The acrid scent of cheap air freshener struggled valiantly against the lingering odor of stale tobacco in Boss Chen Liangtian's office. It was 9 AM, and Michael felt the familiar knot of anxiety tighten in his stomach, a sensation as routine as the morning sun in Yangcheng. With a deference that felt like a physical costume, he approached the large mahogany desk, its surface cluttered with the detritus of a small-time businessman's empire.
His fingers, slightly trembling from a combination of lingering hangover and nervousness, found the prized packet in his shirt pocket. He produced a blue, soft-pack Furongwang cigarette—a brand he himself could seldom afford to smoke—and offered it to the man behind the desk. The gesture was a well-rehearsed piece of theater. Michael always carried two packs: the expensive ones displayed prominently for face-giving moments like this, and the cheap Baisha brand tucked away in his trousers for his own consumption. The reason was as simple as it was grim: poverty. The cost of this single cigarette could almost cover a day's worth of his meager meals—lunch, dinner, and a late-night snack, for he had long abandoned the luxury of breakfast.
He leaned forward, a lighter flickering in his hand, and ignited the cigarette for Chen. The flame illuminated the older man's smug expression. Putting on a mask of profound admiration, Michael launched into his well-practiced flattery. "Boss Chen," he began, his voice dripping with a sincerity he didn't feel, "your singing last night was truly exceptional. If I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, I would have sworn we were listening to the original soundtrack. We must find another opportunity soon for me to learn from you."
Internally, he cringed. Chen's singing had been a nasal, screeching affair, reminiscent of a pig being led to slaughter, and it had taken every ounce of Michael's willpower not to visibly wince. But the performance worked. Chen's face softened, inflated by the praise. He took a long drag, exhaled a cloud of smoke that hung between them like a ghost of their transaction, and finally performed the action Michael had been waiting for these past two months.
From a drawer, Chen produced a sheet of paper filled with scribbled characters and slid it across the polished wood. "The delivery list," he announced. "A-Biao, check if there are any problems. I've already instructed finance to wire the 300,000 yuan advance this morning."
A wave of relief so intense it was almost nauseating washed over Michael. He nearly wept. Two months of relentless effort, over twenty visits to this very office, countless hours of swallowing his pride—it had finally borne fruit. This order would, at least temporarily, lift him from the dreaded bottom-three ranking in his sales department. Yet, the victory felt hollow. Calculating the expenses—the meals, the KTV sessions, the endless cups of tea—the commission would barely break even. He had essentially worked for free.
Two hours later, Michael staggered out of the office building. The bright sunlight felt abrasive. Despite the hours that had passed since he'd awoken on the bathroom floor, a deep, throbbing discomfort clung to him. The lump on the back of his skull, a tender, angry mound, pulsed with a pain that shot through his head with every heartbeat. Touching it was like prodding a live wire. His initial plan was to buy some anti-inflammatory pills, return to his rented room, and sleep it off. The thought of a hospital visit flickered and died instantly. The cost was prohibitive; a simple check-up could devour half a month's salary. It's just a fall, he told himself. Sleep will fix it.
He was just beginning to feel a sliver of pride in his own frugal resilience when a voice cut through his thoughts. "A-Biao! Had lunch? We're just heading out, join us!"
He turned to see "Brother Zhou," a gaunt, weasel-faced man in his thirties who worked as a delivery driver for Chen. The invitation, though phrased with camaraderie, set off immediate alarm bells. Michael knew this routine all too well: a "casual" meal where he would be expected to foot the bill.
"Ah, Brother Zhou, what terrible timing!" Michael exclaimed, layering his voice with genuine-sounding regret. "I took a nasty spill last night, drunk, you know? Got this huge bump on my head, hurts like hell. I was just on my way to the clinic. Maybe next time?" He even turned his head, pointing to the evidence.
Zhou leaned in, his eyes narrowing. A sharp hiss of air escaped his teeth. But his next words froze Michael's blood. "Stop your nonsense, A-Biao. You didn't get that from a fall. That's from a knock on the head. Someone whacked you from behind."
The statement landed with the force of a physical blow. Doubt, wild and terrifying, erupted in Michael's mind. Was it real?The Honey and Maiden tavern, Jaunysmoke, the bizarre currency of toilet paper… The dream had been impossibly vivid, the sensory details too sharp. But how could he have ended up back in his bathroom? The logistics were baffling.
…
He spent fifteen yuan on a greasy, two-meat-two-vegetable fast-food lunch at a roadside stall, solving breakfast and lunch in one fell swoop. A subsequent trip to a pharmacy secured a box of painkillers and anti-inflammatories. But instead of returning to his room to sleep as planned, a restless, desperate energy seized him. He kicked his sputtering, oil-burning scooter to life and began to weave through the labyrinthine alleys of the city's southern urban village.
This was his crude, last-ditch experiment to verify the previous night's events. If he could find the bar, it was real. If not, it was a magnificent, cruel dream. And though a part of him whispered of danger, a larger, more desperate part hoped fervently for the former. The memory of Jaunysmoke's warmth and the promise of a "large, comfortable bed" fueled his search. He even stopped to buy a whole ten-pack of toilet paper, a potential treasure trove in that otherworldly economy.
The afternoon sun beat down as he navigated the maze of aging, low-rise buildings. The narrow lanes, tangled like a spider's web, held no trace of a three-story tavern. By five o'clock, he had covered every conceivable path. The result was a crushing disappointment. No bar. No familiar building. The evidence was incontrovertible: it had all been a fantasy. A profound sense of loss and foolishness settled over him, as palpable as the city's grime. He felt like a farmer watching his poultry get wiped out by disease—utterly defeated.
Dejected, he returned to his building. Perhaps it was the stubborn refusal to accept this bleak reality that made him do it. Instead of his usual routine of dropping his satchel and collapsing onto the bed, he found his hand reaching for the bathroom doorknob.
He pushed it open.
And he saw it.
A light. A swirling, twisting vortex of emerald energy, hanging in the center of the small, tiled room. It pulsed with a low hum, its depths resembling a tiny, captured nebula. To anyone else, it might have been madness. But to Michael, a veteran consumer of online fantasy novels, the recognition was instantaneous, a visceral knowing that bypassed logic.
A portal.
This was the stuff of legends, the gateway that transformed zeroes into heroes. For a man with nothing to lose, no property, no prospects, no future to speak of, the calculation was simple. Fear was a luxury for those who had something to protect. He was an proletarian in the truest sense. What did he have to fear? Oblivion? That was just another Tuesday.
A reckless, wild hope surged through him, drowning out the last vestiges of caution. It was the gambler's mantra, the desperate man's prayer: All in. Bicycle to motorcycle!
Almost without conscious thought, he stepped through the shimmering green light. It was only as the familiar confines of his bathroom dissolved around him that a final, panicked thought flashed in his mind.
Damn it! I forgot to bring a kitchen knife!