The alarm shrieked at 6:30 a.m., sharp as a knife stabbing into Chen Hao's skull.
His palm slammed down on it, but the echo of that sound lingered in his head, mixing with the creak of the old ceiling fan above. The thing wheezed like an old man about to die, just like the walls around him—paint peeling, wallpaper yellowed, the air stale with last night's leftover smoke from the neighbors.
Chen Hao stared blankly at the ceiling. Every morning felt like dragging a corpse out of the grave—his own. His chest was heavy, his limbs heavier. He turned to the side, a hollow ache already forming in his stomach before the day even began.
"Still lying there?"
"Do you think money will crawl into your pockets while you sleep like a pig?"
The voice was sharp, slicing through the morning gloom. His wife, Liu Mei, sat upright on the edge of the bed. Her long black hair was tied in a careless bun, but her eyes—those same eyes that once looked at him with warmth—now burned with disgust. She wore a cheap cotton nightgown, yet the way she carried herself was like a queen sneering at her beggar husband.
Chen Hao forced a crooked smile, the kind he wore daily to cover his shame. "It's still early. I'll get up."
"Early?" Liu Mei let out a harsh laugh. "You've been 'early' your whole life, and what has it brought you? Nothing! Look at you, Chen Hao—twenty-five years old, riding that rusted electric scooter like some delivery boy, scraping together a salary so small even beggars would spit on it. Do you even realize the neighbor's dog eats better meat than we do?"
Each word hit him like a whip. His lips trembled, but no sound came out.
"And do you know what Auntie Zhang said yesterday?" Liu Mei's voice rose, brimming with venom. "Her son-in-law just bought a car. Not some clunky domestic trash, but a proper imported Toyota! He's a man who provides. And you? What can you give me, Chen Hao? Hah! You can't even afford a bicycle tire without thinking twice."
Chen Hao sat up, his throat dry, his fists tightening under the blanket. He wanted to scream, to tell her he was trying, that every drop of sweat he shed at work was for this family. But the words clung to his throat like stones, choking him silent.
Liu Mei sneered, her tone dripping with contempt. "I must've been blind to marry you. Back then, you sweet-talked me, said you'd give me a good life. A good life? What a joke. Every morning I wake up in this rotten apartment, washing dishes in a sink that leaks, cooking meals fit for stray cats, while you wag your tail at your boss like some beaten dog. They treat you like trash, and you… you even thank them for it!"
Her laughter was bitter, cruel. It echoed in the cramped room like thunder.
Chen Hao lowered his head. His lips barely moved as he whispered, "I'll try harder."
"Try harder?" Liu Mei's eyes widened, then narrowed in contempt. She spat the words like poison. "You've been saying that since the day I married you. Do you think effort is something I can eat? Should I fry your 'hard work' for breakfast? Should I boil your 'perseverance' for dinner? Chen Hao, wake up! The only thing you feed me is disappointment."
Her words hung in the air, heavy, suffocating. Chen Hao's nails dug into his palms until the skin threatened to break. He stayed silent, swallowing the rage, the shame, the bitterness. He always swallowed it.
Background noises filtered in from the open window: children laughing as they rushed to school, an old man downstairs coughing as he swung his arms in morning exercises, and a street vendor hollering about fresh baozi.
The world outside moved on, full of life, full of noise—completely indifferent to Chen Hao's suffocating humiliation.
Liu Mei crossed her arms, her gaze sharp as a blade. "You know," she said coldly, "sometimes I think about divorce. Maybe I'd be better off with someone else. At least they'd have ambition."
Chen Hao's chest tightened, his heart lurching as though stabbed. Divorce. The word twisted in his gut like a dagger, but he didn't fight it. He had long since lost the energy to argue. Instead, he simply nodded, voice low and lifeless.
"I'll get ready for work."
He pushed himself up from the sagging mattress. His bare feet touched the cold, cracked floor tiles. The air felt heavier with every breath he drew, pressing him down like invisible chains.
An hour later, Chen Hao dragged his battered electric scooter out of the complex. Once upon a time, its bright red paint had gleamed with pride; now it was faded to a dull rust-orange, like dried blood clinging to metal. The left mirror dangled by a single screw, swaying pitifully with every movement.
When he pressed the start button, the motor coughed, sputtered, and then whined like a dying insect gasping for its last breath.
Liu Mei's words still echoed in his skull like a curse. Divorce.
She had spat it at him countless times before—sometimes in anger, sometimes in scorn, sometimes in that icy, indifferent tone that made him feel smaller than dust. But each time, it cut him deeper, as if she enjoyed watching him bleed inside.
He fumbled with his cheap, scratched helmet and muttered under his breath, "I'm not worthless… I'm not…"
But the scooter's squealing motor mocked him louder than his own voice, screeching into the morning air like a reminder of his failure.
On the road, humiliation came at him from every direction. Shiny sedans with tinted windows surged past, white-collar elites not even sparing him a glance. Deliverymen flew ahead on sleek new scooters, boxes stacked high behind them. Even carefree university students on cheap e-bikes left him in their dust.
At a bus stop, a group of high schoolers spotted him. One of them pointed at his scooter, and soon, laughter exploded like firecrackers. He couldn't hear their exact words, but in his mind, their mocking voices drilled into him:
Look at that loser! Old enough to be our uncle, yet still riding that junk heap!
Shame burned his face crimson. He hunched his back, gripping the handlebars tighter, wishing he could sink into the road and disappear.
By the time he reached his company, his mood was already in ruins.
The building stood like a monument to mediocrity—a tired mid-tier logistics firm wedged between a greasy hotpot restaurant and a failing dental clinic. The glass doors were smeared with fingerprints, and the lobby reeked faintly of disinfectant mixed with stale smoke.
Chen Hao parked his scooter in the farthest corner, as if hiding a scar. He didn't want anyone to see, to laugh, to whisper. His old briefcase dug into his palm as he climbed the stairs to the third floor. His shirt, carefully ironed that morning, was already damp with sweat, clinging to his back like a second skin of shame.
The moment he stepped into the office, the knives began.
"Ah, the legendary trash finally graces us with his presence!" someone snickered.
"Careful," another voice chimed, dripping with mockery, "he might steal your work again. Oh wait—no, he doesn't steal, does he? People just throw it at him, and he's too spineless to refuse!"
Laughter rippled across the room like a wave crashing down on him.
Chen Hao's throat tightened. His fingers clenched the handle of his briefcase until his knuckles turned white. He lowered his head, staring at the scuffed office tiles, pretending the ridicule was just passing noise.
Pretending not to hear was the only shield he had left.
"Chen Hao!"
The roar cracked through the office like thunder.
Manager Sun, a stout man with a greasy bald head that reflected the fluorescent lights, came storming out of his glass office. His round face was flushed crimson, lips pulled back like he was about to spit fire.
Chen Hao instantly shot up from his chair. "Manager Sun, good morning—"
"Morning? What morning?!" Sun slapped a thick stack of papers against Chen Hao's chest so hard it stung. "Look at this! This report was due yesterday! Yesterday! Why is it still incomplete? Do you want the entire department dragged down because of you?"
Chen Hao stared at the file, his brows furrowed in confusion. "But Manager… you didn't give me this file—"
The veins on Sun's neck bulged. "What did you just say? Are you implying I'm lying? That I'm framing you?" His voice rose like a drumbeat, echoing through every cubicle.
The office froze. Heads popped up like meerkats from behind monitors. Whispering immediately followed.
"Here we go again, Chen Hao's getting skinned alive."
"Doesn't he get tired of being chewed out every day?"
"Maybe he likes it. Masochist Chen Hao, haha."
Chen Hao's lips trembled. His hands gripped the papers so tight the edges cut into his skin. "No, Manager, I didn't mean that. I just thought—maybe someone else—"
"Enough!" Sun slammed a meaty palm on Chen Hao's desk, rattling his cheap monitor. "Always excuses with you! Everyone else finishes their work in hours, you take days. If it weren't for me being merciful, you'd already be begging on the street. Useless trash like you should be grateful you even get to sit in this office!"
He leaned closer, lowering his voice—but not enough to hide from the hungry ears around them. "You're nothing but dead weight."