By seven in the evening, as dusk settled like a soft shroud over the city, Zhang Kai was still navigating the labyrinth of streets in his car, his day swallowed by errands. The clock ticked past seven, and he had yet to taste a morsel of dinner—though to claim hunger was a lie, for the gnawing in his stomach was a constant companion. Yet compared to the specter of failing Michael's procurement tasks—tasks that carried consequences he dared not contemplate—he pushed through, his resolve hardening like steel.
His current mission: acquiring a set of second-hand digital photography equipment. He had tracked down a seller—a teetering wedding and advertising company on the brink of collapse—offering what was once a fifty-thousand-yuan setup for a mere eighty thousand. The price was a steal, but prudence demanded he inspect the gear in person, to ensure it wasn't a lemon.
Just as he neared the address, his phone buzzed with an unexpected call. "Mom? Is everything okay?" he answered, his voice laced with uncharacteristic trepidation. Even his most loyal underlings knew: Little Knife, the fearsome gangster who ruled Yangcheng's underworld, was a lamb at home. Outside, a stray glance could earn a beating; inside, his mother's scoldings—whether with a feather duster or a sharp tongue—were met with patience and soft words.
Perhaps it was because he owed his mother everything: a single parent who had raised him alone, enduring hardships that left scars deeper than any knife wound. She rarely called, and when she did, it was for matters of import. Tonight, her voice was as cold as ever, but the words that followed were a balm to his frayed nerves: "Nothing's wrong. I made your favorite white-cut chicken—boiled tender-smooth, just how you like it. Come home for dinner."
Relief flooded him. The thought of enemies at the door—of past grudges resurfacing—dissipated like mist. But as clarity returned, so did worry: he still had half the procurement list unfinished. Standing up Michael, that scoundrel, would mean trouble. He hesitated, then ventured, "Mom, I have important work tonight. Can I come tomorrow?"
He braced for the familiar tirade—the "you're more trouble than you're worth" lecture, the "why can't you be like other kids" sighs. But the words never came. Instead, his mother said, "Work comes first. I'll save the chicken for you. Come when you're done."
The call ended, leaving Zhang Kai bewildered. Something was different—something he couldn't name, but it felt like a miracle.
By nine-thirty, he was at the logistics park, where Michael and a dozen workers were loading goods onto two dilapidated trucks and a trailer. Three of his former underlings, clumsy with forklifts, moved pallets with a urgency that belied their inexperience. Zhang Kai, who had never lifted a finger in manual labor, joined in without complaint. There was a strange sense of exhilaration in the air—were they glad to be useful? Or was it the novelty of working for someone who didn't threaten to break their bones if they failed?
They worked until eleven, the warehouse echoing with the clang of crates and the murmur of tired voices. When the last pallet was loaded, Michael dismissed them with a rare smile. "Go get some food," he said. "And take a bath—you've earned it." He handed each of them two thousand yuan for dinner and a bath, a pittance but enough to soothe their aches.
Zhang Kai gave the money to a subordinate, instructing him to get receipts—"the boss likes to keep track of expenses"—before heading to his suburban home. The night air was cool, and the stars were bright as he drove, his mind replaying the day's events.
Dinner was a feast: white-cut chicken, steaming rice, and a bowl of pickled vegetables. He ate with gusto, the chicken so tender it melted in his mouth. "Where did you get this?" he asked his mother, licking his lips.
"Your third uncle sent it," she said, a rare smile playing on her lips. "He said it's to thank you."
Zhang Kai knew why she was smiling. Since he'd started running with gangs—since his first stint in jail—their relatives had cut ties, ashamed of his choices. His mother had borne that shame like a cross, and tonight, for the first time in years, she looked at peace.
But why? He probed, "Did he say why?"
She hesitated, then sat down beside him. "He said your trading company ordered ten tons of baijiu from his distillery. He wanted to thank you."
Zhang Kai froze. Ten tons of baijiu—of course. The procurement list had included it, and the subordinate in charge had somehow found his third uncle's distillery. But his mother's next words made his heart ache: "It's not the chicken, Kai boy. It's that you're working for a real company. I'm proud of you. Promise me you'll stop running with gangs."
He didn't know what to say. His mind raced—of Michael, of the tasks, of the life he'd left behind. Desperate to change the subject, he pulled out a bottle of medicinal liquor Michael had given him. "Here," he said, pouring a small cup for his mother. "The boss said this is good for your back. Try it."
The liquor was a deep crimson, with a rich, herbal aroma. His mother sipped it, her eyes widening at the warmth that spread through her chest. "It's good," she said. "Really good."
Zhang Kai smiled, relieved. He took a sip himself— the liquid burned going down, but it left a pleasant warmth in his stomach.
The next morning, he woke to the smell of breakfast: fried eggs, soy milk, and steamed buns. His mother was in the kitchen, her hair tied back, humming a tune he hadn't heard in years. "Eat up," she said, placing a plate in front of him. "And remember to thank your boss. Last night was the first time in years I slept without pain."
Zhang Kai looked at her—really looked at her. Her face was softer, her eyes brighter, as if the liquor had worked wonders. He took another sip of the liquor, curious. The warmth spread through his body, and for a moment, he felt invincible.
At work, he noticed Zhang Mi, the company's accountant, looking more alluring than usual. Her hair was styled differently, and she smiled at him more often. He dismissed it as a fluke—until he realized the liquor was affecting him, too.
But Michael was nowhere to be found. The office was empty, the desks cluttered with papers. Zhang Kai checked his phone—no messages, no calls. The three trucks they had loaded the night before were gone, too.
He sighed, leaning back in his chair. Some things, he thought, were better left unexplained.