Tòumíng tossed his phone onto the couch and stared at the ceiling again, the existential weight of having money but nothing to do with it settling over him like a heavy blanket.
"I'm bored."
"Revolutionary observation," Cupid replied.
"No, like, actually bored. I have almost two hundred thousand yuan and I'm just sitting here. What do rich people even do?"
"Usually? Buy shit."
"I've been buying shit for two weeks. It's getting old."
"Then buy different shit. Go to actual stores instead of scrolling through your phone ordering things. Experience the thrill of in-person commerce."
Tòumíng groaned. "That sounds like effort. Can't I just order something and have it show up?"
"You literally just complained about being bored from doing exactly that."
"Yeah, but ordering is instant gratification. Going outside takes time."
"Maybe try eating somewhere nice? A fancy dinner? Rich people love overpriced food."
"Why can't I just order delivery?"
Cupid's exasperation was palpable.
"Because fast food is shit. You've been eating nothing but delivery for two weeks. Your body is probably thirty percent MSG and vegetable oil at this point. Go to an actual restaurant. Sit down. Be served by people. Experience cuisine that doesn't come in plastic containers."
"Ugh, fine. Are there any nice restaurants that are high-end? Like, really expensive?"
"I DON'T KNOW! YOU'RE THE ONE WHO HAS A PHONE!"
"Right, right." Tòumíng grabbed his phone and opened the search browser. Typed in: "richest restaurant."
The top result loaded: McDonald's Corporation - Net Worth $196 Billion.
"AHA!" Tòumíng sat up triumphantly. "McDonald's! The richest restaurant! I'll go there!"
Silence from Cupid. Then: "You're an idiot."
"What? You said go to a rich restaurant! McDonald's is literally the richest—"
"You searched for the restaurant with the most money, not the most expensive restaurant! There's a difference! McDonald's is cheap! That's why they're rich! They sell garbage to billions of people!"
"Oh." Tòumíng looked at his phone again. "That makes sense actually."
"Try searching 'most expensive restaurant' you absolute walnut."
Tòumíng deleted his search and tried again, this time getting results for actual high-end dining establishments in the city. French cuisine. Japanese kaiseki. Modern fusion. Places with dress codes and reservation requirements and menu prices that made his eye twitch.
But also... he groaned at the effort required. Reservations? Dress codes? Having to interact with fancy waiters who'd probably judge his coal-stained past?
"Fuck it," he declared, standing up. "I'm just going. Somewhere. I'll figure it out when I get there."
He walked to his closet—the one now hiding fifty thousand yuan under a pile of designer clothes—and started pulling out outfit options. He'd accumulated an embarrassing amount of clothing in two weeks, most of it still with tags attached.
The white designer hoodie caught his eye. Pure white, expensive-looking fabric, subtle logo embroidered on the chest. He'd bought it on impulse after seeing an influencer wear something similar. Never actually worn it because white seemed impractical for someone who worked in coal mines.
But he wasn't going to the mines today.
Tòumíng pulled it on. Soft. Expensive. Made him look like he had his life together.
Pants next. He settled on camo designer cargo pants another impulse purchase that had seemed cool at the time and still kind of did. The pockets were deep, functional, and the camo pattern was urban rather than military, which somehow made it fashion rather than tactical.
He looked at himself in the bathroom mirror.
He had to admit: he looked like he had drip. The white hoodie contrasted perfectly with the camo pants. His hair, looked decent. The outfit screamed "I have money and questionable taste" in exactly the way rich young people seemed to aim for.
Money. Right. Couldn't go out without cash.
Tòumíng grabbed his fanny pack—the expensive one that had survived the mining trip—and started loading it with bills. Ten thousand yuan total.
He wasn't planning to spend it all. Probably wouldn't spend half of it. But the idea of pulling out that much cash in public, counting it out bill by bill, flexing on whoever was watching... that appealed to something primal and stupid in his brain.
"You're going to get mugged," Cupid observed.
"I'm basically immortal."
"You're basically going to get beaten into a puddle."
"Details."
Tòumíng zipped up the fanny pack, checked his phone battery (68%, acceptable), and headed for the door. Time to experience whatever rich people did when they went out with too much money and no plan.
Outside Prefecture Zing Residence, five men tried very hard to look like they belonged there.
They didn't.
Two leaned against a wall pretending to smoke cigarettes they'd already finished. One sat on a bench scrolling through a phone with the screen off. Another pretended to tie his shoe for the third time in ten minutes. The fifth just stood there awkwardly, having given up on subtlety entirely.
"This is the worst surveillance operation ever," one of them muttered.
"Shut up, Donny. We're being inconspicuous."
"We look like exactly what we are. Five suspicious guys loitering outside an apartment building."
"Well what do you want me to—"
The building's ground floor door opened.
All five of them immediately stared, then immediately tried to look away, creating a synchronized head-turn that was the opposite of subtle.
Tòumíng stepped out wearing designer clothes, white hoodie practically glowing in the evening light, fanny pack secured around his waist. He looked... different. Not like the coal-covered miner from the security footage. More put-together. Almost intimidating in that casual way people with money moved through the world.
He glanced in their direction.
All five men froze, hearts collectively stopping.
Did he recognize them? Had they been made? Was this about to turn into a confrontation?
Tòumíng's eyes swept over them with the vague disinterest of someone noticing background NPCs, then he turned and started walking down the street.
The gang members collectively exhaled.
"He didn't see us," one whispered.
"He looked right at us!"
"But he didn't care. We're good."
Donny pulled out a flip phone an ancient brick of a device that probably predated smartphones by a decade and dialed. It rang twice before connecting.
"He's outside," Donny reported quietly. "Nice clothes. Designer stuff. Might be going somewhere fancy."
Ghost Claw's distorted voice came through the speaker: "Then follow him."
The line went dead.
The five men looked at each other, a collective moment of dawning uncertainty passing between them.
"Is this kid some kind of off-grid crime boss?" one of them asked, actually sweating despite the cool evening air. "Like, young master of some family we don't know about? Those clothes cost more than we make in six months not robbing people."
"I don't know, Donny," another replied, watching Tòumíng's retreating figure. "But we were paid to tail him, not ask questions. And no matter who he is..." He patted the gun concealed under his jacket. "No one's bulletproof."
"The masked guy said not to approach."
"I know what he said. I'm just saying if this goes sideways, we've got options."
They started following at a distance, trying to maintain the fifty-meter gap that surveillance guides recommended and consistently failing because none of them had actual training.
Tòumíng walked ahead, completely oblivious to the five amateur stalkers trailing behind him, focused entirely on deciding where to eat and whether ten thousand yuan was enough to properly flex at whatever restaurant he ended up at.