Tòumíng pushed through the building's entrance, the familiar smell of mildew and cheap cooking oil hitting him immediately. The elevator had been broken for six years, the doors permanently stuck half open, revealing a dark shaft that occasionally echoed with the sounds of rats. He took the stairs, gripping the railing as his damaged legs threatened to give out with each step.
Second floor. The hallway stretched ahead, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. His unit was at the end, door number 207. Even from here, he could see it.
The door was open.
Shit.
His heart, Cupid's heart, hammered against his ribs. Every instinct screamed at him to turn around, to run, but where would he go? This was it. This was all he had.
He approached slowly, each step deliberate. Voices drifted out from inside his room, casual laughter, the sound of things being moved around. Through the open doorway, he could see them. Five men, all wearing the same style of cheap leather jackets, tearing through what little remained of his possessions.
One of them was going through his mattress, fingers probing the torn fabric looking for hidden money. Another had pulled the wire down from the corner, checking behind it for stashed valuables. A third was literally tapping the walls, listening for hollow spots.
Tòumíng stepped through the doorway.
All five heads turned at once. For a moment, nobody moved. They stared at him like they were seeing a ghost, eyes wide, mouths slightly open.
Then the largest one, a man with a scar running down his left cheek, broke into a grin. "Well, well, well. Look who's still walking."
He approached Tòumíng with exaggerated friendliness, arms spread wide like he was greeting an old friend. "Brother Tòumíng. We really thought you died. I mean, you had to have died, right? The way the boss's guys worked you over last night?" He laughed, shaking his head. "Honestly, I'm impressed. You're tougher than you look."
The other men gathered around, forming a loose semicircle. Their eyes raked over him, taking in the blood-stained clothes, the awkward way he was standing, the barely concealed pain in every movement.
"We came by this morning to clear out your stuff," Scar Face continued, his tone still mockingly pleasant. "You know, settle the remaining debt with whatever we could find. But look at this place." He gestured around the bare room. "You really weren't lying about having nothing left to sell. That actually makes me feel kind of bad."
One of the other men snorted. "Yeah, real tragic."
Scar Face put on an exaggerated expression of pity, his lips pulling down in a theatrical frown. "It's sad, really. A young guy like you, working so hard, trying so desperately to pay off daddy's debts. Really tugs at the heartstrings." The pity vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by cold business. "But sorry, bud. Feelings don't pay bills. We're still gonna need that two thousand yuan by the end of today."
He reached out and patted Tòumíng's cheek, the gesture patronizing and degrading. The pat turned into a light slap, just hard enough to sting, just hard enough to remind Tòumíng of his place.
The other men laughed, the sound bouncing off the bare walls.
Rage flooded through Tòumíng like molten metal. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, nails digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. These bastards. These smug, laughing bastards standing in his home, touching his things, putting their hands on him like he was a dog they could kick whenever they felt like it.
He could see it so clearly. Grabbing the nearest one by the throat. Slamming his head into the concrete wall until the laughter stopped. Using the broken piece of wire to—
"Don't." Cupid's voice cut through the fantasy like ice water. "Don't even think about it. You can barely stand. Your legs are held together with spite and my questionable healing abilities. You've got a broken rib, a shattered jaw, and you've lost enough blood to kill a normal person. You try to fight five healthy men right now and they'll finish what Hǔtān started."
The rage didn't dissipate but it crystallized, hardened into something he could control. Cupid was right. Of course Cupid was right. Revenge was a dish best served when you weren't actively bleeding from multiple stab wounds.
"Suck it up," Cupid continued. "Smile. Nod. Tell them what they want to hear. Get them out of here, get your pickaxe, get to the mine, and start grinding that system. You want revenge? Fine. But you get it after you're out of debt and strong enough to actually pull it off."
Tòumíng's face rearranged itself into something resembling a smile. It felt wrong, stretched too tight, more grimace than grin, but it was the best he could manage. His voice came out strained, forced through his damaged jaw.
"Yeah... boss. I'll work. Super hard."
Scar Face's grin widened. "There's that attitude. See boys? This is determination." He clapped Tòumíng on the shoulder hard enough to make him stagger. "Attaboy. You get us that two thousand yuan by tonight and maybe, just maybe, the boss will consider your account settled for this month."
"Settled until next month anyway," one of the others muttered, and they all laughed again.
They moved toward the door, still chuckling among themselves, making jokes about the empty room, about Tòumíng's battered appearance, about how pathetic it all was. Scar Face shoved him aside as he passed, not hard enough to knock him down but enough to make him stumble, enough to remind him who had the power here.
"End of today, brother. Don't disappoint us again."
Their footsteps echoed down the hallway, their laughter fading as they descended the stairs. Tòumíng heard the building's front door slam, heard the SUV engines start up outside.
Then silence.
He stood there in the middle of his ransacked room, surrounded by the debris of his already miserable life. The mattress torn open, stuffing scattered across the floor. The walls still bearing faint marks where they'd tapped and searched. His few remaining possessions disturbed, examined, deemed worthless.
His legs gave out.
Tòumíng dropped to his knees on the hard floor, the impact sending fresh pain through his body, but he barely noticed. His head bowed, hands pressed flat against the concrete, breathing hard through gritted teeth.
The rage was still there, burning in his chest alongside Cupid's borrowed heartbeat. But stronger than the rage was the humiliation. The complete and utter powerlessness of standing there while five men laughed at him, touched him, dismissed him like he was nothing.
Because he was nothing. Not to them. Not to Hǔtān. Not to anyone in this city who saw him as just another desperate debtor, another body to be used and discarded.
He knelt there, defeated, his reflection barely visible in a puddle of water that had leaked from somewhere in the ceiling. The face staring back was unrecognizable. Bruised, swollen, streaked with dried blood and garbage from the dumpster. The face of someone who'd lost everything and then lost a little bit more.