Li Wei's schlepping his tired, sorry self home, city glowing like one of those soap opera filters—gold everywhere, everything looks prettier than real life actually is. The dude's muscles are on revolt from a full day's floor scrubbing (seriously, you'd think the school was prepping for a royal coronation and not just trying to "build his character"). That mop smell? It's got permanent residency on his hands. You could probably identify him blindfolded at this point.
But you know what's wild? Neither the exhaustion nor the stink is what's really scraping at his brain. Nah. It's that weirdo pendant stashed in his pocket. Every time his hand brushes up against it, he gets this weird sense of peace. Not knock-you-out tranquilizer; more like the quiet you get when you finally leave a family dinner where everyone was fighting. Warm, steady—like someone's heart is ticking away right under his fingertips, except, you know, not his own actual heart.
Li Wei's walking through his neighborhood maze—crumbling bricks, crooked alleys, those shops barely hanging on, and kids absolutely determined to destroy their shins on some ragged old soccer ball. You got the local aunties all out on their balconies, gossiping so intense you'd swear they were saving the world or something. Total "slice of life" going on here.
Now, home? You'd miss it if you sneezed. It's a broom-closet apartment squeezed between a tailor shop that's been "temporarily closed" since before Li Wei was born and a tea stall that's basically just one gigantic fried dough machine. The door? It complains louder than a toddler at naptime.
And let's talk about his mother for a second. No one can guilt-trip like her. She's already calling out his name, barely waiting for the door to swing all the way open: "Li Wei! Late again?" She's got this radar for disappointment, you know? One whiff, and she's off. She comes out of the kitchen in her war-torn apron, hair dusted with silver, looking like she's walked out of a painting and right into a mud fight.
"Cleaning again? Seriously?" she says, clearly one disaster away from reading his whole ancestry to filth. Then she stops, mid-rant—yeah, Li Wei doesn't have to be psychic to fill in the rest: No better than your father. Oof.
He flops into a chair—classic teen move. "Relax, Ma. Not planning to do a vanishing act." There's a bitterness in him, not heavy-handed but… it hangs there; it's real. Even the kitchen goes quiet except for the soup which, props to his mom, always seems to be going, just bubbling away in the background.
Now here's where it gets heavy. She softens—mom-level vulnerability unlocked. "Your dad had secrets. Don't go down that road. Steer clear of weird stuff, promise me." Instinct's yelling at him to keep the pendant a secret, and he listens, because even without the magic trinket, every kid sometimes just knows when to shut up.
He grins, squeezes out a joke about Zhang Jie's cooking, tries to break the ice, but she's not feeling comedy hour. She shoos him off to go wash up and—seriously, he should win an award for not rolling his eyes into next week.
When Li Wei finally gets to his tiny "bedroom"—let's not kid ourselves, it's barely bigger than a laundry cupboard—he pulls out the pendant and gives it a look. Sunlight's dying, but somehow that jade? It's glowing like it swallowed a firefly. He catches a glimpse of his own face in the stone, and it looks… not right, like he's staring into someone else's story, just for a second.
Yeah, he even whispers to the thing, "What are you?"—like it'll answer. (Spoiler: it doesn't.) Still, closing his hand around it, he feels this warm river run through him, as if the pendant is reminding him, "Hey, you're not alone here, even if things are messy." Cool or creepy? Both, honestly.
And then! Boom—banging on the door. Zhang Jie's outside, all energy and no boundaries, yelling the usual: "Get up, your mom gave me clearance." The two of them? Like an old married couple, if married couples survived on steamed buns and calling each other vegetable insults.
Zhang strolls in waving a peace offering—two steamed buns (the real currency of forgiveness). And they start talking about Chen Guang, aka The Temporary Source Of All Drama. Apparently, Chen's planning to challenge Li Wei tomorrow with his band of misfits. Middle school fight night? Of course.
Li Wei's acting extra chill, too chill. Zhang's not fooled: "What, did you secretly start training with Bruce Lee in your sleep?" And Li Wei just leans into it, all "Yeah, I fight demons, what of it?" Playful bickering. For a second, the pendant's warmth makes all the worries fade, and this feels almost like normal life. Almost.
The two munch in companionable silence after, kind of like dogs after a long run, just tired and glad to exist together. You get the sense these are the moments Li Wei lives for—a breather between storms.
But here's the thing: Night rolls in, the street's asleep, but Li Wei can't switch his brain off. That pendant's just chilling on his bedside, glow gently painting the room green, and his thoughts are running laps. Eventually, he passes out, but you just know—those dreams? About to get way, way less ordinary.
All in all, Li Wei's story is this mash-up of daily struggle and quiet magic. And isn't that just how life feels sometimes? A lot of grime, a dash of warmth, and always, just maybe, something wild humming under the surface, waiting for you to notice.