​​Under coercion

​ ​​CRASH!​​ The platinum band that had bound them for five years slammed onto the icy marble floor. It bounced twice—a final, pathetic twitch—before skidding into the shadowy crevice by the wall, its meager diamonds extinguished. Gone. The stone must have shattered on impact! Only the stark, naked circle remained, lying there like a mocking grin. The living room plunged into tomblike silence. The kind of silence where only ragged breaths were audible. Not Zhang Chi’s. The master bedroom door stood ajar, spilling syrupy, warm light into the gloom. Bathed in that sickly glow: Bed sheets—writhing like trampled fields! A silk robe—crumpled like refuse! And most damning—the lurid glow of that gaudy bedside lamp! Suffocatingly yellow! Brazen! ​​BANG!​​ The door flew open. A woman stormed out. Zhou Yating. Zhang Chi’s not-yet-ex-wife. Clad in nothing but sheer silk. Her face? Still flushed with the aftermath of ecstasy! Her eyes? Transformed! Razor-sharp and venomous! She spotted the ring's pathetic remains instantly. Rage ignited, scorching her gaze as it locked onto Zhang Chi—rooted like a forgotten statue by the entryway. "Zhang Chi! What the hell is wrong with you?!" Her scream could flay skin. "It's just a worthless hoop! Worth pennies! Throwing a tantrum? Get out! Now! Out of my sight!!!" Zhang Chi remained motionless. Not by choice. He was encased in ice. An arctic wave, metallic and frigid, surged from his soles to his skull. Organs seized; tongue turned leaden. Frozen solid. Five years. Five whole years. A shoddy, fast-forwarded reel sputtered through his mind: Their clumsy first date… The awkward, scraped-knee proposal… Her humiliation at their wedding, hurling the bouquet over his "peasant" relatives… Her daily scorn in this cramped "coffin" of an apartment… And finally—​​finally!​​ The reel ​​shattered​​. Froze. On their bed. Two pallid serpents. Entwined. A familiar body—rendered obscenely alien. Alien enough to freeze his blood solid. "Tch. Lao Zhang…" A voice oozing faux concern—artificially steady—thick with disingenuous pity. Wang Pengfei. Zhou Yating's "illustrious" boss. He sidled out, robe loosely tied, flabby chest exposed. Face slack with satiation, annoyance warping his features (Zhang Chi could even see the glistening blackhead on his nose). "Tch… Look at you," he tsked, lecturing a wayward child. "Making such a racket? Upsetting the neighbors! Can't… things be discussed privately? Civility brings prosperity! Standing here… it's undignified!" Privately? Zhang Chi’s eyes moved—agonizingly slow. Crawled back to Zhou Yating’s face. That face screaming "Rot." His gaze descended—a rusted saw blade dragging… Down her neck. And stopped. At the gaping collar of her slip. Below the collarbone. A brand-new, vivid, savage love bite. Bruised crimson. A brand. A flagrant declaration of ownership. Zhang Chi's mouth twitched violently—as if yanked by an invisible wire. A ghastly, frigid smile—devoid of warmth, brimming with desolation—twisted his lips. He smiled. A silent, skeletal thing. Only an abyssal chill radiated from his eyes—fixed on that bruise—seeping from every pore in his frozen skin. Zhou Yating flinched. Her bravado evaporated. Guilt. Fear. Then fury, fiercer for its shame. "Zhang Chi!" Stilettos cracked the floor. She lunged, nose-to-nose. Acrid perfume and another, revolting musk assaulted him. "What’s that death-head grin for?! Worthless! Maggot!!" A blood-red fingernail jabbed near his eye. "I can’t stomach another day! Not another second in this cesspool!" "Look at you! Five years! Achieved nothing! What are you?! Eh?!" She whirled, arms flung wide, clawing the cramped apartment air. "Look! A hovel! A pigeon cage! A coffin you scrambled to claim! Divorce? Fine! Sign it!" Her voice turned shrill. "I’ll draft the papers myself! Sign them 'clean-break'! Sign them, if you've got any balls left! Do it! Then maybe—maybe—I’ll grant you the mercy of the sofa! But come dawn? Crawl! Crawl back to whatever dog-kennel spit you out!" She heaved, chest heaving. Her final, poisoned dart aimed at Wang Pengfei, smugly observing: "You? Measure up to Pengfei? Project Manager! Six-figures minimum! Drives a Mercedes! Lives in a penthouse downtown! You? A pathetic country doctor! Can’t even afford my handbag! Maggot! Failure! Born gutter-trash! This house?" She hissed. "Sign it over! It’s mine! You? Not. One. Cent!" "Failure!" "Garbage!" "Belongs in the sewer!" Every word! A white-hot poker! Searing flesh, reeking of char, ​​thudding​​ into Zhang Chi’s bones! Spiking him to this cross of shame! Failure… Garbage… Not even a kennel… Behind her, Wang Pengfei feigned a throat-clearing, adjusted his silk robe. Silent. But his smirking lips blared louder than any horn! Failure! Utter refuse! Garbage stinking of poverty from scalp to sole! ​​Thump! Crack!​​ An invisible, glacial claw seized his heart! Crushed! Pulped! Tossed into an abyss! Agony detonated—then drowned in absolute numbness. Gone. Everything gone. Rage? Gone. A roar? Gone. The "Why?" died in a hollow throat. His eyes locked back on that accusing bruise. Stuck. The lovers? Irrelevant. He moved. A puppet with cut strings. Or a corpse suddenly animated. Turned. Steps drifted, yet unnervingly steady. One. Two. To the cheap computer desk crammed by the door. Strewn atop: A4 papers. His draft application—begging for a transfer to the forsaken Beiling Township Clinic in Linshan County's remotest crevice. He'd dreamed: Hardship, yes, but treating real sickness, saving lives, building real merit… perhaps… earning her a better life… He yanked the drawer—​​Screech!​​ His knuckles strained, bleached white. Beneath crumpled drafts, dead pens, expired receipts… He scraped the bottom. Found it. A slim, plastic-coated document. It. The divorce papers. Drawn up months ago, furtively, through an old classmate. Buried beneath false hope… a shred of mercy... He pulled it out. Paper-thin pages. Heavier than Mount Tai. Zhou Yating and Wang Pengfei froze. Watching this bizarre pantomime. Watching him retrieve the instrument of their end. The air congealed like rancid lard. Zhang Chi ignored them. Clutching the lethal document, he staggered—a condemned man walking—to the room’s center. He deliberately—​​stepped over​​ the ring’s glinting corpse. Filth. He stopped. Ignored their incredulous stares. Zhang Chi snapped his head up! Eyes utterly dead. Voice sandpaper-raw: ​​"Pen."​​ Zhou Yating, still drunk on the ecstasy of his destruction, gaped. "Huh? What? Pen? Why?" Wang Pengfei scowled. Wrong! That loser’s eyes were terrifying! Like a cornered beast! "Zhang Chi! Cut the theatrics! Get. Out!" Zhang Chi was deaf! His gaze—burning into Zhou Yating’s lips (still glistening with traces)—jerked to her ostentatious Chanel bag on the entry console. ​​"Pen."​​ He grated the syllable, harder, colder. ​​"Or..."​​ A pause. Eyes bleeding malice. ​​"...your lipstick."​​ Zhou Yating’s heart lurched. Ice shot down her spine! Wang Pengfei roared: "f**k! Zhang Chi, you craz—" Too late! A dark blur! Zhang Chi surged towards the designer bag! Meaningless cloth. Garbage. ​​RRRIIIIPPP—!!!​​ Brutal force! Unadulterated hate! He tore the zipper open! Metal teeth flew! He plunged his hand in! No delicacy! A savage rummage! Grabbed—one gleaming tube. Emblazoned with interlocking Cs. "Dior Rouge 999." Zhou Yating's treasured crown-jewel red. Fresh. Zhou Yating shrieked: "My lipstick!" Wang Pengfei purpled: "Zhang! Stop!" Zhang Chi heard nothing. His world was static. He ripped the cap off! Turned! Aimed—dead at the apartment’s pièce de résistance: Zhou Yating’s obscenely expensive, mirror-polished glass feature wall! The crimson core protruded—a pillar of congealed blood! Zhang Chi’s eyes were bloodshot. A frenzied animal. Zero hesitation. Arm raised—life-or-death commitment—​​smashed​​ the tube against the glacial surface— ​​SKREEEEEEE—!!!​​ A shriek carving souls! A jagged, furious scar—a primal scream etched in arterial red—marred the pristine glass! Carved into the retinas! Into the marrow of every witness! Zhang Chi flung the ruined lipstick aside like trash! His smeared right hand—steady! Unflinching! ​​SMACK!​​ Came down! Hard! Absolute! Onto the open divorce papers! Square on the line awaiting her signature! A crimson, grotesque, sticky fingerprint! A searing brand! Marking the end! He snatched the gore-stained document! Stalked over to Zhou Yating—pallid, paralyzed! ​​SMACK!​​ Slapped it flat against her half-bare chest—where another’s musk still clung! Paper struck skin—a sound both crisp and filthy! Zhang Chi finally looked up! His eyes! Hollow! Tomb-cold! Locked onto Zhou Yating’s ashen, stunned face! Each word, ice-chipped from his gritted teeth: “House. Money. Yours.” “You.” Pause. A smile—arctic, supremely contemptuous, crackling with annihilation. “Belong in the dumpster.” “Zhou Yating. This refuse pile. Is over.” Done. Zhang Chi. Turned. Wrenched open the door. Stepped out. ​​SLAM!!!​​ The door crashed shut behind him! A seismic finality! Corridor sensors flickered on—bathing his impassive face in sterile white. The elevator’s chains groaned downward—a dirge. Zhang Chi leaned against the icy elevator cage. Head tilted back. Eyes closed. Darkness. Absolute. Silent. ​​BUZZ! BUZZ! BUZZ!​​ His pocket vibrated. Ill-timed. He didn't open his eyes. Fished out the phone. Screen glare stung. City Health Commission Human Resources. Landline. Zhang Chi stared at the number. Five seconds flat! Snapped his eyes open! All vacancy gone! Replaced by scorched-earth ruthlessness! Connected! “Zhang Chi? Medical Doctor?” Bureaucratic monotone. “Speaking.” His voice—quenched in ice. Brittle. Hard. “Regarding your transfer request to Linshan County. Approved in principle. Location: Beiling Township Health Center. Conditions: Extremely harsh. Arguably the worst in the city. You have time to reconsider...” ​​“Unnecessary!”​​ Zhang Chi slashed the air. A thrown dagger! ​​“I’ll go!”​​ Silence on the line, stunned. “Er… Then… report Monday...” ​​“Monday commencement! Confirmed!”​​ Click! He severed the call before the sentence ended! Phone shoved deep into his pocket! ​​Ding!​​ Elevator doors parted! Outside! City dusk—turgid air, blaring chaos—invaded! Zhang Chi snapped ramrod straight! Eyes open! The irises—razor-edged. Unwavering! No backward glance. Not towards the condemned door. He strode out the building! An arrow loosed from its string! Piercing the city’s churning currents! Neons pulsed! Reflecting—cold, untouchable—in his dark pupils! The starting line of hell? Hah! If it is hell… then it’s my personal purgatory. The corridor light above flickered out, indifferent, as his rigid silhouette melted into the night.