Zong Yuan’s thoughts were very simple.
Become handsome and confident, distance himself from Zhang Zhi’liang, get into college, and leave high school behind.
Fu Xin was unaccustomed to looking at himself in the mirror—his features were refined, the standard refreshing look of a high school student.
Zong Yuan nodded in satisfaction, his hand brushing against Fu Xin’s neck. He picked a few stray hairs that hadn’t been cleaned up from Fu Xin’s neck. Fu Xin instinctively flinched. “Zong Yuan,” he frowned slightly, “I’m not quite used to this.”
Zong Yuan mercilessly slapped the back of his head. Even the hairstylist felt a pang for all the money spent on Fu Xin’s hair. “What do you mean you’re not used to it? Not used to looking handsome?”
It was nearly noon by the time they finished with his hair. Zong Yuan took Fu Xin out to eat when 0046 suddenly spoke up, “Zong Yuan, Fu Xin’s dad is nearby.”
Zong Yuan paused for a moment and instructed the waiter to take Fu Xin to a private room. “Wait for me; I’m going to buy a pack of cigarettes.”
He walked out in a hurry.
Zong Yuan had a serious expression on his handsome face as he went to a nearby store to buy some supplies, including a bottle of medicinal alcohol and a bottle of white liquor. 0046 was puzzled. “Are you planning to teach him a lesson and then disinfect him?”
Zong Yuan sneered, “This stuff, when used well, can be just as effective as poison.”
He bought the medicinal alcohol with a 75% concentration, skillfully mixing it with the white liquor to a level that would make the drinker uncomfortable but wouldn’t cause any serious problems.
0046 led the way, and they found Fu Xin’s dad lying drunk on the ground at the mouth of an alley. Zong Yuan kicked his leg. “No need for ropes.”
He slapped Fu Xin’s dad’s face without a hint of mercy. “Hey, wake up!”
Fu Xin’s dad drowsily opened his eyes, only to have someone else pour liquor down his throat, gulping down more than half a bottle in one go.
The taste of the liquor was strange. Fu Xin’s dad had just started to curse when the next second he felt a pounding headache and clutched his forehead, feeling nauseous and anxious. His head throbbed painfully. He struggled to vomit but nothing came out; his stomach felt like it was on fire.
Zong Yuan watched coldly from the side, while 0046 was trembling with fear. “Is this… Is this really okay?”
Zong Yuan threw the remaining half bottle of liquor onto the ground. “It’s fine; he won’t die.”
He didn’t intend to do anything to Fu Xin’s dad; instead, he grabbed a burlap sack and directly placed it over his head.
Fu Xin’s dad, enduring dizziness and stomach pain, asked, “Who are you? Do you believe I’ll call the police?”
Zong Yuan held a piece of rope in his hand. “You’re Fu Dongqiang.”
Fu Xin’s dad was startled, thinking he was being targeted for money, stammering, “I’m not.”
With the burlap sack over his head, he couldn’t see anything clearly and wanted to run, but his body was too weak, and he felt nauseous.
Zong Yuan scoffed and said lazily, “Unemployed and abusive, huh? You’re exactly the kind of person I can’t stand. Was the liquor that the drunk gave you not good enough? Damn it, why didn’t it kill you?”
Fu Dongqiang felt a wave of relief; at least it wasn’t someone coming to collect a debt. With newfound confidence, he cursed back, “What’s it to you? I’m hitting my son; what’s it to you? Even if I beat him to death, it’s my business. I advise you to let me go, or you’ll regret it.”
Zong Yuan mercilessly splashed the remaining liquor all over him. Fu Dongqiang caught the scent of the alcohol, which made his headache worse, and an ominous feeling arose in him.
He suddenly heard the sound of a lighter.
Zong Yuan was fiddling with the lighter in his hand and sighed, “You see, this alley is so remote and you’re covered in flammable liquor. Don’t you think if you were burned to ashes, no one would notice?”
0046 gasped, “Zong Yuan!”
Zong Yuan spoke with a smile, acting as if he didn’t care, which made people break out in cold sweat. Fu Dongqiang realized he was serious and even thought he could smell the fire. He shivered and swallowed hard, “No, please don’t!”
He was so frightened that his legs started to tremble.
Zong Yuan squatted next to him, clicking the empty lighter. The sound made Fu Dongqiang shudder. He asked, “What’s your son’s name?”
Cold sweat broke out on Fu Dongqiang’s forehead. “Fu… Fu Xin.”
“Oh, Fu Xin,” Zong Yuan replied. “Do you have a job?”
Fu Dongqiang’s stomach hurt even more. “No.”
“None?” The voice outside continued to ask, “How many years has it been since you worked?”
Fu Dongqiang paused for a moment, licking the cracks on his lips. “Seven years.”
“That’s quite something,” Zong Yuan said, his voice devoid of any emotion. “Seven years without work and you’re still alive. You drink and eat without issue. Where’s your wife?”
Fu Dongqiang’s anger flared. “That ungrateful woman ran away!”
“Oh,” Zong Yuan replied mercilessly, “so how have you survived these seven years?”
Fu Dongqiang was taken aback.
He survived, of course, by relying on himself.
No, that wasn’t it.
Without money, he sold things. At one time, they lived in a bright and clean large house, over 130 square meters, then sold their furniture, sold everything that could be sold, and finally sold the house.
And then what happened when they ran out of money?
He went back to take Fu Xin’s money, drank alcohol, smoked, played cards, and ate. There were many days without money; when that happened, he either went to find Fu Xin or borrowed money.
This was how he lived for seven years.
Fu Dongqiang moved his lips. “I… I just survived.”
Zong Yuan stood up, pacing back and forth. He looked at Fu Xin’s dad, who lay in a corner looking disheveled, filthy, cowardly, and irritable. He asked, “How did your son survive?”
Fu Dongqiang couldn’t find the words.
How had Fu Xin survived? Seven years ago, he was just a little over ten years old, a child without parents or money. How could he have survived?
He rummaged through the streets like a beggar, eating leftover food, and drinking water that others had finished.
When there was no food, he endured. When it was cold, he bore it. If he had no blankets, he wore several layers of clothes. It didn’t matter if the clothes didn’t fit; at least he wouldn’t freeze to death.
It wasn’t until he was old enough for school and had access to compulsory education that he realized he couldn’t eat food from trash cans, that clothes should fit properly, and that money was necessary because studying costs money.
Then, as a teenager, he began to do what he could: collecting plastic bottles, picking up discarded notebooks filled with old homework from other kids, erasing them, and happily using them again.
Zong Yuan asked him, “Do you know how your son survived?”
Fu Dongqiang’s alcohol buzz was fading, and he felt anxious, unsure if it was due to the alcohol. “I… I don’t know.”
Zong Yuan replied, “You’re almost forty years old, yet you’re resorting to robbing the money your son earns from collecting plastic bottles. That’s quite an achievement.”
Fu Dongqiang’s face, covered by the burlap sack, suddenly turned bright red.
The young man’s voice sounded lofty. When he casually said that, it felt like a hard slap across Fu Dongqiang’s face.
Fu Dongqiang stammered, “What… what do you know?”
“Hmm?”
“It’s all that damn woman’s fault. She ran off with money to another man. My money, my reputation—she ruined it! I’m not being harsh on my son; it’s not unfair of me to treat him this way after she treated me like that. I still support him!”
Zong Yuan nodded. “That’s not a bad mindset. Following your reasoning, if I’m unhappy today and just happen to run into you, that means it’s your bad luck that I’m not in a good mood.”
Zong Yuan’s voice turned cold. “Don’t you dare make excuses. Why don’t you reflect on yourself?”
“You’re unemployed, unambitious, your wife ran away, and all you do is stay home to beat your ten-year-old son. You drink, smoke, and gamble—you’re a parasite. Lucky for you, your parents died early; otherwise, they would have been drained dry by you.”
“You’re nothing but a waste.”
“Do you think that when you die, someone will shed a tear for you?”
Zong Yuan’s words pierced deep into Fu Dongqiang’s heart. His eyes turned red, and as his anger flared, his head began to throb even more painfully.
Instead, he found himself unable to speak.
Zong Yuan kicked his leg lightly, but it was filled with an insulting implication. “Heh, think about it. If you die here today, who would know?”
Fu Dongqiang felt increasingly dizzy and Zong Yuan’s voice was low and almost hypnotic. “You would only leave a handful of dirt behind. With a gust of wind, nothing would remain.”
Fu Dongqiang shivered.
He was pulled into Zong Yuan’s words, wondering if anyone would discover if he died.
The people who usually drank wouldn’t care whether he was around or not. Those he owed money to would only curse him and wouldn’t shed a single tear. His son… his son…
His son might not shed a single tear either.
Who would be so pathetic as to cry for a father like that?
Fu Dongqiang pondered in a daze as Zong Yuan tossed the empty bottle into a nearby trash can. He glanced back at Fu Dongqiang before turning to leave.
0046 was surprised. “Just like that?”
Zong Yuan rolled his eyes. “What? Am I supposed to kill him?”
He returned to the restaurant downstairs and finished a cigarette before going inside. Fu Xin stood by the window and turned to look at him immediately. Zong Yuan glanced at the empty dining table. “Still haven’t ordered?”
Fu Xin shook his head. “Waiting for you.” He took a few steps toward Zong Yuan but suddenly caught a whiff of alcohol.
Fu Xin halted in his tracks, his expression calm. “Why were you gone for so long?”
Zong Yuan motioned for the waiter outside to bring in the menu, casually flipping through it. “Ah, I just went to the restroom.”
Fu Xin frowned slightly. “You’re lying.”
Zong Yuan looked up at him, finding Fu Xin’s expression determined. He raised an eyebrow with interest. “How am I lying?”
Fu Xin leaned in closer, resting on Zong Yuan to sniff. Zong Yuan remained steady as a mountain, allowing him to smell, casually teasing, “You have a dog’s nose.”
Fu Xin caught the scent on his hands. “You drank.”
“No,” Zong Yuan retorted indignantly. “I just accidentally got some alcohol on my hands.”
Fu Xin grabbed Zong Yuan’s hands, leaning his whole body against him as he slowly moved upward. Zong Yuan’s warm breath brushed against him. “Smell anything?”
Zong Yuan’s mouth still carried the scent of smoke and there was indeed not a hint of alcohol.
Fu Xin nodded. “Nothing.”
“Then why aren’t you getting down?”
Only then did Fu Xin realize their position. His cheeks flushed slightly as he straightened up, apologizing, “Sorry.”
Zong Yuan noticed his reddened face and pointed it out. “You’re blushing.”
Fu Xin touched his face, feeling the heat. He nervously fiddled with the cuffs of his shirt and changed the subject. “Let’s eat.”
Zong Yuan wouldn’t let it go. “Why are you blushing?”
Fu Xin pretended not to hear.
In the corner, Fu Dongqiang curled up, lost in thought. Strangely, the more his head hurt, the more he thought, and he found that his thoughts were surprisingly clear. He recalled when Fu Xin was just born; back then, the family was happy and he had a fulfilling job. His wife was virtuous and his child was adorable—everything fit the template of a simple, satisfied life for an ordinary man. However…
He lay there for several hours, exposed to the cold wind for several hours. The burning pain in his stomach had dulled and the dizziness had subsided, leaving him enveloped in a strong smell of alcohol, slowly sinking into silence within that scent.
After a long while, he lifted the burlap sack off his head and found the box empty, with a stray dog licking around a nearby trash can.
He watched the stray dog for a moment before limping out of the alley.
Zong Yuan dropped Fu Xin off at the usual corner where they parted ways. He waved his hand. “See you tomorrow.”
Fu Xin responded with a soft “Mm,” and only turned around to head home once Zong Yuan’s figure had disappeared. He walked slowly, pulling out his sketchbook, and on the second-to-last page, he diligently wrote down words, while the last page was already filled.
Those were all the good things Zong Yuan had done for him. He remembered clearly every meal, every bottle of water—each word was filled with indescribable joy.
He owed Zong Yuan; the two of them were connected.
This kind of intimacy, this unbreakable bond, was carefully inscribed on this sketchbook that was barely big enough to fit in the palm of his hand.
When Fu Xin returned home, the door lock was already opened. His expression turned cold and he pushed the door open with a blank face.
The chaotic scene he had expected didn’t appear.
Fu Dongqiang sat silently on the living room sofa, facing Fu Xin, who had just entered.
Fu Xin’s voice was indifferent. “I don’t have any money.”
Fu Dongqiang swallowed hard; his voice was hoarse from alcohol, carrying a heavy scent. “I—I plan to quit drinking.”
“Oh,” Fu Xin said, his expression flat as he walked inside, putting down his things. He passed by his father and headed toward his bedroom, but suddenly stopped.
He turned to stare at Fu Dongqiang, his eyes dark and bright. “The smell of alcohol on you…”
“It’s not from me,” Fu Dongqiang replied. “Someone spilled it on me.”
That scent—he had just smelled it on Zong Yuan.
Fu Dongqiang clenched his fists, his excitement causing veins to bulge. “I—I really mean it. I will quit drinking for sure.”
People can get carried away by their emotions.
Fu Xin simply stared at Fu Dongqiang, neither happy nor angry, looking at him with an emotionless expression. “Oh.”
He clearly didn’t believe him.
How many people would believe a man who had been drinking heavily for seven years suddenly wanted to quit? Fu Dongqiang watched Fu Xin’s back as he prepared to head to his room, and in his heart, he understood. He wiped his face and forced a bitter smile. “Son, I’m sorry.”
He truly wasn’t a good person.
Fu Xin paused in his steps.
