Two Weeks Later
Two weeks had passed, and life had become... different.
Tòumíng had a social media account now. Several, actually. Douyin, Weibo, Xiaohongshu—all the platforms he'd heard other people talk about but never accessed himself. His phone, that three-thousand-four-hundred-yuan investment, had become an extension of his hand. He'd figured out how to set it up after watching a few tutorial videos, and from there, the rabbit hole had opened wide and swallowed him whole.
But work? The mine?
He hadn't been back since that day. Not once. His injuries had healed mostly the stab wounds in his legs reduced to angry pink scabs, the broken rib still tender but manageable, his jaw functional again if he didn't chew anything too tough. Cupid's supernatural healing, or whatever quantum uncertainty his heart existed in, had accelerated the process beyond what should have been possible.
And with the healing came upgrades.
His literal coffin of a room in the slums was gone. Abandoned. Left behind like a shed skin. Now he lived in a twenty-square-meter ground floor apartment in a nicer part of Longhua, the kind of building that housed college students who needed cheap housing and young professionals just starting out. It had actual walls that didn't leak. A bathroom he didn't have to share with twenty other people. A window with glass that wasn't cracked. A door that locked properly.
It cost him eight thousand yuan in deposit and first month's rent, but god, it was worth it.
The best part? Hǔtān's men hadn't found him. The restaurant gang hadn't come knocking. His new address wasn't in any of the old databases, wasn't connected to his previous life. For two glorious weeks, he'd been invisible to the debt collectors who'd defined his existence for three years.
But funds were running dry.
Tòumíng sprawled across his twin bed an actual bed frame with an actual mattress, another purchase that had seemed essential at the time, scrolling through his phone. The screen glowed in his face, algorithm-fed content flowing endlessly. A cooking video. A dance challenge. Someone's cat doing something allegedly hilarious. A girl lip-syncing to a pop song with effects that made her eyes sparkle and her skin impossibly smooth.
His thumb moved automatically, scrolling, scrolling, always scrolling. Just one more video. Just five more minutes. Just—
"You're down to your last four thousand yuan."
Cupid's voice cut through the dopamine haze like a bucket of cold water.
Tòumíng groaned, not looking away from the screen. A guy was doing a comedy sketch about annoying roommates. It was objectively not funny but somehow he couldn't stop watching.
"I'm serious," Cupid continued. "Four thousand yuan. That's not enough to cover next month's rent, and you still owe Hǔtān thirty thousand in two weeks. You need to go back to work."
"Mmmmhm." Tòumíng's attention was locked on a new video, this one showing someone's elaborate morning routine that involved like fifteen different skincare products.
"Tòumíng."
"Yeah, yeah, I hear you."
"Do you? Because you've been saying 'yeah, yeah' for the past three days while burning through your savings on food delivery and random shit you don't need."
That was fair. The apartment had accumulated stuff over the past two weeks. A small TV mounted on the wall. A rice cooker that he'd used exactly twice. A gaming controller for a console he didn't own but thought he might buy. Clothes he hadn't worn. Shoes still in boxes, proof from someone who'd never had disposable income suddenly having it and absolutely no framework for managing it responsibly.
"You need to go back to the mine," Cupid said firmly. "You need to hope Zhāng Wěi hasn't fired you for disappearing for two weeks without notice. You need to use your Ore Sense skill, find more quartz, and get back on track before everything falls apart again."
"Five more minutes," Tòumíng mumbled, his eyes still glued to the screen. Someone was now doing an ASMR video of cutting soap, and for some reason it was incredibly satisfying.
"You said that an hour ago!"
"Did I?"
It turned out that giving a nineteen-year-old who'd never experienced brainrot content access to unlimited dopamine hits DID NOT end well. Who could have possibly predicted that?
Also, newsflash: giving someone who'd spent their entire life without internet access unrestricted ability to visit any website and download any app DOES NOT result in moderation. Shocking, truly shocking.
Tòumíng had discovered mobile games three days ago. Gacha games specifically, the kind designed by psychological experts to exploit every weakness in the human reward system. He'd already spent six hundred yuan on in-game currency for something called "limited edition character pulls" and he couldn't even explain what that meant or why he'd needed them.
"TÒUMÍNG!" Cupid's voice hit a register that was almost painful inside his chest. "GET. UP. NOW."
"Ughhhhhhhhh." The groan came from somewhere deep in his soul, the sound of a person being dragged away from comfort against their will. But Cupid was right. He knew Cupid was right. The money was running out, rent was due, and Hǔtān's payment deadline was approaching like a freight train.
He dragged himself upright, his body protesting despite being mostly healed. Two weeks of lying in bed scrolling through his phone hadn't done wonders for his physical fitness. His muscles had gone soft, his stamina depleted. Moving felt like an act of heroic willpower.
Tòumíng shuffled to his small bathroom his private bathroom, still a luxury that made him smile, and splashed water on his face. The mirror showed someone who looked different from two weeks ago. Less haunted. Better fed. His bruises had faded to yellowish shadows. His hair was clean and styled with product he'd bought after watching a grooming tutorial. He looked... normal. Almost.
Getting dressed was its own production. He'd bought so many clothes that choosing an outfit had become a daily ordeal. Today he settled on a band t-shirt he'd bought because it looked cool, designer pants that had cost an obscene amount but felt incredible, and a fanny pack—a trendy, expensive fanny pack that some influencer had been promoting.
The outfit probably cost more than he used to make in three months.
He stepped outside his apartment, locking the door with his actual key—not a broken lock he had to wedge shut with cardboard, and approached his newest purchase.
The electric bike sat gleaming in the morning sun. He'd bought it last week for two thousand eight hundred yuan after getting tired of walking everywhere. It was sleek, modern, allegedly eco-friendly, and completely unnecessary given that he barely left the apartment anymore. But it had seemed important at the time, watching videos of people cruising effortlessly through city streets.
Tòumíng swung his leg over, settled into the seat, and pressed the power button. The display lit up, showing battery life and speed settings. He'd watched exactly one tutorial on how to ride it and had nearly crashed twice in the first day. Now he was marginally more competent.
The ride to the mine took thirty minutes, wind whipping past his face, his designer pants probably not meant for this kind of activity. The scenery shifted from his nicer neighborhood back toward the industrial district, buildings getting progressively more run-down, air quality deteriorating with each kilometer.
He looked different. Significantly different. The blood-stained, desperate miner who'd left two weeks ago had been replaced by someone who looked like they actually had their life together. Someone with a phone, a bike, trendy clothes, and a fanny pack that probably cost more than most people's weekly salary.
Surely Zhāng Wěi wouldn't notice. Surely his boss would just be happy to have him back and wouldn't ask questions about where a nineteen-year-old miner got money for designer clothes and expensive accessories.
Spoiler alert—