Eyes That See All

Chapter 2: Strange Eyes

Zhang Lei didn't remember how he got home.

Vague fragments: the plastic bag in his hand, limping on his left leg for what felt like forever. Pushing open the peeling security door—no lights on in the living room, his father's cough echoing from the bedroom, muffled and relentless, like someone drowning. He didn't turn on the light. Felt his way into his six-square-meter room in the dark and collapsed onto the bed, clothes still on.

Muddy water soaked through the sheet in a wide stain. He couldn't be bothered to care.

When he woke, it was already mid-morning the next day. Sunlight squeezed through the plastic sheet that had been nailed over the window six months ago, casting a pale rectangle on the water-stained wall opposite. The room next door was quiet—his father had probably gone out to pedal his cargo tricycle. His mother was likely in the kitchen doing her piecework.

Zhang Lei lay there for thirty seconds without moving.

Then he raised his right hand and held it in front of his face.

Last night wasn't a dream. Or rather—he needed to confirm that the lightning hadn't just fried his brain.

Bones. The outlines of five finger bones, even clearer in the morning light than they'd been last night. Joints stacked one on top of another, the fingertip bones thinner than he'd imagined. Metacarpals like five chopsticks laid side by side, and where they met the wrist bones, a small protrusion he'd never known existed.

Zhang Lei clenched his fist, then released it. The bones shifted with the muscles, like a precision machine operating beneath his skin.

Not a hallucination.

He sat up. The back of his head still ached—that dull pressure—but better than last night. The wound on his left knee had scabbed over, the fabric of his pants stuck to it and stinging when he moved. He looked at his knee through the strange vision—beneath the skin, a dark patch of bruising, and a thin white line on the kneecap where it had struck something.

Okay. Not a hallucination. Not a dream. So what exactly was this—

His gaze landed on the nightstand.

A brown kraft paper envelope, shoved under his door two weeks ago. A payment demand notice. He'd never opened it—he already knew what it said. Zhang Lei stared at the envelope and focused.

The paper's surface turned transparent. He saw the folded A4 sheet inside, covered in dense black printed text. One line in bold: Amount: ¥20,000. Days overdue: 67.

Zhang Lei looked away. Let out a breath.

He searched the room for things to test. A pack of Red Double Happiness cigarettes in the drawer—he saw through the cardboard. Six cigarettes left, arranged in two rows. The enamel mug on the desk—he saw through the wall of the cup. Half a finger's depth of overnight tea, a ring of stains at the bottom. The pillow—he saw through the pillowcase and the buckwheat hull filling inside, a dark patch in one corner where sweat had seeped through.

He could see through everything.

But there was a range limit. He tried the wall opposite him, three-plus meters away—nothing. Just an ordinary wall. He stood and took a step forward. Two meters—still nothing. Kept walking. At about a meter and a half, the wall suddenly gained depth, and he could faintly make out the gray cement layer beneath the paint.

Just over one meter. Beyond that, nothing.

Zhang Lei tested more things. Thick objects were harder to penetrate—the metal filing cabinet only revealed what was on the first shelf, everything deeper was a blur. Thin things were effortless—paper, fabric, plastic wrap, thin plywood. Crystal clear.

He tried looking outside the window. The glass was fine, but the building opposite was four or five meters away. Nothing. Just a grimy gray wall.

The rules were taking shape in his mind: Close and thin—see through it. Far and thick—can't.

Ten minutes passed.

The ache at the back of his skull intensified, shifting from a dull pressure to a sharp, pulsing throb. Zhang Lei rubbed his temple, didn't think much of it, and walked toward the metal cabinet to see if he could penetrate the door—

Warmth trickled from his nose.

He reached up instinctively. His fingertips came away slick with hot liquid.

Blood.

Zhang Lei stared at the bright red on his fingers, his brain buzzing. Three quick steps to the desk, tore off a tissue, stuffed it in his nostril, and stood with his head tilted back for half a minute. His heart was pounding.

Not because of the nosebleed—he'd gotten them as a kid from too much spicy food, no big deal. But because he suddenly realized something: This thing has a cost.

Use it too long, and you bleed.

He sat back on the edge of the bed, tissue plugging his nose, head tilted slightly back. From the next room came the sound of his father coughing—Zhang Jianguo was home, sounded like he was pouring water. Zhang Lei could hear the aluminum kettle lid clinking, water splashing into an enamel cup.

Four hundred yuan a month for medicine.

The number surfaced again. Plus the five hundred he owed Lao Zhou—had to pay next month, already two months late, any longer and they wouldn't be friends anymore. Plus twenty thousand in outstanding debt, three hundred a month in interest.

Eighteen hundred minus four hundred minus five hundred equals nine hundred.

Nine hundred yuan. He had no idea where his next job would come from. Half the factories in this city had closed. The dealership had let him go. Even food delivery was oversaturated.

Zhang Lei pulled the tissue from his nose. The bleeding had stopped.

His eyes drifted to the stack of bills under his pillow—he didn't need the vision for that. He knew it was eighteen hundred.

Cards.

The thought ambushed him. The card room in the urban village—Lao Zhou had taken him twice. Small stakes, fifty or a hundred per hand. He'd mostly lost. Back then it was all luck.

Now he could see through playing cards.

Zhang Lei's fingers rubbed unconsciously against his thigh. He stared at the gray wall outside the window, saying nothing.

The faint taste of iron lingered in his nose.