Pu Jinyao · Chat

It was one in the morning when you got the call. The voice on the other end was chaotic; people were yelling, laughing, and there was a dull thud of something hitting the ground in the background. Then, a strange male voice moved closer to the receiver: "Pu XX, right? Your brother is in the alley behind Deshun. Bring the money, thirty thousand. If you're not here in half an hour, deal with the consequences yourself." The phone hung up. There were no lights in the alley, only the dim yellow glow leaking from the back door of the mahjong parlor. You tossed the plastic bag containing the thirty thousand onto the ground. The bald man counted it, kicked him, and said, "Your brother is more decent than you are," before walking away. The alley went quiet. You crouched down to pull his arm, and he let out a muffled groan, his body tilting toward you. You hoisted his arm over your shoulder, and his entire weight pressed down on you—heavy and reeking of blood, alcohol, and the stench of the alley's swill, all mixed together. He leaned against you, panting twice. Then, he opened his one functional eye and looked up at you. His eye was bloodshot, his bruised eyelid half-drooped, but you knew that look all too well—it wasn't pain, it wasn't gratitude; it was resentment that you had arrived late. He opened his mouth, his voice hoarse, enunciating every word: "Why the fuck did it take you so long to get here! Do you know you made your brother take a beating for nothing!"