Chapter 6

Mo Wen still remembered that warm afternoon. Sunlight streamed through the glass roof of the station, falling on his shoulders. The air was filled with the bittersweet scent of impending departure.

He stood on the platform, his eyes fixed on the slowly approaching train, feeling a mix of emotions. The ticket in his hand was slightly damp, perhaps from nervousness, or maybe from the emotions he had yet to release—unease, excitement, and a touch of fear.

His father made one last attempt,"You know, there are plenty of well-paying jobs near home, a stable and comfortable life. Are you sure you want to go to the big city?"

"Dad, how many times have you asked? You know that when an eagle grows up, it has to soar in the vast sky, not stay near the nest."

He felt an uncontrollable urge to leave everything familiar behind and seek out his dreams and future in an unknown place. The train doors opened, and he took a deep breath, unable to resist looking back at his father standing behind him. His father's face was etched with the marks of time, and his eyes seemed especially deep in the sunlight. His father pursed his lips, silently watching him, with a complex expression—a mix of helplessness, a hint of pain, understanding, and a deeply hidden pride.

His father sighed and finally smiled, still treating him like a child, reaching out to lift the heavy suitcase. At that moment, Mo Wen felt a pang in his heart. He quickly stepped forward to take it, not wanting his father to see the tears in his eyes. He lowered his head, pressed his lips tightly, and silently moved the heavy suitcase into the train.

The train slowly departed from the platform. He couldn't help but look out the window, watching his father's figure gradually blur into the crowd at the station, like a dream fading away. He knew that from this moment on, there was no turning back.

He carried the belief that"hard work changes fate" as he flew into the big city of his dreams. His goals were simple: get a decent job, buy a comfortable house, marry a beautiful wife, and live a happy life.

Sounds like the start of an inspirational drama, right? But what's the reality?

In the workplace, Mo Wen found that his boss treated him like a super eagle, expecting him to work 24 hours without eating or drinking. His colleagues? They looked at him like he was an unwanted feather, their faces saying"buzz off". His salary wasn't enough to buy even a small nest, and even"bones" were getting more expensive.

Mo Wen thought,"These days, to rise higher, you need the boss's favor or connections, or you'll just have to search for bugs under trees. Worse still, he's not as fast as those chickens and gets completely outcompeted!

But Mo Wen was not willing to give up. He applied to a big company, thinking,"This is my chance to turn things around!" However, the company required unpaid internships. After a month, only one intern could become a full-time employee, and the rest were let go.

Mo Wen thought,"Am I someone who gives up easily?" He resolutely asked to work for free for another two months! The manager patted his shoulder and said,"Young man, it's rare to see someone as hardworking as you these days. Stay!"

From then on, Mo Wen began his illustrious unpaid chores career: receiving packages, sweeping floors, working overtime, all with a smile on his face. The company spread his"inspirational story", and the manager praised him to everyone:"This young man embodies our company's spirit!"

Mo Wen didn't disappoint and finally became a full-time employee. However, after three years, when the pandemic hit, the company laid off staff, and he was mercilessly kicked out. His buddy Lincoln, who came to the city with him, was lucky to stay because he was in a different department.

Unemployed, Mo Wen didn't wallow in self-pity. He heard that delivering packages could earn a living, so he bought an electric bike and started working tirelessly. Who said delivering packages was demeaning? He thought, making money to support oneself is what really matters. Even when he delivered to his old company, he didn't feel embarrassed. People asked him,"Don't you feel ashamed when your old colleagues see you?" He laughed,"What's shame? Can shame be exchanged for money?"

Mo Wen always imagined himself as the hero of a Western movie, a lone cowboy facing challenges head-on, but even cowboys can stumble.

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One hot afternoon, Mo Wen rode his bike through a crowded alley and suddenly smelled the fresh scent of watermelon. He stopped by a small stall and swallowed hard. The stall had a few small watermelons with a sign that read"$30". In the corner, a few slices of watermelon were on a plate, like the ones for tasting in a supermarket.

Parched, Mo Wen quickly ate a slice of watermelon. He wanted another piece but didn't have the nerve to eat more from the small business. As he turned to leave, the burly vendor, lounging in a chair and chewing a toothpick, lazily said,"Finished? Pay up!$30."

Mo Wen froze,"What? Wasn't it for tasting? And it doesn't need to be $30, right?"

The vendor clicked his tongue and pointed at the small print on the sign with his toothpick,"One slice,$30. You need glasses!"

Mo Wen scrutinized the vendor, thinking,"So this is what the legendary underworld looks like, interesting!" But he had to argue,"Mate, your words are so small, are you one of those granny killers?"

The vendor sneered,"You're right! But sometimes it's also for young folks with poor eyesight!

$30,what? Want to fight?" He menacingly twirled a watermelon knife, and a few idle men surrounded Mo Wen.

Sighing, Mo Wen took out his crumpled money, still not enough for $30.

The vendor grudgingly snatched the largest bill,"I'm doing this because I'm broke. Why not join me?"

Mo Wen didn't know what to say,"I have a real job, one with taxes and insurance."

"Damn, those bosses are worse robbers than us!" the vendor muttered.

Mo Wen rode his bike, continuing his work. On his way down some stairs, he saw an elderly man struggling to carry a gas cylinder. Mo Wen stopped and helped the man bring the cylinder to his door. The old man didn't even offer him water and just shut the door. Mo Wen awkwardly smiled and waved goodbye.

As he reached downstairs, he heard someone shouting,"Who's the bastard stole my gas cylinder!"

After an hour of hard work, Mo Wen was drenched in sweat. He had to stop his electric bike under the shade, took a sip of water, and quietly watched the elderly men leisurely playing chess under the pavilion in front of him. Life in District Nineteen was too fast-paced. People hurried even when they walked, and car horns constantly blared on the roads.

"People in the big city are really different," he muttered."Everyone seems to be in a rush. From the moment they're born, they hurry to kindergarten, hurry to school, hurry to find jobs, hurry to get places, hurry to get married, hurry to have kids, hurry to push their kids to get married, and hurry to hold their grandkids. After retirement, shouldn't they hurry to the grave? But then they stop hurrying. What's all the hustle and bustle for?"

He thought of the tree-lined riverside in his hometown, where he could sit all day slowly until the fishing line tugged at the rod, reminding him he was there to fish.

"Life torments me thousands of times, yet I treat life like my first love!" He wanted to persevere, but the thought of leaving the big city grew silently like wild grass in a field, making him unsure of his true feelings.

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After nightfall, Mo Wen finally got off work, weaving through the alleys, dodging sewage-streaked dirt and nodding at the old-aged residents who stared at him like a stranger stepped in a western bar. Each time, he half-expected the lot of them to draw pistols. Instinctively, his hand drifted to his waist— shame he didn't own a revolver.

No sooner after he descended into the dark, damp, musty underworld "home", there was a furious pounding on the door."Open up! Open up!" a man in a blue uniform shouted, wearing a grin that could only be described as thoroughly unpleasant.

For those trying to make a life in the big city, the first hurdles weren't work or cost of living— they were"urban management" and"landlords."

"What's the matter?" Mo Wen asked warily through the door. At this hour, door-pounders weren't always managers— sometimes they were robbers.

When Mo Wen didn't immediately fling the door open, the man's face darkened."Why? Because I'm the manager here! Are you opening the door or getting out?!"

It was the kind of logic you couldn't argue with— forget laws or reason, this was about identity and power. And who were the managers? Men in uniforms with bellies that suggested they were five months along, patrolling with a fervor usually reserved for bloodhounds. Their special skill? Never quite explaining what you'd done wrong— only making sure you knew you definitely had.

Mo Wen stood behind the door, hand on the lock, hesitating. He stared at his scuffed shoes and the peeling paint on the wall opposite, wondering if the world beyond this battered door was really worth all this indignity. Finally, he sighed, giving himself a few last seconds of dignity."Wait a moment."

The smell of alcohol hit him the second he opened the door.

"Hey, kid, this area's under our control, got it?" The uniformed man squinted, flashing a rat-like grin."Temporary residence permit? Show me so I can'register' you."

Mo Wen frowned."Temporary residence permit? Why would I need one?"

"Because I said so!" The man tapped his electric baton like a bad-cop cliché, eyes darting around like he was casing the joint."No permit? No problem. A hundred bucks and we forget all about it."

Ah, extortion— the classic side hustle of petty officials. And when things inevitably went pear-shaped, the government would always pin it on one rogue individual while insisting the rest were shining examples of public service. Bit like finding a dead rat in your soup and being told the rest of the pot's perfectly fine.

Mo Wen forced a polite smile and rummaged through his pockets, coming up with some lint. The official's eyes flicked to the surveillance camera in the corridor, his bravado visibly deflating. After a long, awkward pause, he muttered,"If you won't pay… well… you get it. Move out."

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