A piercing electronic rendition of a folk song about sunrise and sunset jarred Michael from the depths of unconsciousness. His body convulsed in a full-body flinch before awareness, cold and unwelcome, slammed into him. It was then he registered the peculiarity of his situation.
He was sprawled face-down on the icy, unyielding tiles of his bathroom floor, wearing nothing but his favorite pair of briefs adorned with the grinning face of Snoopy. The glorious, bewildering madness of the 'Honey and the Maiden' tavern, the intoxicating Jaunysmoke, the adulation of the crowd—all of it had vanished like smoke in a strong wind. It had been a dream, he realized with a sinking heart. A fantastical, absurd, and strangely wonderful dream conjured by a brain marinated in cheap alcohol.
A deep, bone-aching chill had seeped into him from the prolonged contact with the cold floor, raising goosebumps all over his skin. As he gingerly tried to move, a symphony of pain erupted across his body. His muscles protested, his head throbbed with a brutal, rhythmic intensity, but worst of all was a specific, sharp ache at the base of his skull. It felt like a concentrated knot of agony, far worse than any typical hangover headache. Touching it elicited a hiss of pain; a sizable, tender lump had formed there. Must have taken a proper tumble last night, he thought grimly.
Yet, even in this wretched state, years of drilled-in habit took over. The salesman's instinct, honed by countless mornings of desperate performance, kicked in. He scrambled to his feet, ignoring the protests of his body, and dashed—more of a pained shuffle—into the adjoining bedroom. His phone, the source of the abrasive melody, vibrated angrily on the nightstand. He snatched it up, but his thumb hovered over the answer icon.
Instead, with movements born of long practice, he hurried to the window, fumbled with the latch, and shoved it open. The cacophony of the awakening city street—honking scooters, shouting vendors, the rumble of an early bus—flooded in. He leaned out, positioning the phone carefully, then took a deep breath, steeling himself. Only then did he accept the call, his voice transforming miraculously into a bright, alert tenor.
"Manager Zhang! Good morning! Sorry about that—I was in a crowded spot, couldn't hear the ring over the noise."
On the other end, his direct supervisor, Zhang Zhong, manager of the West Guangdong sales division of Ruinuo Agricultural Supplies, offered a non-committal grunt in response to the obvious lie. His tone, when he spoke, was laced with a familiar, weary severity. "A-Biao. How's that deal of yours progressing? Let me remind you, as of yesterday's stats, your Yangcheng district is sitting comfortably at third from the bottom in the regional sales rankings."
Michael's gut tightened at the use of the diminutive 'A-Biao'. Zhang Zhong continued, his voice hardening. "You're a veteran in this department. If there's no improvement by the end of the month, the company's performance measures will be enforced. I trust I don't need to elaborate?"
"Zhong-ge, of course not!" Michael replied, the false cheer straining his voice. "I finalized everything with Boss Chen last night. Heading to his company this morning to lock down the delivery schedule. The 300,000 yuan advance payment will be wired to the company before close of business today, guaranteed."
The change on the other end of the line was palpable. The frost in Zhang Zhong's voice thawed instantly, replaced by a warm, mentoring tone. He launched into a speech about perseverance, the importance of veteran employees setting an example, and the bright future that awaited with just a little more effort. Still leaning precariously out the window in nothing but his cartoon underwear, Michael played his part perfectly, interjecting with earnest promises and grateful platitudes. "Thank you for your guidance and encouragement, Manager. I will absolutely redouble my efforts and secure the next big contract as soon as possible!"
Several minutes of this exhausting pantomime later, the call ended. Michael tossed the phone onto the rumpled bed as if it were a live coal. "Piece of work," he muttered darkly to the empty room. "Turncoat. Followed me around like a puppy during his internship, 'Michael this, Michael that.' Gets a sniff of a title and suddenly I'm 'A-Biao.' One more promotion and he'll be calling me 'Little Biao,' won't he?"
The anger was a brief, futile spark. The reality of the day's tasks extinguished it. Groaning, he pushed himself into motion. The various aches and the throbbing in his skull were relegated to background noise. He rummaged in a drawer for a clean pair of briefs and trudged back to the scene of his earlier disgrace—the bathroom.
The shock of the morning's first douse of icy water was a brutal blessing. It cleared the lingering cobwebs of sleep and dream, shocking his system into a semblance of alertness. As the water sluiced over him, his fingers once more found the tender lump on the back of his head. The pain was insistent, a tangible reminder of a fall he couldn't remember. Lathering soap, his mind drifted back against his will to the vivid tapestry of the dream—the strange currency, the powerful feeling of being a 'boss,' the intoxicating, if terrifying, attention.
A sigh escaped him, lost in the spray. "Wouldn't that be something," the beleaguered salesman whispered to the chipped tiles. "If any of that were real… a guy could actually turn his life around." For a long moment, he stood there, mesmerized by the fantasy, the warm water doing little to chase away the chill of his reality.
Michael, soon to be twenty-six, was a salesman for a listed agricultural supplies company. To be precise, he was the lowest-ranking, least-paid variety of salesman.
In truth, he wasn't without skill or diligence. He worked hard, he knew his products. But in the nearly four years since graduating university and joining the company, promotion remained a mirage on a distant horizon. The reason could be summarized in a few bitter words: spectacularly bad luck.
His initial assignment had been the Yangcheng district in West Guangdong. An agricultural region, it should have been fertile ground for a diligent salesman. Hit your targets, climb the ladder—a straightforward, if difficult, path. But the world, Michael had learned, often prized cruel chaos over meritocratic order.
In his first year, Yangcheng's primary agricultural pillar—the lychee orchards—was devastated by a once-in-a-generation natural disaster. The harvest shrank by over eighty percent. In the years that followed, the industry never truly recovered. Frustrated farmers, facing ruin, took to uprooting their trees. The market for pesticides and fertilizers, Michael's stock-in-trade, shrank accordingly, withering like the blighted orchards.
Year after year, Michael missed his sales quotas. Promotions and raises became fairy tales for other people. The ambitious young graduate who had stepped out of university gates was slowly, inexorably worn down by the relentless grind of failure. The spark in his eyes dimmed, replaced by the weary cynicism of a survivor. Michael, against his will, had become a man simply going through the motions, a human version of treading water, waiting to see if he would float or sink.
…
At one minute past eight, Michael emerged from his building, a bulky satchel slung across his shoulder. He approached his private vehicle: a battered, second-hand (likely fifth or sixth-hand) ladies' scooter he'd purchased for seven hundred yuan. Swinging a leg over the creaking frame, he first lit a cigarette, drawing the harsh smoke deep into his lungs, seeking its sharp clarity. Only then did he attempt to start the scooter.
He thumbed the ignition. The response was a weak, sputtering cough from the engine, followed by a series of choked put-put-putsounds. Each attempt produced a darker plume of oily, blue-black smoke from the exhaust. The engine was burning oil—a minor issue in the grand scheme of the scooter's problems. The battery, ancient and tired, groaned in protest with each turn of the key until its feeble whirring faded into silence. It simply refused to catch.
Michael regarded the inert machine with the serene resignation of a man long acquainted with disappointment. Starts on the first try? That's a good day. This? This is just Tuesday.
Dismounting, he kicked down the rusted main stand, stabilizing the scooter. Then, bracing himself, he began to stomp on the kickstarter. Thump. Thump. Thump.The sound echoed in the narrow alley. After what felt like a hundred laborious kicks, his efforts were rewarded. The engine snarled to life with a sound like grinding metal, belching a final, triumphant cloud of smoke that smelled of combustion and decay.
He climbed back on, twisted the throttle, and with another belch of smoke, the scooter lurched forward, bearing his one-hundred-and-fifty-pound frame into the chaotic morning traffic. His destination: the client's office. Securing Boss Chen's order might take all day, requiring patience, smiles, and more empty promises.
The thought of breakfast never crossed his mind. He knew the medical advice, the long-term dangers of skipping meals. But those were dangers for a future self, decades away. The dangers of today—a missed sale, a displeased manager, an empty wallet—were far more immediate, far more real. They were monsters he could see, and they demanded every ounce of his energy, leaving none for anything as frivolous as food.