Five Days Later
The remaining five days of Tòumíng's break passed in a blur of calculated laziness and binge-watching Breaking Bad. He'd discovered the show during one of his late-night scrolling sessions and immediately became obsessed. The transformation of a chemistry teacher into a criminal mastermind resonated in ways he couldn't quite articulate, probably something about ordinary people doing extraordinary illegal things.
He ate constantly, utilizing his Metabolic Healing ability's demand for calories as an excuse to order delivery three times a day. The villa's kitchen remained mostly unused except for storing takeout containers. His new life had achieved a level of comfortable stagnation that felt simultaneously amazing and vaguely concerning.
Then, at 7:33 AM on what should have been his return-to-work day, everything changed.
"Wake up," Cupid's voice cut through the pleasant darkness of sleep. "You have work. Actual work. The thing you do for money and to maintain your cover story."
Tòumíng groaned, burrowing deeper into his pillow. "Five more minutes."
"You said that twenty minutes ago."
"Five more minutes."
"You need to get up NOW. Your shift starts at nine and you live an hour away from the mine."
"Mmmmph." The sound was muffled by expensive Egyptian cotton sheets he'd bought on impulse after watching a home improvement show.
Cupid, demonstrating the limited physical manipulation he could manage, made Tòumíng's heart skip a beat—just one, just enough to jolt him slightly more awake.
"Did you just—"
"Yes. I made your heart do a weird thing. I'll do it again if you don't get up."
Tòumíng cracked one eye open. He wasn't in his bedroom. He was sprawled on the living room sofa, the TV still playing Breaking Bad on loop, the blue glow illuminating empty takeout containers scattered across the coffee table.
"How did I get here?"
"You fell asleep watching episode forty-seven at 3 AM. Again. For the third night in a row."
"It's a good show."
"It's fictional crime. You're living actual crime. Get. Up."
Tòumíng finally dragged himself upright, his body protesting the movement after days of minimal physical activity beyond walking to the door to collect food deliveries. His new abs were probably softening already.
"You need to actually get off your ass and go back to work like a normal nineteen-year-old," Cupid said, his tone taking on a lecturing quality. "You can't just live off your savings while pretending to have a job. Eventually people will notice."
"It's too early," Tòumíng whined, checking his phone. 7:42 AM. "My shift doesn't start until nine."
"You live an HOUR away! You need to book a ride! Right now! Before traffic hits!"
"Ugh." But Cupid had a point. Reluctantly, Tòumíng shuffled toward the bathroom.
The shower was quick, five minutes of hot water that helped shake off some of the sleep fog. He brushed his teeth with the expensive electric toothbrush he'd bought because an influencer said it was life-changing. Grabbed clothes from the pile on his bedroom floor—a black baggy t-shirt, work cargo pants that had seen better days, and sneakers because his dumbass had somehow failed to buy any actual work boots despite having nearly two hundred thousand yuan at his disposal.
Everything else he'd bought had been designer clothing or impulse furniture. Practical footwear? Apparently not a priority.
He grabbed two hundred yuan for the ride there and back, ordered a car through the app, and stumbled outside into the early morning air.
The villa looked almost ethereal in the dawn light, the lake beyond shimmering with the first rays of sun. It was beautiful. Peaceful. The kind of place that made going back to a coal mine feel deeply, profoundly wrong.
The car arrived—a clean sedan, driver who nodded politely and didn't ask questions about why someone was being picked up from a luxury villa to go to a mining complex.
Thankfully, there was no traffic. Most people in this area had old money and didn't work nine-to-five jobs. They had investments, portfolios, trust funds. The roads were nearly empty.
Fifty minutes later, they pulled up to the mine entrance. Tòumíng checked the time: 8:57 AM.
"Nice, on time," he muttered, paying the driver and climbing out.
The familiar industrial smell hit him immediately, coal dust, machinery oil, the particular scent of earth being torn apart for profit. After a week in his pristine villa, it felt almost alien.
He walked toward the office building where Zhāng Wěi usually held court, mentally preparing himself to slip back into the role of ordinary miner, when he heard shouting.
"You need to LEARN this business! This is your LEGACY!"
Zhāng Wěi's voice, loud and exasperated, echoed from inside the prefab office. Tòumíng paused at the door.
"I don't WANT the legacy!" Another voice, younger, dripping with entitled annoyance. "Pops, the family already has money! Why do I need to slave away in this dusty SHITHOLE when I could be literally anywhere else?"
Through the window, Tòumíng could see Zhāng Wěi and a young man who had to be his grandson—similar facial features, same build, but where Zhāng Wěi carried the weight of years of work, the grandson looked soft, pampered, wearing expensive streetwear that cost more than Tòumíng's entire original wardrobe.
"This 'dusty shithole' PUT you through private school! Bought your car! Paid for your apartment!" Zhāng Wěi's face was red. "You think money just appears? Someone has to WORK for it!"
"Yeah, YOU work for it! I'm the next generation! I'm supposed to enjoy the fruits of YOUR labor! That's how generational wealth WORKS!"
"That's how generational wealth DIES! In three generations because spoiled brats like you don't know the VALUE of—"
Tòumíng chose that moment to push open the door, immediately regretting the timing as both heads snapped toward him.
Zhāng Wěi's expression transformed instantly from fury to something like relief. He rushed forward and pulled Tòumíng into an unexpected hug that was probably more about proving a point than actual affection.
"Tòumíng! Perfect timing! Come here, let me introduce you!" He positioned Tòumíng in front of the grandson like a exhibit. "THIS is what a hardworking young man looks like! Nineteen years old, works full twelve-hour shifts, never complains, always shows up on time even after taking a medical leave!"
The grandson, who looked about the same age as Tòumíng, maybe a year or two older,, looked him up and down with undisguised disdain. His eyes tracked across Tòumíng's cheap (compared to his) work clothes, his basic sneakers, his general appearance of someone who actually did manual labor.
"Tsk." The sound was dismissive, condescending. "So THIS is the golden employee jackass you keep yapping about? The one you compare me to every single day?"
"Xiǎo Huángdì! Watch your mouth!" Zhāng Wěi's face went red again. "Tòumíng is a model employee! You could learn something from him!"
Xiǎo Huángdì—the name meaning "Little Emperor," which was almost painfully on the nose, crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "Yeah, I could learn how to waste my youth breaking my back for someone else's profit. Sounds amazing. Really aspirational, Pops."
"You spoiled, ungrateful—" Zhāng Wěi caught himself, taking a deep breath, clearly trying not to explode in front of Tòumíng. He turned back, his expression apologetic. "I'm sorry you had to witness this. Family matters. You know how it is."
Tòumíng, who had literally no family left and whose only family memories involved debt collectors and suicides, did not know how it is. But he nodded anyway.
"Right. Well. I should probably get to my station—"
"Yes, yes! Of course!" Zhāng Wěi practically shooed him toward the door, eager to resume the argument without witnesses. "Floor three today! The usual section! Keep up the good work!"
As Tòumíng left, he could already hear the shouting resume behind him.
"YOU SEE THAT? That's dedication! That's work ethic! Something you wouldn't recognize if it bit you on your designer-jeans-wearing ass!"
"Maybe if you paid him BETTER he wouldn't look so miserable!"
"He's NOT miserable, he's PROFESSIONAL!"
The door closed, muffling the rest of the argument.
Tòumíng stood there for a moment, processing what he'd just witnessed.
"Well," Cupid said, sounding amused, "at least you made a good impression. Nothing like being used as a weapon in a family dispute to start your work day."
"I miss my villa," Tòumíng muttered.
"You left the villa fifty-eight minutes ago."
"Exactly. Too long."
He headed toward the equipment room to grab his gear, already mentally counting down the hours until he could go back home, order takeout, and continue his Breaking Bad marathon in peace.
Being rich was definitely better than being poor.
But apparently, he still needed to pretend to be poor for a while longer.