The single bulb dangling from the ceiling flickered twice before settling into its usual dim glow, casting long shadows across the cramped room that Tòumíng called home. The concrete walls were stained with years of moisture and neglect, dark patches spreading like bruises across their surface. In one corner, a thin mattress lay directly on the floor, its fabric worn so thin that the stuffing poked through in several places. A single blanket, more holes than cloth, sat bunched at one end.
Shenzhen's Longhua district had always been like this. The old factory dormitories had been converted into cheap housing decades ago, packed with workers and those who couldn't afford anything better. Tòumíng's room was barely three meters by three meters, with a shared bathroom down the hall that serviced twenty other units. The walls were so thin he could hear his neighbors arguing, coughing, living their own desperate lives in parallel to his.
He sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the crumpled bills in his hands. Ten thousand won. He'd managed to pay three of them already, scraping together the money from his wages at the mine and the handful of quartz pieces he'd managed to smuggle out over the past two weeks. The overseers were getting stricter, but desperation made him bold. Or stupid. Probably both.
The fourth payment loomed like a mountain he couldn't climb. Thirty thousand won. Due by midnight.
Tòumíng glanced at the cheap clock on the wall. 7:43 PM. Four hours and seventeen minutes.
His parents' faces flashed through his mind, unbidden and unwelcome. His mother's hollow eyes in those final days. His father's shaking hands as he'd tied the rope. They'd lasted longer than most people would have, fighting against debts that multiplied faster than they could pay them. Interest on interest on interest, until the numbers became meaningless, until the only number that mattered was the one the collectors demanded each month.
When they'd died, Tòumíng had been sixteen. He'd learned quickly that debts didn't die with the debtor. They transferred, like a family heirloom made of lead and broken glass. (YOU CANNOT TELL ME MY WRITNG ISNT TUFFFFF!)
He pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the way his knees cracked, the way his back ached from twelve hours hunched in the mines. At nineteen, he already moved like a man twice his age. The room around him held everything he owned, which wasn't much. A small television, old enough that it still had the bulky back. His phone, a brick of a thing with a cracked screen. The clothes hanging from a wire strung across one corner.
Tòumíng grabbed the television first, unplugging it and hoisting it under one arm. It was heavy, awkward, but he'd moved heavier things in the mines. The pawn shop on Qinghu Road stayed open late, catering to people exactly like him. People who needed cash and needed it now.
The streets were crowded even as evening settled in, workers flooding back from the factories, vendors calling out their wares, the smell of street food mixing with exhaust fumes and industrial runoff. Tòumíng pushed through the crowd, the television growing heavier with each block.
The pawn shop's neon sign buzzed and flickered, half the characters dark. Inside, the owner looked up from his phone, his expression already bored.
"How much?" Tòumíng set the television on the counter with a thud.
The owner barely glanced at it. "Two thousand."
"It's worth at least five."
"Then sell it to someone who'll give you five." The owner returned his attention to his phone.
Tòumíng's fingers tightened on the edge of the counter. "Four thousand. It works perfectly, barely used."
"I can see the dust on it from here. Two thousand, take it or leave it."
"Three. Please. I need three thousand."
The owner finally looked up, his eyes taking in Tòumíng's appearance. The dirt under his fingernails. The coal dust still clinging to his hair despite his best efforts to wash it out in the communal shower. The desperation that must have been written clearly across his face.
"Two thousand five hundred. Final offer."
Tòumíng nodded, not trusting himself to speak. The owner counted out the bills with excruciating slowness, then slid them across the counter. Tòumíng snatched them up and left before he could say something stupid, something that would make the man change his mind.
Back in his room, he added the bills to his small pile. Twelve thousand five hundred. Still less than half of what he needed.
The phone was next. He removed the SIM card, slipped it into his pocket, and stared at the device for a long moment. This was his only connection to the outside world, his only way to find work, to be contacted for shifts. Without it, he'd be even more isolated than he already was.
But midnight was coming, and the collectors didn't care about isolation.
A different pawn shop, this one near the electronics market. The haggling went faster this time.
"Five hundred."
"It's worth two thousand at least. The screen is cracked but everything else works."
"Five hundred for a phone this old with a broken screen. You want more, go to someone else."
"Fifteen hundred. I'm begging you."
The owner examined the phone, turning it over in his hands. "Seven hundred. That's all I can do."
"One thousand. Please. I'll throw in the charger."
"Eight hundred, and only because you look like you're about to cry."
Tòumíng took the eight hundred.
The pile grew slowly. The clothes went to a secondhand dealer who wrinkled her nose at the smell of them, offering insultingly low prices that Tòumíng had no choice but to accept. The blanket, threadbare as it was. The single cooking pot he owned. A pair of boots that were nearly worn through but still had some life in them.
"These are garbage," the dealer said, poking at the boots with one finger.
"They're steel toe. Good for factory work."
"They're falling apart."
"Two hundred. That's all I'm asking."
She snorted. "Fifty."
"One hundred and fifty. Look, I need the money. You know you can sell these for more than fifty."
"One hundred, and I'm being generous."
He took the hundred.
By 10:30 PM, Tòumíng stood in his empty room with twenty-eight thousand won in his pocket. He'd sold everything except the mattress he slept on and the clothes he was wearing. The room looked even more depressing now, stripped bare, echoing slightly when he moved.
Two thousand short.
His mind raced, cataloging anything else he could possibly sell. There was nothing left. He'd already smuggled out every piece of quartz he could risk this month. Taking more would get him caught, and getting caught meant losing his job, which meant no way to make next month's payments, which meant worse things than an empty room.
The quartz pieces sat in his mind like an itch he couldn't scratch. He knew where they were in the mine, knew which sections the overseers watched less carefully. Knew that tomorrow's shift would give him another chance, but tomorrow was too late.
He paced the small room, each step echoing off the bare walls. Think. There had to be something. Someone he could borrow from, some job he could do in the next hour, some way to make two thousand won appear out of thin air.
But he'd already borrowed from everyone who would lend to him. Already worked every hour the mine would give him. Already sold everything he owned.
The clock read 11:15 PM.
Forty-five minutes.
Tòumíng grabbed the money from his pocket, counting it again as if the bills might have multiplied while he wasn't looking. Twenty-eight thousand. Still twenty-eight thousand. He shoved it back in his pocket and headed for the door.
Maybe he could explain. Maybe if he showed up with most of the money, showed that he was trying, that he'd sold literally everything he owned, they'd give him an extension. Another day. Another week. Something.
Even as he thought it, he knew how stupid it sounded. These weren't people who gave extensions. These were people who made examples.
The streets were quieter now, the vendors packing up their stalls, workers settling into their cramped homes for a few hours of sleep before another shift. Tòumíng walked quickly, his hand in his pocket, gripping the bills. Shenzhen at night was a different beast than Shenzhen during the day. The shadows grew deeper, the alleys more threatening, the sense of being watched more pronounced.
His destination was a restaurant in the old district, the kind of place that looked normal from the outside but everyone knew served a different purpose after dark. The kind of place where debts were collected and deals were made and people who didn't pay learned hard lessons.
Tòumíng had been there three times already this month, each time handing over his ten thousand won with shaking hands, each time leaving quickly before anyone could decide he was worth more trouble than his payments.
11:35 PM.
He was still six blocks away, and his legs felt like they were moving through water. The exhaustion from twelve hours in the mine was catching up with him, the adrenaline that had kept him moving through the evening finally starting to fade. He forced himself to move faster, breaking into a jog.
Five blocks.
Four blocks.
His lungs burned. When was the last time he'd eaten? Yesterday? The day before? Food was expensive, and every won had to go toward the payments.
Three blocks.
The restaurant came into view, its red lanterns glowing in the darkness. A few men stood outside, smoking, their postures casual but their eyes sharp. They watched Tòumíng approach, and he forced himself to slow down, to not look like he was running. Running made you look weak. Desperate. Like prey.
Even though he was all of those things.
Two blocks.
11:47 PM.
Thirteen minutes. He had thirteen minutes to get inside, to explain, to hand over what he had and hope it was enough. Hope they'd listen. Hope they wouldn't make him another cautionary tale whispered about in the dormitories and factory floors.
One block.
His heart hammered against his ribs. The money felt both too heavy and too light in his pocket. Twenty-eight thousand won. Almost there. So close to enough. But close didn't matter. Close was still short. Close still meant failure.
The men outside the restaurant straightened as he got closer, recognition flickering across their faces. They knew him. Of course they knew him. He'd been paying them for three years, ever since his parents had died and the debt had become his inheritance.
Tòumíing's foot hit the curb and he stumbled slightly, catching himself. His hands were shaking. When had they started shaking?
11:52 PM.
Eight minutes.
He looked up at the restaurant, at the red lanterns swaying slightly in the night breeze, at the men watching him with expressions he couldn't read.
Two thousand won short.
Eight minutes left.
His breath came in short gasps as panic began to truly set in, his vision narrowing to a tunnel, the edges going dark. This was it. This was the moment everything either worked out or fell apart completely.
The clock in his mind ticked forward.
11:53 PM.
Seven minutes.
(Newest story just dropped, please tell me its peak!)