Bang—a heavy punch smashed straight into Lin Yi’s face, drawing blood.
Below the ring, cheers drowned out curses, the noise nearly lifting the roof.
“Damn it, is this Lin guy even any good?”
“We’ve already lost two rounds—if we can’t take this one, we’ll lose all face!”
At the most conspicuous spot below the stage, Bai Jiu sat with half-lidded eyes, a cigar held between his fingers, his expression unreadable.
Following Lin Yi’s gaze, he looked toward a young man below the stage—disheveled, pale-faced, and handsome in a raw, unpolished way.
“Who is that?” he asked.
His subordinate replied respectfully, bowing nearly ninety degrees at the waist: “He came with Lin Yi. Not one of ours.”
Bai Jiu let out a low “Mm,” and lifted a hand lightly.
Zhou Ruo An was jostled hard by the cheering crowd beside him and finally snapped back to his senses. He took a deep breath and wiped his face with his hand.
His lowered eyelids suddenly lifted. Zhou Ruo An sprang to his feet, staring at the bruised and battered face on the ring, and roared at the top of his lungs:
“Lin Yi, you fucking useless trash! You can’t even handle a little runt—just go home and put on Zhang Jin’s funeral clothes already!”
On the stage, Lin Yi paused slightly, then spat out a low, blood-tinged curse between his teeth:
“Fuck.”
His opponent’s punch came whistling toward him again. Lin Yi’s gaze remained calm; his body shifted slightly, easily evading the fierce attack.
It was as if a switch had finally been flipped within him. Amid Zhou Ruo An’s continued shouting—yelling about sending Zhang Jin to the ring—Lin Yi tensed his muscles and drove a brutal elbow into his opponent’s chest. As soon as the other began to falter, he pressed the advantage, following up with a heavy punch.
The force of the blow cut through the air with a sharp, tearing whistle. The sound of flesh being struck rang out as clearly as firecrackers exploding during the New Year. In the brief yet strangely prolonged silence that fell across the arena, his opponent collapsed to the ground!
At last, gasps and applause erupted behind Lin Yi. Bai Jiu’s gaze swept over Lin Yi and Zhou Ruo An; biting down on his cigar, he slowly began to clap.
Backstage at the boxing hall, Zhou Ruo An was tending to Lin Yi’s wounds.
A cigarette hung loosely from his lips. Through the rising smoke, he narrowed his eyes, using a cotton swab to apply medicine to Lin Yi’s face with little care for gentleness.
“How many is that tonight?” Lin Yi pulled the cigarette away and moved to put it in his own mouth. Just as it reached his lips, he paused, noticing the clear bite marks on the filter. With a flick of his wrist, he crushed it out against an empty beer can.
“You disgusted by me?” Zhou Ruo An’s hand pressed down slightly harder, making Lin Yi hiss in pain.
A trace of laughter flickered in both their eyes. Their gazes collided briefly, then both slowly withdrew.
“What exactly happened today? Why was Zhang Jin’s mother killed in that accident?”
Zhou Ruo An fell silent for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone returned to that detached, indifferent manner:
“I told her Zhang Jin was going to die.”
The cotton swab soaked in iodine dragged a yellow streak across Lin Yi’s face like a tear, sliding down from his jaw before being caught in his hand:
“She said she was going to find the Zhou family to save Zhang Jin. Then she said it wasn’t easy to get a meeting with Zhang Jin’s father, and asked me to help her.”
He tossed the cotton swab into the beer can stuffed with cigarette butts. With his free hand braced against the long bench beneath him, Zhou Ruo An straightened his back.
“That woman comes to see Zhang Jin once every three months. I hear the same speech every three months.”
He gave a faint smile. “But it’s been two years, and she’s never once gone to find the Zhou family.”
“Do you know?” Zhou Ruo An pulled out another cigarette and placed it between his lips. His indistinct tone lifted slightly, tinged with mockery. “The Zhou family doesn’t even know Zhang Jin exists.”
“I figured she was all talk anyway—so why not squeeze some money out of her? I agreed to drive her to the Zhou family to ‘settle accounts.’”
He didn’t bother looking for a lighter. With one arm still propping him up, his shoulders lifted slightly, giving him a lazy air. “I thought she’d change her mind halfway through. After all, she’s been afraid all these years—afraid of retaliation from the other man’s wife, afraid her husband, that section chief, would throw her out.”
“But she…” Zhou Ruo An finally let go of his support and reached for a lighter. Without it, his back slumped slightly, losing its earlier grace.
Lin Yi, seated across from him, held out a flame—not too close, not too far. Zhou Ruo An leaned in; the flame shifted slightly farther away.
The man with the cigarette lifted his eyelids. “Don’t mess with your grandpa.”
Lin Yi laughed and patted the bench beside him. “Come sit here. You can lean on my shoulder.”
Zhou Ruo An laughed and cursed, “Don’t act like some damn faggot.”
Even before finishing the insult, he had already moved over. Using Lin Yi’s flame, he lit his cigarette, but instead of leaning against him, he leaned back against the wall.
“I drove her to where Zhang Jin’s father works. By sheer coincidence, we saw that man getting into a car to leave. She panicked—before I could even stop, she pushed the door open and ran out.”
This time, Zhou Ruo An paused for quite a while. The lit cigarette never reached his lips. The rising smoke grew thinner and thinner, until only a faint wisp curled around his slender fingers.
Lin Yi waited patiently. The friendly match outside was still ongoing; cheers and curses drifted in from afar, filling the small lounge completely. At last—who knew which side had won—amid a roaring wave of celebration, Zhou Ruo An placed the cigarette between his lips:
“She ran across the road… and was struck by a speeding truck. Killed instantly.”
Zhou Ruo An curled one leg up onto the bench. “There was so much blood—more than what her son coughed up last night.”
Lin Yi leaned closer, raising a hand. His fingertips brushed against Zhou Ruo An’s hair; after a brief hesitation, they settled on his shoulder.
“This has nothing to do with you.”
“Of course it has nothing to do with me.” Zhou Ruo An tried to brush Lin Yi’s hand away. He didn’t use much force, and when it didn’t move, he let it be. “It’s just a pity I didn’t collect the money in advance. She ran out on the bill.”
“How are you going to tell Zhang Jin?” Lin Yi asked.
Zhou Ruo An bit down on his cigarette and said nothing. After a long while, a hint of a smile leaked out. “Here’s some good news—you and your mother will be reunited very soon.”
The vicious joke had barely landed when the lounge door was pushed open. A group of people filed in noisily. At the front, draped in fur and surrounded by attendants, was Bai Jiu.
Lin Yi stood up and respectfully greeted, “Master Jiu.”
Bai Jiu wore a smile as he reached out and patted Lin Yi’s arm. “I knew you had it in you. Stop messing around down there—come work for me.”
This was exactly what Lin Yi had been waiting for. He agreed readily, “Alright.”
Bai Jiu’s gaze shifted slightly, sweeping over Zhou Ruo An. Like a snake coiling up a pole, Zhou Ruo An tossed aside his cigarette and stepped forward eagerly, extending his hand with utmost respect:
“Master Jiu, I’m Lin Yi’s friend. I’ve often heard him speak of your reputation.”
Bai Jiu slowly took that slender hand, his thumb lightly brushing over the inside of Zhou Ruo An’s wrist. “If you’re not busy, little brother, you should come by with Lin Yi more often.”
Zhou Ruo An’s gaze flickered, but his posture was almost ingratiating. “With an opportunity like that, I’d wake up laughing even in my dreams.”
Bai Jiu released his hand, gave his coat a slight shake, and turned to leave, tossing out casually, “Then wake up laughing a few more times.”
The footsteps faded. Lin Yi walked over and closed the door. Turning back, his voice dropped into a warning:
“Stay away from Bai Jiu. That man is dangerous.”
Zhou Ruo An’s left hand clasped his right wrist; beneath his palm, it was ice-cold.
“Zhou Ruo An!”
The young man snapped back to himself at the sound of his name. Releasing his wrist, he put on his coat. As he walked toward the door, he deliberately bumped Lin Yi’s shoulder:
“I’m practically joined at the hip with you—if you’re going to stick close to him, how the hell am I supposed to stay away?”
He pulled open the door he had just closed. “Let’s go home.”
After nightfall, even the slightest disturbance could set off waves of barking dogs throughout the urban village.
Amid the faint, overlapping chorus of barking, Zhou Ruo An dragged over a chair and placed it outside Zhang Jin’s room, dropping into it heavily.
Zhang Jin still lay on the bed, the sheets beneath him stained with traces of blood.
He seemed not to be breathing—his chest showed no rise or fall—yet from time to time, a low cough would escape him, proving he was still alive.
Two bowls of porridge sat by the bedside. One had been left there by Zhou Ruo An that morning; the other was likely from Lin Yi at dinner. Zhang Jin had touched them—one bowl was about a third gone.
“Still alive?” Zhou Ruo An asked.
After a long while, Zhang Jin turned over, facing inward, leaving only the row of bones along his back exposed to Zhou Ruo An.
“As long as you’re alive, that’s enough. Just listen.”
Zhou Ruo An found a coin in the corner of his pocket, rubbing its pattern slowly beneath his thumb as he spoke:
“Zhang Jin, I’ll find you a woman—let you have one last taste before you die.”
The figure on the bed stirred suddenly, but made no sound.
“What kind do you like? Tall or short, fat or thin? Slim waist or big breasts?”
“How much do you charge?” Zhang Jin’s voice was as weak as the man himself, barely reaching Zhou Ruo An’s ears.
“Nothing.” Zhou Ruo An shifted slightly, turning his body as he used the remote to switch on the television in the living room. As he flipped through channels, he continued, “We’ve lived together for twenty years. Even if we don’t like each other, I won’t let you die with regrets.”
With effort, Zhang Jin rolled over again and propped himself halfway up against the bed, picking up a bowl of porridge from the bedside.
“I like them a bit fuller.”
“Fine.” Zhou Ruo An remained turned sideways, his gaze fixed on the television as he continued flipping channels. “Spent all your money buying a burial plot, didn’t you? After you die, I’ll give you a grand funeral. I’ll burn you some spirit money during festivals. If there’s anything you want, you can come to me in a dream—but don’t use that face of yours right now. It’s unsettling.”
The bowl of porridge, raised to his lips, was slowly lowered again. A heavy gloom filled Zhang Jin’s eyes.
“Zhou Ruo An, you’re not this kind-hearted. What do you want?”
The television screen finally settled on a program narrated by Zhao Zhong Xiang:
“The hyenas charge toward the remains like a gust of wind. They have waited all day for this chance and are already starving…”
The silver coin was tossed high into the air. Zhou Ruo An caught it between his palms, then slowly lifted the upper hand.
Tails—an ill omen.
After a moment of silence, he looked at Zhang Jin:
“I want your identity—the identity of the Zhou family’s illegitimate son left outside.”
The porridge bowl smashed against the black concrete floor. Zhang Jin was like a withered thorn bush—though devoid of life, he still bore sharp barbs.
“You’re not joking?”
“It’s no joke.”
“Ever since we were children, you’ve always envied me, haven’t you?”
Zhou Ruo An rose to his feet and slowly walked into Zhang Jin’s room. “Envied you for what? Your father who toyed with your mother and then abandoned her? Your mother who cast you aside for her own happiness? Or your disgraceful identity as an illegitimate child?”
His toes touched the edge of the bed as he crouched down, looking up at Zhang Jin. “Yes—from childhood until now, I’ve always envied you. I envied that selfish mother of yours who still sneaked back to see you. I envied the father you refuse to acknowledge but who’s still there. And I envied the identity of the Zhou family’s young master that you disdain.”
A withered hand shot out and seized Zhou Ruo An by the collar. “But you’re healthy, strong, handsome!”
Zhou Ruo An staggered slightly, then steadied himself and smiled faintly. “So, Zhang Jin—you’ve always envied me as well.”
He picked up the thermos flask from the bedside table, removed the stopper, and poured a little hot water into the porridge bowl. “We’ve envied each other—call it even.” He stirred the congealed porridge with the hot water, then scooped up a spoonful and brought it to Zhang Jin’s lips. “But you’re about to die. What harm is there in lending me your identity for a while?”
Zhang Jin knocked the spoon away. “So you can go enjoy wealth and glory, while I lie in the cold ground? Keep dreaming, Zhou Ruo An.”
Zhou Ruo An set the bowl down lightly, stood up, brushed the grains of rice from his clothes, and turned to leave the room. “Agree or not—it doesn’t matter. You don’t have many days left anyway. I’m not in a hurry. I’ll wait until you die.”
The voice behind him came like a gale:
“Zhou Ruo An, Old Ding thought too highly of you. He said that as long as you could touch a ladder, you’d climb straight to the heavens—but now I think he misjudged you. Do you think that just because I die, you can impersonate me? Forget whether the Zhou family are fools—there’s no way you’d get past Zhang Yu Ting. She may be selfish, but she would never allow someone else to pretend to be her son.”
“She’s dead.”
“What?”
At the threshold between bedroom and living room, half in light and half in shadow, Zhou Ruo An turned around, only part of his body illuminated.
He looked at Zhang Jin. “Your mother is dead. She died in front of your father’s company.”
By Zhang Jin’s bedside was a small alarm clock that rang several times a day, pulling his weakened self out of hazy, restless sleep.
For more than half a year, Zhang Jin had used it to remind himself that he was still alive—that he could still reach out and silence that irritating sound.
Suddenly, the alarm rang loudly.
The clock’s night light flickered, casting Zhang Jin’s face in a ghastly glow, making him look like a vengeful spirit. In the distance, dogs began barking, the noise swelling into a chaotic chorus. Zhang Jin’s arm—so thin it seemed nothing but bone—reached out and struck the alarm silent.
“I don’t believe you. You’re lying.”
Zhou Ruo An stood by the door for a moment, then took out his phone and walked back to the bed, holding up a photograph in front of Zhang Jin. “When she heard you were gravely ill, she really did go to find your father.”
The hand that had just silenced the alarm could now no longer even hold a phone.
Looking into those deeply sunken eyes, Zhou Ruo An thought: So Zhang Jin can cry too.
It was the first time he had ever seen Zhang Jin’s tears. The suppressed sobs, mixed with the unending barking of dogs, sounded almost absurd. Zhou Ruo An let out a faint, mocking laugh—so even when people like him cry, they don’t deserve a proper background score (BGM).
“Was it that man’s wife who hit her?” Zhang Jin gripped Zhou Ruo An’s hand tightly. “Or his son?”
Zhou Ruo An looked down at the hatred etched across his face and said softly:
“Zhang Jin, do you want revenge? Do you want them to pay the price?”
He leaned closer, inch by inch, toward that pale face.
“Give me your identity—I’ll do it for you.”
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