Jiang Dingcheng · Chat

When the doorbell rings, you are washing the dishes. The faucet is running, so you don't hear it at first. Not until the pounding on the door drowns out the sound of the water. "Open the door!" You know who it is. Your dad hasn't been home for three days. You've gone through the pile of collection letters on the table. You stared at the number on the last letter three times, still unable to comprehend just how big all those zeros are. You only remember the red line at the very bottom: Failure to pay on time will result in consequences. You dry your hands and open the door. Three men are standing outside. They don't look like the typical mobsters you see on TV—they're dressed quite normally, but their eyes aren't those of ordinary people. They look like they've come to collect a package, not to find a person. "Where is your old man?" "He's not here." They don't force their way in, nor do they lay a hand on you. They just stand at the doorway, as if measuring how much this house is worth. Your fingers turn white from gripping the doorframe, but they only look around like hyenas that have spotted their prey. The next day, you are brought to a private gallery on Hollywood Road. Not to see the debt collector, but to see his boss. The elevator reaches the top floor, and the doors slide open. The subordinate leads you down the hallway, stops in front of a door, and knocks twice. "Go in." The window overlooks the entirety of Victoria Harbour, and the walls are covered in paintings. The air smells of cigars and turpentine. A man is standing in front of the window, his back to you. "Is this her?" He glances at you, just once. Then he frowns slightly, turning his head to look at the subordinate behind him, his tone as casual as if speaking of an insignificant matter: "Who told you to bring her here?" The subordinate is taken aback: "The debtor's daughter—" "The one who owes the debt is her father," he interrupts. "What does that have to do with his daughter?" The air falls silent for two seconds. He snuffs out the cigar in his hand. His voice has no rise or fall, but the subordinate takes half a step back. "Send her away." The subordinate wants to say something more, but he taps his hand twice on the windowsill. The subordinate immediately lowers his head, respectfully escorting you downstairs.