Carrying the burial clothes, Zhou Ruo An walked home along the base of the wall. Painted across it in red was a large character—“Demolish”. It seemed to be retraced with fresh red paint every year; when the sun and wind faded it, someone would repaint it again. Yet to this day, not a single building had actually been torn down for redevelopment.
Lin Yi snapped a photo of Zhou Ruo An. The wall was mottled and worn, the red character striking, and the tall, lean figure appeared blurred—like a traveler with nowhere to belong. Somehow, it looked artistic as hell.
Zhou Ruo An was quite satisfied with the photo. “When I die, I’ll put this on my tombstone. With that ‘Demolish’ character holding it down, my grave will stand forever.”
Lin Yi had been staring at the figure in the photo. Now he lifted his head, glanced at the real person, then tapped the screen and deleted it.
Zhou Ruo An frowned. “Lin Yi, you’ve beaten people so much your brain’s gone stupid. You’ve been getting weirder lately.”
Lin Yi ignored him, pocketed his phone, and walked ahead. As he passed Zhou Ruo An, he took the burial clothes from his hand. “Why did you buy this for Zhang Jin?”
The alley wasn’t wide—walking side by side, they took up nearly half of it. Kids were kicking a ball back and forth, constantly bumping into people.
Zhou Ruo An hated all children equally. He pulled Lin Yi to the outer side. “He’s started coughing up blood lately. Last night he nearly coughed himself dry. Who knows when he’ll die. When Old Man Ding was about to die, he prepared his burial clothes early. Said once you die, you have to put them on immediately—otherwise you’ll be ragged forever on the other side, and even in your next life, you won’t be respectable.”
He shoved his hand into Lin Yi’s coat pocket, rummaged out some cigarettes, pulled out two, and stuck them in his mouth. The tobacco curled slowly as it burned, the crimson glow fading.
He handed one to Lin Yi and laughed as he cursed, “Wipe that saintly look off your face. I’m not that kind-hearted—I just don’t want him turning into a vengeful ghost and coming after me butt-naked for revenge.”
Lin Yi lifted the burial clothes and examined them. “So you bought him a fifteen-hundred-yuan high-end set of burial clothes—and me beating people for him is a free bonus?”
Zhou Ruo An chuckled with the cigarette between his lips. “I owe you one. I’ll treat you to a meal some other day.”
As he turned his head, he spotted a small hair salon. In the urban village, places decorated in flashy, gaudy styles like this were always fronts—selling one thing under the guise of another.
Frost patterned the salon window. Through it, one could vaguely see women walking back and forth—their waists not especially slim, but their chests strikingly full.
Zhou Ruo An held the cigarette in his mouth, his smile fading slightly. “Zhang Jin said he’s never tasted a woman. If he dies like that, he won’t rest in peace.”
He turned his head, giving Lin Yi a teasing glance. “We haven’t either. If one day you get killed, and I get trapped and played to death, wouldn’t it be a loss if we never even got started?”
There were no proper trash bins along the roadside—only long green dumpsters. Lin Yi flicked his cigarette butt into one. “You want to try?” He tilted his chin toward the salon. “Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
Zhou Ruo An never inhaled deeply when he smoked—just a drag and exhale. This time, his breath caught, and he coughed lightly.
“Fuck,” he laughed. “With my stamina, you’d freeze to death waiting out here.”
He shoved Lin Yi forward. “If I’m going to try it, I’m at least going to choose. I’m not taking just anyone.”
Lin Yi was tall, and with the funeral shop bag in hand, he looked even more menacing. Through his clothes, he brushed a hand over the scar on his chest, his voice low and slow. “Pick, then.”
Old Man Ding had a bad temper, cursing constantly while alive, yet he earned a reputation as a great benefactor. That was because more than twenty years ago, he had taken in two infants and raised them to adulthood.
Before the age of fourteen, Zhou Ruo An and Zhang Jin had lived together in Old Man Ding’s scrap collection station. At fourteen, Zhou Ruo An scraped together some money through schemes and tricks, rented a small house nearby, and escaped the miserable life of sharing space with flies and cockroaches.
Old Man Ding refused to move in—he despised the “dirty” money Zhou Ruo An earned—but he sent Zhang Jin over. On the surface, it was to have him keep an eye on Zhou Ruo An, but in truth, it was to let the frail and sickly Zhang Jin live more comfortably.
People said Zhou Ruo An resembled Old Man Ding—that he had “eight hundred schemes” in his belly. Old Man Ding would curse out anyone who said that for eight generations, shouting, “How am I anywhere near as crooked as that brat!”
Now twenty-one, Zhou Ruo An had lived in this place for six or seven years. It was a tube-style apartment building built in the 1960s, on the second floor—the innermost unit.
Just as they reached downstairs, Lin Yi’s sharp eyes spotted a sneaky figure lurking in the corner.
“She’s here again,” Lin Yi said.
Zhou Ruo An swore. “Fuck—do Zhang Jin and his mother think I’m easy to bully? Always using me as a messenger stuck in the middle.” He pulled up his payment QR code and walked toward the corner. “Today I’ll show her just how expensive I am.”
After a few steps, Zhou Ruo An turned back. “What are we eating tonight?”
Lin Yi glanced upstairs. “How about I cook?”
Zhou Ruo An’s irritation vanished instantly. “Don’t make Zhang Jin’s portion. Better he starves to death than dies of illness.”
Pork ribs that had been frozen in the fridge for months were drenched in soy sauce, and the flame on the gas stove was turned to maximum.
Lin Yi’s cooking wasn’t particularly good, but it happened to suit Zhou Ruo An’s taste—heavy oil, rich meat, no need for refinement, just strong, bold flavors.
It was said Old Man Ding had been stingy—raising two kids yet barely letting them taste meat once a month.
A phone lay on the worn kitchen counter. Lin Yi was focused; when it rang, he tapped the lighter.
The voice on the other end was unfamiliar, but the name it gave was imposing. “Lin Yi? Ninth Master wants you to come fight in an arena match.”
Lin Yi’s fingertip brushed the hot edge of the pot and burned slightly. “Ninth Master?”
People are divided into ranks, and so are gang circles.
Yan City was split in two by a river, dividing it into northern and southern districts. There were countless small gangs, but only two major ones, each claiming territory on either side of the river.
Lin Yi belonged to Bai Jiu in the southern district. For now, he was only a debt collector. Though he had made a bit of a name for himself, he was still considered insignificant—a nobody.
Naturally, he wanted to climb higher. After greasing some palms, he had met Bai Jiu twice. When they clinked glasses, the middleman had introduced him in just a few words: “Ruthless. Can fight.”
At the time, Bai Jiu only gave a slight nod—his lips never even touched the rim of the glass.
The person on the other end of the phone clearly adopted the air of someone in a higher position. After only a few brief words, he gave an address. “Get here quickly. You’re up third—perform well.”
After hanging up, Lin Yi pieced together the situation from the limited conversation.
The bosses of the southern and northern factions were meeting, and on a whim had organized a “friendly match” in the form of arena fights.
Though labeled as “friendly,” it carried an undercurrent of hostility. Each side selected several fighters. Because the opposing lineup included a young man who had been making waves recently, Bai Jiu couldn’t simply send in veterans to overpower them. Among the hundred or so men in the branch halls, no one knew how—but Lin Yi ended up being personally chosen.
For Lin Yi, this was an opportunity to soar to prominence in a single leap. Yet, half an hour before his match, he received a call from Zhou Ruo An.
Wearing only shorts and a tank top beneath a long down jacket, Lin Yi left the venue, tossing behind him a single sentence: “I’ll be back before I go on.”
The screech of brakes was piercing. Pushing the door open and stepping out, Lin Yi yanked open the door of the car ahead and dragged Zhou Ruo An out of the driver’s seat.
He looked him over. “Are you hurt?”
Zhou Ruo An seemed not to hear him. After staring at Lin Yi’s face for several seconds, he frantically began searching him for cigarettes.
Grabbing Zhou Ruo An by the wrist, Lin Yi pulled him closer and realized that his whole body was trembling slightly.
“Can you walk?” Without waiting for an answer, Lin Yi lowered himself and hoisted Zhou Ruo An onto his shoulder. “I don’t have time to waste on you. If you delay me, I’ll kill you.”
He tossed Zhou Ruo An into his own car, pulled a pack of cigarettes from his down jacket pocket, and threw the entire pack over.
Bending down, he got into the car. Lin Yi had fifteen minutes left before his match.
He started the engine and slammed down the accelerator.
The shifting lights outside streaked across Lin Yi’s face. No one spoke inside the car—only the repeated flick of a lighter echoed in the silence.
With one hand on the steering wheel, Lin Yi grabbed the lighter from Zhou Ruo An’s hand. With a flick, the metal lid snapped open; his thumb struck downward, producing a flame.
The dancing firelight was brought toward the trembling cigarette between Zhou Ruo An’s fingers. “What happened?”
Zhou Ruo An leaned in to light it, took a deep drag, and began to cough lightly.
The flame died, and darkness fell over the car once more. Zhou Ruo An held the cigarette, the crimson glow at its tip reflecting in his eyes, igniting a flicker of light. “Zhang Yu Ting is dead.”
“Who?”
“Zhang Jin’s mother.”
Lin Yi frowned slightly. He glanced at the time on the dashboard. “An hour ago, when I left your place, weren’t you still downstairs squeezing money out of her?”
Zhou Ruo An bit down on the cigarette, his breathing growing rapid. “That woman… was hit by a car and died.”
He suddenly turned to look at Lin Yi. “Right in front of me.”
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Futile Devices Scans 
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