A faint, dusty light, the color of weak tea, seeped through the myriad cracks in the corrugated metal roof of the warehouse. Harry Potter Michael blinked awake, the transition from the adrenaline-scorched air of Meili to the damp, mildew-scented stillness of the storage unit always a disorienting lurch. For a long moment, he lay on his thin pallet, his mind foggy, unable to tell if the gloom outside heralded dawn or dusk. The silence was absolute, broken only by the distant, industrial hum of the city—a sound so different from the Wasteland's wind-whispers and the low murmur of a nervous settlement.
After a minute, once the familiar, comforting weight of his own reality had settled back onto his bones, he groped for the smartphone charging on an upturned crate. The screen lit up, a blinding rectangle in the dimness. 7:05 AM. Morning, then. The sky outside was just beginning to bleed from indigo to a washed-out grey.
With a groan that was more mental than physical, he sat up. The immediate, pressing matter was capital. The paltry sum from the melted-down coins and scrap metal was a raindrop in the desert of Meili's needs. Scrolling through his contacts, his thumb hovered over the entry for 'Foreman Wang'. Wang the contractor was his last, semi-respectable option for a short-term loan—a few tens of thousands to bridge the gap. He had sworn a silent, vehement oath to himself: he would starve, he would live on instant noodles for a year, he would sooner try to sell bottled Wasteland air than ever go begging to Dong-ge and his loan-shark ilk again. That bridge was not just burned; it was ash scattered to the four winds.
As if summoned by his thoughts, the phone in his hand suddenly vibrated, the screen flashing with Wang's name and a picture of the man, smiling broadly in front of a half-finished building. The coincidence was so sharp it felt like a omen. Michael swiped to answer, forcing a jovial tone into his sleep-roughened voice.
"Boss Wang! What's the matter? Too early to be cuddling the missus, so you're bothering me instead?" His attempt at breezy banter fell flat.
The voice on the other end was thick, sodden with a disappointment that was almost tangible. "Don't mention it. I've got some bad news for you. Couldn't reach you at all after we parted ways last night, so I figured I'd try first thing."
Michael's casual demeanor evaporated. His grip tightened on the phone. "My battery died last night, phone shut off," he lied smoothly, the old habits of a salesman covering tracks coming back instantly. "What bad news? What happened?" His heart began a frantic drumroll against his ribs. Visions of police cars, of men in plain clothes asking questions at Wang's construction site, of his entire precarious double-life unraveling, flashed before his eyes. Damn it all,he thought, a cold sweat breaking out on his back. I knew it. I got too greedy. A moment of stupidity, of desperation…He'd been poor, so achingly poor, and the promise of quick cash had overridden every shred of sense. The regret was a bitter taste in his mouth.
Wang's next words, however, carried him in a different, if still unwelcome, direction. "It's about getting those, uh, foreign workersyou mentioned their paperwork sorted. The passports for East Malaysia are just half the battle. We need a company here with the proper foreign employment credentials to issue a formal work contract to make it all legal. I had a friend who could finesse that, but I called him after my… foot massage last night, and he says the channel's closed for now. Tightened up. So, little brother Mi, I'm afraid I've messed up your plans. My fault."
The relief that washed over Michael was so profound his knees felt briefly weak. He leaned against the cold metal wall of the container. Legal identities for Onil, Zach, the others? It would have been a fantastic bonus, a layer of security. But its absence was a mere inconvenience, not a catastrophe. It just meant they stayed in their world, and he in his. The only real loss was the three thousand yuan 'subsidy' and the money wasted on dinner for that blowhard David. Small change, in the grand scheme of things.
He found himself, oddly, in the position of comforter. "Ah, Boss Wang, don't worry about it! These things happen. The policy changes like the wind. It's not your fault at all. We'll just have to put that plan on hold for now." He could almost hear Wang's mournful sigh, the man undoubtedly picturing a small army of superhumanly strong, cheap laborers vanishing like a mirage.
They chatted for another twenty minutes, Wang lamenting the lost opportunity, Michael offering platitudes. It was only after he hung up, the warehouse silent once more, that he slapped his own forehead. The loan!In all the back-and-forth, he'd completely forgotten to ask for the money. And now, calling back immediately to bring it up would seem far too calculated, too desperate. The moment was lost.
"Boss! Three large plates of fried rice noodles! All with extra pork and an egg! And you have tea eggs, right? Bring me ten to start!"
His voice echoed in the familiar, greasy-aired confines of the 'Sha County International' diner just outside the logistics park. Facing such a sizable order, the proprietress, a woman with a permanent look of mild suspicion, eyed him warily. "Handsome lad, can you really eat all that? Maybe order less, no need to waste." Her tone was one of pragmatic concern, not avarice.
"Of course I can't eat it all, I'm not a human trash compactor," Michael blithely lied, the falsehood effortless on his tongue. "I've got two friends meeting me. I'm just ordering for them first. What, scared I can't pay? I'll pay upfront, how about that?"
Having the money offered upfront dissolved the last of her reservations, though she still muttered apologies. After scanning the QR code, the balance on Michael's phone—already hovering in the double digits—plummeted to a single, lonely figure. Yet, as the plate of ten fragrant, soy-sauce stained tea eggs was set before him, he felt a wave of defiant contentment. He devoured them, one after another, the rich, savory flavor a small, profound pleasure.
A philosophy was crystallizing in his mind: Money? When is it ever enough?So, while profligacy was out of the question, neither would he starve himself in a fit of anxiety. He would eat. He would drink. As for procuring supplies for Meili, he'd get the most critical items—the medicines, the antiseptics. The grander materials for building the glorious 'Territory of Meili' could wait. No need to pressure myself so much,he thought, swallowing the last bite of egg. I'm still just a kid, after all. A kid of seventeen… plus a hundred-something extra months.The self-justification was flimsy, laughable even, but it served its purpose, propping up his spirits.
Having polished off the eggs and one heaping, oily plate of noodles, he looked at the two remaining steaming plates. He put on a performance. Pulling out his phone, he dialed a non-existent number, his voice rising in theatrical dismay to fill the small diner. "What?You can't make it? Something came up? But… but I already ordered! Two whole plates are just going to go to waste now!" He hung up, letting a convincingly pained expression settle on his face. He sighed, loud enough for the now-watching to hear. "Ah, what a shame. Well… waste not, want not, I suppose. I'll just have to force myself."
What followed, under the proprietress's increasingly astonished gaze, was not a reluctant, laborious consumption, but a swift, efficient demolition. He didn't so much eat the remaining two plates of noodles as he made them vanish, the plates left so clean they sparkled under the fluorescent lights. Forced himself?He looked like he could have easily tackled three more.
An hour and a half later, driving his now-empty van towards the wholesale market, Michael's pocket was heavier by a little over 110,000 yuan in cash. The thirty-one gold coins had fetched just over 90,000. The silver coins and the load of scrap metal had added a few thousand more. It was not an insignificant sum. But stacked against the needs of a wounded, expanding settlement, it felt laughably thin. His plan, therefore, was modest. A visit to 'Boss Liu's' wholesale food stall, not for bulk rice or flour, but for a few boxes of expired spicy gluten strips. A treat for Zach, to fulfill a promise. It was a small, manageable purchase.
"Hey! Boss Liu! Old Liu! You lecherous old dog, what are you staring at so hard? Called you three times!"
He stood at the entrance of Liu's cluttered stall. The middle-aged wholesaler, a man whose eyes usually held a shrewd, mercantile glint, was utterly entranced by his phone, his head bowed, a slack-jawed expression on his face. It took several more shouts before Liu startled, subtly wiping a trace of moisture from the corner of his mouth.
"Huh? Oh! Mi! Look, look at this," Liu said, not looking up, his voice a mix of awe and vicarious delight. He thrust the phone forward. "These two cosplay foreign girls, they're blowing up the internet right now. What on earth do they feed them over there? Devilishly enchanting, I tell you. And the figures on them… absolutely tyrannical!"
On the screen, frozen in a clumsy, cheerful pose on a ruined rooftop, were Lynda and Faye. The video counter below showed numbers that made Michael's own head spin—views, likes, shares, all in the hundreds of thousands. He knew, intellectually, that the videos might get some attention. But this? This viral wildfire? This was beyond any calculation.
A numb shock settled over him. With a slightly trembling hand, he pulled out his own phone, its screen still crowded with unread notifications. Opening the 'DouSha' app, he navigated to the backend of the 'Wasteland Curiosities' account. The private message inbox was a cascading waterfall of pleas, offers, and demands. He skimmed the most eye-catching ones:
From 'Guangzhou Top Garment Co.': "Hello! We are a leading uniform manufacturer. We believe the JK outfits in your video are our products! We are very interested in a collaboration! Please contact us to discuss a带货 deal! Price is negotiable!"
From 'Shanghai Starlight Talent Agency': "URGENT BUSINESS PROPOSAL. We wish to sign the two foreign models in your videos to exclusive representation contracts. Please contact us IMMEDIATELY to discuss terms. Very generous offer."
From a verified 'Key Opinion Leader' with millions of followers: "Friend. Your account has amazing potential. Are you interested in selling it? Serious buyer here. We can offer a premium price. Let's talk."
From the official 'DouSha Platform Operations' account: "Dear content creator 'Wasteland Curiosities', congratulations on your popular content! We would like to invite you to discuss potential partnership opportunities. Please contact us at…"
Message after message, each one a potential lifeline, a key to a lock he hadn't even known he was trying to pick. The sheer, avaricious hunger of the modern world, focused through the lens of his phone screen, was palpable.
The grim anxiety that had been a constant companion since he woke up began to melt away, replaced by a dawning, incredulous realization. He had been staring into the abyss of financial shortfall, and the abyss, it seemed, had blinked first—and started throwing money at him. A slow, wide grin spread across his face, reflected in the dark glass of his phone screen. Just when you think you've reached a dead end,he thought, the old Chinese proverb rising unbidden in his mind, the willows part, and the flowers bloom, revealing a bright new path.
The path ahead was suddenly, brilliantly, illuminated.