Chapter 3: The Scam at Wanbao
593 Words
He scanned my ragged coat. "If you want to set up here, it's a hundred."
My head buzzed. A hundred yuan? That was a fortune. "I... I don't have that much."
"Then pack up and get out. Or I break your legs."
I thought of my grandmother's broken leg. I thought of the uncle who called me a jinx. I pulled out a crumpled wad of cash. "I have ninety. That's all I have."
He snatched it, counted it, and spat on the ground. "Close enough."
Before I could even arrange my wares, the loudspeaker crackled.
"Attention visitors... Wanbao Market is now closing..."
I froze. It was barely afternoon. Around me, vendors packed up with practiced speed. I grabbed the bald man's arm. "Give me my money back! I haven't sold anything!"
He shook me off, his face hardening. "You bought the time. Time is money, kid."
"You're scamming me!"
He didn't hesitate. He kicked me in the stomach.
The air left my lungs in a violent whoosh. I crashed into my suitcase, the porcelain rattling ominously. He walked away, spitting on my shoes.
I crouched on the ground, gasping. My gut felt like it was filled with molten lead.
Night fell fast. A security guard with a wolfdog whistled at me, forcing me to pack up. My hands were numb with cold. I dragged my luggage out of the market, defeated.
I found a self-service bank nearby. It was warmer than the street, but the floor tiles were ice-cold. I curled up against the wall, using my suitcases as a pillow. Whenever someone used the ATM, they looked at me like I was a stray dog.
My eyes were closed, but my mind wouldn't stop. Ninety yuan was gone. If I couldn't sell these tomorrow, I couldn't go home.
Late in the night, someone patted my shoulder.
I opened my eyes. A woman in her fifties, holding a dog leash, looked down at me. She sighed and set a plastic bag beside the fire extinguisher.
"I just bought these. Still warm. If you don't mind, have something to eat."
She didn't wait for a response. She led her dog away and vanished into the dark.
I stared at the bag. Inside were two sesame flatbreads. I took a bite. The smell of toasted sesame and flour rose up, warm and comforting. As I chewed, the warmth spread through my chest.
My nose stung. I lowered my head, and tears soaked into the bread.
At that moment, there was only one thought in my mind: I can't go back.
I would rather be a ghost in this city than a joke in my village.
I finished the bread. I stood up.
The door of the bank reflected my face—greasy hair, hollow eyes, a jagged piece in a round hole.
I walked out into the night. I didn't know where I was going, but I knew I was moving.
And that was when I saw him.
A man standing in the shadows across the street. He was smoking, the ember glowing like a red eye in the darkness. He had been watching me.
He didn't look like a thug. He looked like the night itself—worn, dark, and dangerous.
He flicked his cigarette into a puddle and nodded at me.
"Kid," he rasped. "You got a strong back?"
I stopped. The wind bit my face, but I didn't feel the cold. I felt the fire.
"Yeah," I said. "I do."
"Good," he said, turning toward the alley. "Then follow me."
- Writer
