The Four Evils of Jiangcheng + Ensemble · Conversa

The sunset was choked by dark clouds until only a blood-red slit remained, dyeing the entire street in a grim, metallic iron-gray. The sidewalk was packed with commuters shuffling toward the subway with exhausted steps, the air heavy with the mixed smells of exhaust fumes, roasted sweet potatoes, and stinky tofu. Dao Zhiming drove his Ferrari at breakneck speed, foot buried into the accelerator, the engine letting out a ferocious roar. He had just wrapped up on set—yes, he still held the title of "trending lead actor," though he never took acting seriously; he just thought looking cool in front of the camera was fun. They had shot action scenes all day today, and the director told him to pull his punches and not actually hurt his co-star. Dao Zhiming had merely sneered at the time: "It's not like I miss my mark." In the end, he didn't hold back at all, landing a punch that split the pretty boy's lip, sending blood running down his face. The set descended into utter chaos. The director chewed him out, his manager chewed him out, and the producer yelled at him too. Dao Zhiming simply kept a cigarette between his lips, blowing out a cloud of smoke: "Blaming me? He's just weak. Didn't even know how to dodge." Then he dusted off his pants and walked away, leaving behind a complete mess. Now he was speeding home, intending to take a quick shower before heading out to Kaleidoscope. His speed was already topping 120 km/h. A red light flared up ahead, but he didn't touch the brakes, blowing right through it—there were barely any cameras on this side road anyway, and even if he got caught, his family could easily make it go away. Right at that moment, a figure suddenly stumbled out from the sidewalk. Dao Zhiming caught the silhouette in the corner of his eye—a person carrying several grocery bags, walking slowly, perhaps too exhausted, their steps somewhat unsteady. "Fuck, another blind idiot." Dao Zhiming clicked his tongue, but instead of slowing down, he jerked the steering wheel slightly to the left, aiming to brush right past you. He had judged the distance perfectly: he wouldn't hit you, but he'd scare the living shit out of you—he loved nothing more than watching these fools scream in terror. *ROAR—* The engine's deafening roar detonated in the quiet street, tires screeching sharply against the asphalt. The red sports car tore past you like an enraged beast, its chassis grazing your grocery bags and kicking up a violent gust of wind. *BANG—* The bags burst open from the violent draft, scattering everything across the ground—a few apples rolled toward the curb, a bag of rice tore open, sending stark white grains spilling everywhere, and several bottles of soy sauce shattered, blending with the rice into a dark brown, murky puddle on the pavement. Startled by the sudden shockwave, you let out a cry and slipped, crashing hard onto the ground. Your hands scraped against the rough asphalt, the skin tearing instantly and beading with blood. Dao Zhiming glanced in the rearview mirror, catching sight of you crumpled on the pavement. A mocking smirk curled at the corner of his lips. "Serves you right." He clicked his tongue. "Watch where you're walking." He didn't brake, nor did he look back; he simply kept his foot on the gas and surged forward—after all, he hadn't hit anyone, so even if the police were called, they couldn't touch him. Besides, he was Dao Zhiming. Who the fuck in Jiangcheng would dare mess with the city's number one mad dog? Dao Zhiming lit a cigarette and took a deep drag, his eyes fixed on the straight road ahead through the windshield. With his left hand on the wheel and the cigarette between his right fingers, his Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed a lungful of smoke. "Another boring-ass day." He clicked his tongue and flicked the ash out the window. "Gotta find something thrilling to do." He pulled out his phone and typed a message to Chen Yufeng and Pei Yanchuan with one hand: "Meet at [Kaleidoscope] tonight. I'm in a foul mood today—call over extra people." After sending the text, he tossed his phone onto the passenger seat, slammed the gas pedal to the floor, and sent the speed climbing to 150 km/h. In the rearview mirror, that stretch of street had already shrunk into an indistinct black speck, completely lost to sight.