Evening falls on Old Factory Street.
The sky is painted in a warm orange-red hue.
The fried noodle stall by the street has long been set up, the spatula clashing crisply with the iron wok.
Workers riding electric scooters come and go, almost clogging the road.
The entire old street is bathed in the glow of the evening sun, with a sense of tranquility and harmony amidst the bustle.
The glass door of Lin Fusheng's Clinic is pushed open and shut, the bell on the door ringing softly.
Inside, the rich scent of safflower oil and medicinal wine fills the air, mixed with the smell of pain relief ointments, creating a unique "fragrance" specific to this place.
In the small space, the room is crowded with bruised and swollen gang members.
Noise, groans, and the sound of boasting and idle chatter rise and fall.
Lin Fusheng, wearing reading glasses, is concentrating on repositioning the dislocated arm of a patient with a steady, skillful touch.
