Chapter 1: Prologue

Reality, this cruel reality. ——"The Red and the Black"

The Nanping Avenue North area of Yancheng’s Huashi District is like a monster with half its makeup on.

A wide, straight two-way road splits the entire Huashi District in two: the east side is one of the city’s most bustling commercial centers, while the west side is a forgotten old neighborhood, a gathering place for the city’s poor.

In recent years, as the east side has repeatedly set record-high land prices, the old district in urgent need of renovation has also benefited. The cost of demolition has soared, scaring off a bunch of developers, and a barrier of capital has been erected right in the cramped, impoverished alleys.

The neighbors living in these dangerous old buildings spend their days fantasizing about getting rich overnight thanks to their tiny, shabby homes of just over ten square meters, already enjoying the psychological superiority of “my house being demolished will net me millions.”

Of course, these so-called millionaires of the slums still have to line up in slippers every day to empty their chamber pots.

There’s still a hint of coolness in the early summer night. The heat accumulated during the day quickly dissipates, and the illegal street barbecue stalls in the west side gradually pack up for the night. The residents, out for some fresh air, head home early. Occasionally, an old streetlamp flickers erratically, most likely because someone in a nearby subdivided rental has illegally tapped into the power line.

Meanwhile, just across the street in the bustling district, the nightlife is only just beginning—

As evening falls, in a coffee shop facing the street in the east side’s commercial area, a staff member who has just finished serving a large crowd of customers finally gets a chance to take a long breath. But before she can relax her stiff smile, the little bell on the glass door rings again.

The staff member has no choice but to put on her standard eight-tooth smile once more: “Welcome.”

“A low-caffeine vanilla latte, please.”

The customer is a tall, slender young man with long hair almost reaching his shoulders, dressed in a perfectly pressed and serious suit, wearing metal-framed glasses. The thin frames rest on his high nose bridge. As he lowers his head to find his wallet, the long hair hanging from his chin covers half his face. His nose and lips, under the light, seem to have a pale glaze, giving him an especially ascetic and aloof air.

Everyone appreciates beauty, and the staff member can’t help but glance at him a few more times, trying to guess his preferences as she makes conversation: “Would you like to switch to a sugar-free vanilla?”

“No, extra syrup.” The customer hands over some change. As he looks up, his gaze meets the staff member’s.

Perhaps out of politeness, the customer gives her a smile. The corners of his eyes, hidden behind the lenses, curve ever so slightly, and a gentle yet somewhat ambiguous smile instantly breaks through his earlier façade of seriousness.

Only then does the staff member realize that while this customer is indeed good-looking, it’s not a proper, upright kind of good looks—there’s a hint of flirtatiousness in his eyes. Her face inexplicably grows warm, and she quickly looks away, lowering her head to place the order.

Luckily, just then, the delivery arrived to restock the store. The staff member hurriedly found something to do, loudly calling the delivery boy to the back to check the inventory.

The delivery person is a young guy, about twenty years old, brimming with youthful energy as he bounces into the shop in the evening glow. His skin is dark, and when he smiles, his white teeth flash. He greets the staff member with enthusiasm: “Hey, beautiful! You look great today. Business must be good, right?”

The staff member is paid a fixed monthly salary and doesn’t really care if business is good. Hearing this clumsy flattery, she can’t help but laugh and wave him off: “It’s alright. Go do your work. When you’re done, I’ll get you a glass of ice water.”

The delivery boy grins, wiping the sweat from his forehead. There’s a small crescent-shaped scar at his temple, like a prop sticker that’s been put on crooked.