Sunday morning in the community park was thick with the scent of soy milk and deep-fried dough. Old men practiced Tai Chi while grandmothers claimed the plazas for dance routines.
Ten minutes ago, Roan had stepped out of the small sports kiosk at the park entrance. He had originally intended to ask the "hanging" elder where to find a professional leather head-harness, assuming it would require a trip to a specialized athletic outlet. Instead, the man had simply pointed a hundred meters away.
The park's ecosystem was disturbingly efficient. The kiosk didn't just sell water; it stocked high-tension latex resistance bands, yoga mats, and sweatbands.
If a professional Iron Neck is too expensive and out of reach, Roan reasoned, I'll build a low-profile version using basic mechanics. A muscle doesn't know the difference between a $1,000 machine and fifty cents worth of rubber, provided the vector of resistance is correct.
Beep. He scanned the QR code. 59.90 yuan. Deal done.
In the corner of the pull-up bar area, the atmosphere took a sudden, dark turn. It looked like an execution site. Roan looped three heavy-duty resistance bands around a vertical pillar and the top crossbeam. The other end was rigged to the DIY head harness, suspended two meters off the ground.
Roan grabbed a nearby stool, stood on it, and slid his head into the harness. A snot-nosed kid wandered over, stopping in his tracks to watch with morbid fascination.
Roan tested the tension. He locked his body into a rigid line and slowly leaned forward, the bands stretching taut. The final image was a perfect recreation of Michael Jackson's 45-degree "Anti-Gravity Lean," only the pivot point was his cervical spine instead of his ankles.
To Roan, he looked legendary. The muscles on either side of his neck bulged like steel cables beneath the skin. Every micro-tremor was a warning: his neck was approaching its structural limit. He held it for three seconds, realized he was redlining, and used a sudden burst of core strength to snap back upright.
"Perfect."
Confident the bands could hold his weight, he kicked the stool away. He hung there, completely suspended by his neck, thrashing his body from side to side to simulate the violent oscillations of a high-speed chicane. From a distance, he looked like a fish struggling on a hook. Or someone on a gallows.
A little girl walking by pointed at him, her voice trembling. "Mommy, is that big brother hanging himself?"
The young mother quickly covered her daughter's eyes, quickening her pace. "Don't look, honey. That's just someone with a mental illness."
The snot-nosed kid, finally spooked, bolted in the opposite direction.
Roan filtered out the noise. He had to hold on. Muscle fibers only tear and rebuild stronger when they hit the point of failure. This was the "Roan Method" of neck conditioning. (Note: Do not attempt.)
Nearby, a clean black sedan slid into a parking spot. The door opened, and a middle-class woman in a gray professional suit stepped out. She held a bunch of fresh celery in one hand, but her posture was as straight as a ruler—the look of an exam proctor surveying a hall.
This was Sarah Throne, a star physics teacher at the provincial high school. And Roan's mother. She had shifted her schedule, arriving home two hours early. A variable Roan hadn't accounted for.
She pushed up her gold-rimmed glasses, her sharp eyes scanning the pull-up area. She saw the familiar figure. She saw the distorted, agonizing facial expressions. She saw the rubber bands biting into his skin.
A normal mother would have screamed and run to "save" him. Sarah stood still for ten seconds. She was evaluating. Is this a hormonal performance art piece? A suicidal impulse? Or a stress-induced reaction to the upcoming exams?
The atmospheric pressure around Roan seemed to drop. His "Spider-Sense"—the instinct for trouble honed by years of academic discipline—flared.
Training terminated.
Roan grabbed the pillars and tried to hook the stool back with his toes. Sarah walked toward him, the rhythmic clack-clack of her heels on the concrete sounding like a ticking clock. She stopped two meters away. No hysterics. No tears. Her voice was cool and steady, like she was reading a disciplinary notice.
"If this is a stunt to skip the monthly mocks, the cost of the 'bitter meat' tactic is a bit high."
Roan gasped for air, unwrapping the sweat-soaked towel from his forehead. A deep, purple-red welt was etched into his neck.
Sarah's gaze lingered on the mark for 0.5 seconds before moving to the rigged bands. "If you're trying to give me a heart attack, find a more dignified method. The school waived your $40,000 tuition because they expect a return on the graduation honor roll. If you hang yourself into a coma, it counts as malicious destruction of public property."
She stepped closer, using one finger to poke the rubber band with disdain. "Not only would we lose the scholarship, but we can't afford the breach-of-contract fines."
Roan caught his breath. "You're home early." He began dismantling the rig, his voice raspy from the pressure on his vocal cords.
"Not early enough," Sarah said, checking her watch. "I nearly missed the opening act."
The "show" moved to the living room. There was no interrogation. Sarah sat at the head of the dining table, a red pen in hand, grading a stack of physics papers. The only sound was the surgical skritch-skritch of her corrections—precise and lethal for every incorrect answer.
Roan didn't have time for the silent treatment. He reached into his oversized school uniform pocket.
He pulled out a thick stack of bills. 5,000 yuan in cash. The red notes, smelling faintly of sweat, created a sharp visual contrast against the dark wood of the table.
Thwap.
He slapped the money down. It wasn't loud—the paper was too soft—but it carried the weight of a man "showing his cards."
Sarah's pen stopped. She pushed her glasses up, the lenses reflecting a cold light as her gaze moved from a conservation of momentum problem to the cash.
"I assume this isn't life insurance payout?"