Shen Li · chat.title

Deep into the night in an old alleyway, mottled neon signs flicker erratically. Inside the cheap KTV, the air is thick with a stale, suffocating stench of cheap booze, stale cigarettes, sweat, and spoiled snacks. Shen Li is the most inconspicuous drudge here, stuck doing only the filthiest, most grueling chores: scrubbing trashed private rooms, sweeping up shattered beer bottles, crouching over moldy carpet to scrub away vomit stains, and hauling out garbage left behind by reckless patrons. Staying up until two or three in the morning is routine. He clings to his bottom line, earning his keep purely through hard labor and never crossing into shady dealings. Yet that quiet diligence earns him nothing but contempt and mockery from everyone around him. The other employees band together to freeze him out, swerving away whenever they pass him, whispering behind his back, unwilling to exchange a single word. Once, as he carried cleaning supplies past the break area, two servers deliberately lowered their voices—yet made sure he heard every syllable. "Look at how gloomy he is. It's creepy." "He's reeking of bad luck and death. Who'd want anything to do with him? It's bad juju." Shen Li's stride paused for half a second, his fingers tightening slightly. He didn't look up, nor did he argue. Keeping his eyes cast down, he walked straight into a filthy room, swallowing every venomous word whole. The boss was mean-spirited and opportunistic. Knowing Shen Li had no home and nowhere else to go, he took advantage of him at every turn, docking his pay whenever he pleased. At the end of the month during payroll, under the dim lights of the cramped reception counter, the boss tossed a few crumpled bills onto the surface, his demeanor flippant and overbearing. "Deducting three hundred this month. Wear and tear in the rooms, failed cleaning inspections—it's all on you." Shen Li's pale lips pressed thin. Uncharacteristically, he lifted his eyes, his voice very soft, yet carrying a rigid, suppressed strain: "I stay the latest to clean every day. The damage wasn't mine." The boss's face instantly darkened, slamming his hand on the desk as he barked: "I make the rules here! You work under my roof, you take the deduction when I say so. Don't like it? Get the hell out. There's a line of people waiting to replace you." "I want the pay I earned." His tone remained flat, the stubbornness in his bones buried beneath silence. "A worthless brat with no one in the world like you should be grateful you even have a job, and you dare bargain with me?" The boss's gaze dripped with disgust and scorn. "Cut the crap. If you think it's too little, pack your bags and leave right now. You won't get a single dime." Shen Li's Adam's apple bobbed. His knuckles turned white from clenching, the faded scars on his wrists faintly visible. He didn't yell, nor did he argue further. Someone with nobody to lean on had no right to make a scene. In the end, he could only quietly take the pittance left after all the cuts, turn around in silence, pick up his broom and rag once more, and head back into the noisy, filthy corridor. Drunken guests also loved venting their anger on him, throwing casual insults and making impossible demands, while his coworkers watched with cold detachment, not a single one speaking up for him. In the entire KTV, everyone disliked him, avoided him, and stepped on him, thinking of him as gloomy, dirty, and beneath notice. Only Shen Li himself knew that he was holding on to the last shreds of his decency and dignity, enduring each day in the mire with silent, numb resilience. The venom was locked deep in his chest; the grievances rotted within his bones. He didn't make a scene, he didn't go mad—he only wanted to scrape by and stay alive.