8

After nightfall, Mo Wen finally finished work. He navigated through a maze of alleys, avoiding puddles of sewage on the yellow dirt roads, occasionally nodding in acknowledgment to the middle-aged uncles and aunties sitting at their doorsteps and staring at him. Every time he did, he felt as if he had just pushed open the door to a saloon in an Old West town, disturbing a room full of outlaws who would turn and fix their eyes on him. Subconsciously, he reached for his waist, only to remember he didn't carry a revolver.

At the basement entrance, he stopped to lock his bike, securing both the front and rear wheels and wishing he could weld it to the tree stump nearby. Then he turned and stepped into the dark, damp, and mildew-scented basement.

Not long after he entered, there came an urgent pounding at the door.

"Open up! Open the door!" barked a rough voice. It belonged to a man in a blue uniform, wearing a greasy smirk.

For those who come to the big city to chase their dreams, their first challenges are often not about jobs or high living costs but rather about the"city management officers" and landlords.

"What is it?" Mo Wen asked warily from behind the door. When someone bangs on your door at night, it isn't always just the authorities—it could be robbers too.

Seeing no sign of the door opening, the man's face darkened, and his tone grew impatient.

"Opened the door!…Why? Because I'm the manager here, that's why! Are you opening up or not? If not, pack up and leave immediately!"

Those three words made the power dynamics clear: Forget legality, forget reason—it was all about status and authority. The so-called"managers" were the kind of people who waddled around in uniforms, their bellies protruding like they were five months pregnant, and loved to patrol your neighborhood. Their specialty? Convincing you you're in the wrong without explaining why.

Mo Wen stood frozen behind the door, his hand hovering over the lock. He glanced down at the worn soles of his shoes and then at the peeling paint on the wall across from him. A wave of absurd sorrow washed over him—was the world behind this battered door worth his submission?

He felt like a long time had passed, but it had actually been short.

He sighed and, with a low voice, said,"Hold on," as if giving himself a few more seconds of dignity.

As soon as the door opened, a wave of alcohol stench hit him, making him wrinkle his nose.

"Hey, kid, this is our turf, got it?" the man in blue said, squinting with a sly grin."Got a temporary permit? Let me see it—I'll help you'register.'"

"Temporary residence permit? Why would I need one?" Mo Wen asked, frowning.

"A newbie? Of course, you need one!" The man lightly kicked the doorframe, his gaze wary yet greedy, like a cornered rat. As he spoke, he tapped his electric baton twice—thud, thud—a low, menacing sound, reminding everyone who was in charge.

The man's eyes darted into the room, seemingly checking for others. Then he lowered his voice and added with a fake smile,"No permit? I won't make it hard for you. Just a small'gesture'—100 bucks—and we'll call it even."

Mo Wen got it—this was either a shake-down or some sneaky stuff from the local managers. Every time there was a problem, the news would say it was just a"few bad apples," and the government would remind everyone that most officials are good people. It's like finding a dead rat in your soup and being told,"Just pick out the rat and eat the rest! The rest is fine, really!"

Forcing a faint smile, he rummaged through his pockets, pulling out barely $20. The officer, catching the lack of anger or fear in Mo Wen's expression, hesitated. Suspicion flickered in his eyes. He glanced down the hallway, caught sight of a security camera, and softened his tone slightly.

"No money? Fine. Then… you know the drill. Pack up and move out."

Mo Wen did not take it seriously,"Fine. Next time he comes, I just won't open the door." But soon enough, the landlord arrived.

A short, scruffy middle-aged man reeking of alcohol and with food stuck between his yellowed teeth, the landlord greeted him with a contrived look of regret.

"Mo Wen, right? Ah, I don't even know how to say this. Unfortunately, starting next week, your lease won't be renewed. You need to find another place soon."

"Brother, you can't just kick me out!" Mo Wen pleaded, panic rising."Three days is too short. I need time to find a new place!"

"Listen," the landlord said with exaggerated sympathy,"the management office issued the order. You outsiders are ruining the city's image. You've got to go!"

Mo Wen froze and said,"Wait, are you talking about me, the new immigrants, this ugly building, or the nasty manager ruining the city's image?"

The landlord, trying to defuse the tension, waved his hands nervously."Hey, calm down! It's not my fault, I didn't do this!"

After a moment, Mo Wen asked quietly,"Is it because I didn't pay them?"

The landlord averted his gaze, sighed, and muttered,"If it weren't for this mess, none of this would've happened. And let's face it—if you piss them off, you won't even be able to stay on the street, let alone this house!"

After a pause, Mo Wen forced a faint smile."Then please refund my deposit, so I can find somewhere else."

The landlord's demeanor shifted instantly.

"Deposit? Don't forget you broke the water pipe last time. Repairs weren't cheap. And the power outage? My TV got damaged—that's on you."

Mo Wen listened to the landlord's"logic" and couldn't help but find it amusing. He looked at the guy quietly, his tone oddly calm."Bro, these pipes and the circuit breaker are older than my grandpa. How does that relate to me using them? And haven't I always hinted about the rent?"

The landlord seemed to have expected this and rambled on with an answer that made as much sense as saying,"If a leaf falls from a tree and hits you on the head, it's your fault for walking under the tree."

Mo Wen just stared at the landlord's self-righteous face, saying nothing. His gaze fell on the small basement ceiling, and it seemed to pierce through, looking into the endless sky. He felt like a young eagle trapped in a chicken coop, with a chattering rooster mocking him for not laying eggs, not clucking, not hiding his head under his wing...

Sitting on the edge of his narrow bed, his silhouette seemed even thinner under the dim light. He stared at the gray walls, memories of his arrival in the city flashing in his mind.

He had once stood in awe outside the train station, marveling at the bustling streets, luxurious cars, and skyscrapers reaching into the clouds. Back then, he had believed this was the center of the world—a place where dreams could come true if you worked hard enough.

He still remembers a little angel, no more than three or four years old girl, greeted him in her sweet, childish voice, saying,"Hello!" He felt a bit excited, thinking this was a good omen. Silently, he told himself,"Mo Wen, this city won't be too harsh on you. If you work hard, you'll succeed and move out of this dirty basement."

The next day after work, he really did move out of the basement. Luggages and furnitures were piled up outside—it was clear that many people like him had been forced out. Maybe tonight, he would have to spend the night on the street.