September rain fell like endless gray threads, soaking the whole city in a heavy gloom. The black tiles of the funeral home gleamed slick with water, while white mourning banners snapped in the wind like countless pale hands clawing at the air, clinging to the stubborn mix of incense smoke and the metallic tang of wet earth. The smell clogged the throat, making every breath feel heavy with lead.
Lin Chen stood in the corner of the farewell hall, his thin frame wrapped in a black mourning suit. Rain had soaked the collar, leaving it wrinkled and cold against his skin. Eyes lowered, he mechanically nodded to the mourners who came forward, lips stretched into a formulaic smile while his fingers rubbed unconsciously at the coarse fabric of his cuff. The roughness scraped his fingertips raw—like his forty-five years of life: outwardly intact, but inside, nothing but worn cracks.
Today they were burying Chen Hao—his childhood friend, the one who had also shoved him into the abyss with his own hands.
"Mr. Lin, my condolences." A middle-aged man in a suit handed him three sticks of incense, the gold ring on his finger flashing coldly. His words were coated in the kind of perfunctory sympathy that could be scraped off in layers of dust. Lin Chen recognized him instantly—one of the shareholders who had followed Zhao Kai to swallow his company's shares years ago. And now here he was, playing the role of "old friend," his face so fake it made Lin Chen's stomach turn. He forced a stiff smile, said nothing, and placed the incense into the burner. Smoke curled upward, veiling his tired eyes, as if lifting a fog that revealed blood-stained shards of memory.
He was eighteen when Chen Hao crouched under the dorm bed, splitting his fifty-yuan allowance in half, handing over twenty-five with palm still dusted with instant noodle crumbs. His grin was pure: "Chen, your mom needs money for treatment. I'm fine with this much. You take it."
At twenty-five, when Lin Chen was desperate for start-up funds, sleepless for days, Chen Hao had roared up on a brand-new motorcycle, slapped down a wad of cash on the table, the bike keys still in the ignition: "Chen, I pawned my bike. Let's do this together—we can make it!"
At thirty, on the eve of his company's IPO, clients suddenly canceled contracts en masse. Later, he learned it was Chen Hao who'd stolen his core customer data and handed it to Zhao Kai. Soon after, Chen Hao became Zhao Kai's right-hand man, grinning into cameras: "Lin Chen's too selfish to be a boss. Stick with him, you've got no future."
The days that followed were nothing but nightmare. His mother's gastritis dragged into stomach cancer because of Zhao Kai's father's hospital cover-up. On her deathbed, she still squeezed Lin Chen's hand and whispered, "Son, I don't blame you." The woman he had secretly loved all his life, Su Wanqing, married a rich heir, only to pass away last year—friends said her last words were his name. And Lin Chen himself? He lived like a ghost in a run-down rental, drowning in debt, surviving on the cheapest instant noodles. His only hope was to see Chen Hao and Zhao Kai meet their karma.
But now Chen Hao was dead. Drunk driving, quick and dirty. Yet he still got a "grand funeral," still got these hypocrites to bow.
Lin Chen sucked in a breath, forcing down the metallic taste rising in his throat. He wanted one last look—to see what expression this man who ruined him wore in the end. Was there guilt? Or the same shameless certainty that he'd done nothing wrong?
"Family, please step forward for the final farewell." The staff pushed the body cart down the corridor, its wheels grinding through puddles with a squeak like gnawing teeth on his nerves. Lin Chen shuffled forward with the thin crowd, each step heavy as if weighted with lead, each one stomping on shattered memories.
The sheet was lifted, revealing Chen Hao's upper body. Lin Chen's gaze brushed over the lifeless face without a flicker—until it dropped to his feet. His pupils shrank sharply, like stabbed by a blade.
A pair of black AJ1 sneakers. The "Jumpman" logo scuffed but unmistakably bright.
He knew those shoes too well. They were the limited-edition pair he'd bought at twenty-five, with the company's first month of profits. He had camped all night outside a sneaker shop in the biting winter cold just to grab Chen Hao's size. He remembered Chen Hao's childlike joy, stroking the toe box over and over: "Chen, these are sick! I'm gonna wear them every day!"
But later? After Chen Hao got cozy with Zhao Kai, showing up at high-end spots, Zhao Kai once sneered at the AJ1s during a drinking session: "Those shoes are cheap trash. You hang with Lin Chen too long, even your taste tanks." The very next day, Lin Chen saw Chen Hao toss those sneakers in the trash, replacing them with a pair of Yeezys Zhao Kai gifted. Chen Hao muttered, "These don't suit me. Embarrassing to wear them out."
And now, the man who once said "not good enough, embarrassing" had chosen to wear them into his coffin.
Lin Chen's breathing spiked, chest crushed under an invisible boulder. The world spun. Banners, incense, mourners' faces—all blurred into shapeless color. He staggered back, gripping a funeral wreath until his knuckles whitened, fingertips purple from strain. White chrysanthemums fell to the wet ground, turning soggy in seconds—just like his wreck of a life.
"Mr. Lin, are you alright? Should we help you sit down?" Someone noticed his state, reaching out in surprise.
Lin Chen couldn't speak. His throat was blocked, only a rasp escaping. Rain mixed with tears slid down his face, splattering against the cold tiles. Memories cut through him: his mother's frail grip before death, whispering comfort when she was the one dying; Wanqing's wedding day, him hiding behind a tree outside the chapel, watching her in a white gown walk down the aisle with another man, his chest sliced open by grief; Zhao Kai, after his company collapsed, arm slung around Chen Hao, sneering: "Lin Chen, this is your life. You'll never measure up against me."
A low, bitter laugh escaped him, soaked in despair. As he wiped his face, his eyes caught sight of Zhao Kai in the crowd.
Zhao Kai stood casually in a black trench coat, hands in his pockets, flipping a silver lighter between his fingers. The tiny flame danced, cruel and familiar. Lin Chen recognized it instantly—the same brand the firemen had found in the ashes of his warehouse years ago, engraved with Zhao Kai's initials. That fire had destroyed every contract, every document. He'd thought it was bad luck. Now, seeing Zhao Kai's smirk and that flickering flame, he understood. It wasn't an accident. It had been a setup all along. Even Chen Hao's betrayal—probably orchestrated by Zhao Kai, designed to destroy him completely.
Blood roared to his head. His ears filled with muffled noise—music, wailing, rain—all buried in cotton. He wanted to lunge at Zhao Kai, to demand why. Why his company, why his mother's death, why his whole life had been burned down. But his body was heavy as stone; he couldn't even lift a hand.
Zhao Kai seemed to feel his stare. Their eyes met. Zhao Kai's lips curled into a sly, mocking grin before he turned away, feigning idle chat with the man beside him. But his fingers kept flicking the lighter, flame dancing like a taunt, as if watching a play he had scripted long ago.
As darkness swallowed Lin Chen's consciousness, one memory flashed clear. Autumn, 1998. He was eighteen, sitting by a classroom window, sunlight spilling through dusty glass onto yellowed pages. Beside him, Su Wanqing bent over her notebook, black hair brushing her cheek. She noticed his gaze, lifted her head, and handed him a daisy-printed eraser. Her voice was feather-light: "Lin Chen, your eraser fell. Pick it up."
Back then, sunlight was warm, sycamore leaves drifted outside, his mother was alive, Wanqing still smiled at him, Chen Hao hadn't betrayed him. Everything could still be different.
Thud—
Lin Chen collapsed onto the soaked floor, rainwater splashing up around him. Chaos erupted—shouts for an ambulance, people crowding to help, the hall breaking into disorder. From the edge of the crowd, Zhao Kai watched him being carried away. His smirk deepened. Fingers closed tightly around the lighter in his pocket, gripping a secret he believed could control another man's fate.
Rain still fell. White banners still flapped in the wind. Incense smoke thinned into mist. Only those AJ sneakers inside the coffin lay silent, pressed against Chen Hao's cold feet. A mute witness—to betrayal and regret past, and to a future still waiting for a miracle of rebirth, to set fate back on course.