed inside their warm apartments, I sat outside in the cold, in the shadows.
All because they were born in the city—and I was born in the countryside.
The greatest inequality in life is the inequality of birth.
With a heavy heart and exhausted body, I dragged myself back to my rented room. I opened my laptop again, searching for jobs. Even if the whole world had abandoned me—even if the world never needed me—I could not abandon myself.
As I scrolled, my phone rang. An unfamiliar number.
I answered.
"Is this Zhang Fan?" A woman's cold voice.
"Yes… who is this?"
"Women's Prison. You've been accepted."
Before I could react, the call ended.