“I heard from Grandma Gan that Xue Zhen’s year-end bonus this year is a whopping 300,000! I finally get why you hate him so much. Now I’m starting to resent the rich too—I’d love to steal his money for you to spend.” Hang Zheng was a competent intelligence officer; she’d barely arrived home before she’d already gathered firsthand intelligence on the enemy.
Hang Sheng wore two faces: on the surface, she appeared calm and composed, but inside, she was grinding her teeth so hard she was about to shatter them.
So what if it’s just 300,000? As if she didn’t have that much herself. After all, it took Xue Zhen a whole year of hard work to earn 300,000, while she, Hang Sheng, could do it in just forty-four days. Who’s the better one? Anyone with eyes could see the answer clearly.
Hang Sheng ended the video call, picked up the kitten—which had been crouching like a hen inside the suitcase—for the eighth time, then, catching it off guard, quickly closed the suitcase, zipped it up, and stood it upright, waiting for the moving company to arrive in half an hour.
Aside from a 24-inch suitcase, there were three extra-large 71×90-centimeter plastic storage bags packed to the brim on the floor, along with some oversized cat supplies that wouldn’t fit in the suitcase.
It was true that Hang Sheng’s luggage was a bit excessive. With the next month and a half still in the depths of winter, a single coat alone could take up half the suitcase to withstand the bitter cold, forcing her to keep expanding her luggage capacity—not to mention that she was traveling with a child, which made the situation completely unavoidable.
When the small van arrived at the villa district in the eastern part of the city, the driver tried to jack up the price on the spot, claiming there was no elevator in the building and they had to go up to the third floor. Even though he had already collected the moving fee and been informed of the situation in advance, he demanded an additional fifty yuan for carrying the luggage upstairs.
Hang Sheng had been seething with anger ever since she got in the van. The cabin was choked with smoke, and to make matters worse, the driver—the very source of the stench—kept spewing toxic rhetoric from his mouth, using the entire ride to make veiled insults and launch a full-scale attack on cat lovers.
Now, standing in this open area, she had options: she could seek help from the diligent security team ahead or ask her new boss—with whom she’d signed a contract—for workers’ compensation protection. With paths open in every direction, she didn’t have to hold back or act timidly just because of her circumstances.
Hang Sheng jutted out her chin and scowled at him. “I think you’re actually undercharging. I suggest you add an entrance fee, a downstairs fee, a return trip fee, and a gas fee—fifty each. That’d be two hundred and fifty in your pocket—wouldn’t that be just right?”
“Who are you calling a two-hundred-and-fifty[1]is a derogatory insult meaning “idiot,” “fool,” or “simpleton”. It describes someone who is careless, foolish, or acts without thinking. The term is considered … Continue reading jQuery('#footnote_plugin_tooltip_2891516_1_1').tooltip({ tip: '#footnote_plugin_tooltip_text_2891516_1_1', tipClass: 'footnote_tooltip', effect: 'fade', predelay: 0, fadeInSpeed: 200, delay: 400, fadeOutSpeed: 200, position: 'top center', relative: true, offset: [-7, 0], });?!” The driver raised his hand as if to strike her; his swarthy face somehow managed to darken even further.
Hang Sheng took a few steps back toward the villa gate, clutching Hang Tian tightly. “So what if I’m calling you a two-hundred-and-five? If we dug out your brain, we’d think it was mined from an oil field—it’s that black! They say the darker the oil, the more impurities it contains. I guess those impurities are all you.”
The driver had no doubt about what he’d heard, and he knew himself well enough to realize that the other person was definitely calling him scum.
The driver was panting heavily, like a dying old ox that had spotted a red rag; he let out a “moo” and was about to charge forward to reclaim his former glory.
Hang Sheng deftly dodged, and the man crashed into the door, serving as a human doorstop.
Fang Huajun opened the door and looked down at the stranger kneeling on the ground, his face contorted with pain. He studied the scene for a long moment before asking, “Is there anything you can’t say while standing up?”
The driver felt as though his already frayed nerves were about to snap, but he forced a conciliatory smile anyway. He hadn’t realized there was a man in this woman’s home…
“Hehe, our company has recently been adopting a Japanese-style moving model—this is called ‘kneeling service,’” he said with some difficulty.
Fang Huajun glanced at the young woman under the taxodium tree, who was grinning triumphantly, but his expression remained unchanged. He stepped aside to let him in: “Well, that’s a bit of a hassle. We have quite a few cats here, so please be careful coming in and out—we don’t want any of them sneaking out.”
Although the driver was reluctant, he didn’t want to show it in front of a man who was far his senior and in much better physical condition, so he could only grudgingly agree.
But deep down, he still harbored some resentment. Carrying a few packing bags and suitcases would have been one thing, but having to make an extra trip up and down the stairs just for a lightweight, bulky litter box—he really didn’t want to do it.
The driver thought for a moment, picked up the large tray, and was about to hand it to Hang Sheng, reasoning that a woman should always appear considerate in front of the man she loves: “You can at least give me a hand, right?”
As for why she didn’t ask Fang Huajun—a man—to help, the driver explained, “The way he acts, he’s clearly a spoiled rich kid; you can’t count on him.”
Actually, if the driver had been polite, Hang Sheng would have been more than happy to lend a hand. She hadn’t paid the fare yet, and her anger had subsided; she just wanted to get this over with, so she didn’t plan to make a big deal out of it.
But she was still holding the cat, so she didn’t have a free hand to carry the litter box. Fortunately, Fang Huajun finally deigned to step out of his “bedchamber” and, like an angel, fluttered over to her side with an air of kindness.
Hang Sheng said gratefully, “Did you come to help me carry the litter box?”
Fang Huajun ruthlessly refused to do something he had no intention of doing anyway: “No, I just wanted to see your cat.”
After several days of rain and gloom, a sunny, breezy day finally arrived. On such a warm day with a gentle breeze, the feathery leaves of the taxodium slowly drifted down, settling on Hang Sheng’s two large eyes.
She brushed the leaf away from her eyes and looked at the man standing before her, his expression open and free of guilt. She had to admit that the driver had spoken wisely today—the young master simply wasn’t cut out for this sort of thing.
Hang Sheng instructed the driver to take all her luggage to the bedroom on the third floor that Fang Huajun had arranged for her. Only after she’d shown this ghost—whose resentment was about to reach its limit—the door did she finally get a moment’s rest.
During this time, Fang Huajun stood in the living room on the first floor, intently examining Hang Tian’s physical condition.
Fur, joints, ear canals, nails… he fiddled with every part of the little cat.
Hang Sheng had never seen him show such curiosity about anything before. At least when it came to her using Hang Tian’s name to apply for a job under false pretenses or her heated argument with the driver, he had never once shown any interest in finding out more.
And Hang Tian? He seemed like a completely different cat. This bully who picked on the weak and cowered from the strong was as docile as a mouse caught by a cat in Fang Huajun’s hands—unbelievably well-behaved, practically betraying his mother’s excellent genes.
Watching Hang Tian’s docile demeanor, Hang Sheng felt both angry and jealous; she snatched the cat right out of Fang Huajun’s arms.
“Don’t worry, he’s perfectly healthy—he won’t spread any germs to your precious kitties.”
Fang Huajun didn’t show any displeasure at her sudden rudeness; he just nodded calmly: “ “I know—you mentioned that in the link where you’re selling the cat.”
Hang Sheng was the type who grew more determined the more she was challenged. If someone had argued with her head-on, she would have definitely gone head-to-head with them, but this kind of nonchalant attitude felt like punching a bag of cotton—leaving her utterly helpless.
She glared at him with wide eyes, with nowhere to vent her frustration, and could only stammer a rebuttal: “I’m not selling cats!”
This time, he didn’t say he already knew; he simply replied, “Hmm, go upstairs and get your things ready.”
Hang Sheng was completely at a loss. She asked, “Now? Isn’t my job supposed to start today?”
“In a sense, your job is basically non-stop. If you don’t clean up now, are you going to spend your sleep time tonight moving that mountain of stuff in your room?” Fang Huajun pointed at the cat in her arms, which was starting to squirm restlessly, and said, “Your lineage will come to an end.”
Hang Yugong looked at her kitten’s bare little bottom and had to admit that if she steadfastly adhered to her “no second child” policy, her lineage would indeed end with Hang Tian’s generation.
“They’ve already had lunch. Cats have their own plans for the afternoon. You don’t need to monitor them like a security camera the whole time, but you should pop out every now and then to check on them and offer some comfort when necessary—they really love being hugged and petted.” Fang Huajun casually picked up a cat and stroked it.
The work was far more leisurely than she’d imagined. Hang Sheng asked curiously, “What about you?”
Fang Huajun pointed toward the dark void in the northeast corner of the first floor: “I spend most of my time underground.”
Hang Sheng finally understood why he was so pale…
By the time she’d completely unpacked her luggage, it was already 5:00 p.m. Thanks to the rare clear sky, the sky hadn’t noticeably darkened yet.
Hang Sheng rolled her aching shoulders and headed downstairs to start preparing dinner for the kittens.
When she reached the first floor, she found someone already in the kitchen. Fang Huajun, wearing soft loungewear, was standing by a pot that was bubbling and steaming, A large group of cats of all shapes and sizes had already gathered outside the kitchen door; cat hairs of various colors and textures danced in the air, as if it were the season when willow catkins were floating everywhere, while the robot vacuum ran nonstop.
Fang Huajun seemed to sense someone behind him; he turned around, glanced at Hang Sheng, and turned off the gas stove knob.
Hang Sheng saw that the pot was filled with shrimp. She remembered that the contract specified the kittens would eat shrimp once a week, on Mondays—which was today.
Hang Sheng felt a bit deflated and at a loss. Pouting, she asked the man emerging from the kitchen, “Why did you steal my job?”
“I was worried it would take you a while to move that mountain,” Fang Huajun said with a shush. The cats, who had been hopping around like rabbits at his feet just moments ago, all sat down obediently. He continued, “Don’t worry—today counts as a full day’s work. No pay deduction.”
Hang Sheng’s face flushed with a mix of embarrassment and indignation. “It’s not entirely about the money…”
“I know,” Fang Huajun lifted his gaze from the group of cats to meet her slightly trembling eyes. He was always like that—when he spoke, he would fix his gaze intently on the person he was talking to, just as a cat never takes its eyes off a point of light. “I’m just letting you know my plans.”
Although maintaining eye contact during a conversation is considered polite, Hang Sheng still felt a bit uneasy. She awkwardly turned her head away and murmured, “Oh, I see…”
Fang Huajun shoved a pot into her hands. “You have plenty of work to do. Don’t worry about me taking over your responsibilities. Every now and then, I need to do something for the kittens to maintain our friendly relationship.”
He picked out two cats from the group and soothed them for a moment: “These two can’t eat shrimp, but the rest get two shrimp each—you’ll have to help peel them.”
With that, he set the cats down, picked up a small plate of shrimp he’d portioned out, grabbed a stale sandwich from the fridge, and returned to his private underground castle—off-limits to outsiders.
Following the contract’s specifications, Hang Sheng carefully prepared dinner for the kittens before finally having time to make her own meal after seven o’clock.
She could have ordered takeout or cooked for herself; Hang Sheng usually preferred to cook, but today she was absolutely exhausted, so she picked a chain restaurant that looked relatively clean and ordered a set meal to make do.
After dinner, Hang Sheng curled up on the sofa in the first-floor living room to play with the kittens.
The house had three floors in total. Aside from the kitchen and one bedroom on each of the second and third floors, the rest of the space was open to the kittens. However, perhaps due to the winter weather, the cats preferred to stay on the first floor, where the heating was relatively strong—which also made it convenient for Hang Sheng to look after them all at once.
Most of the cats here have physical disabilities, so they run out of energy after playing for only a short while. Once everyone had settled down, Hang Sheng, finding herself with nothing else to do, opened the contract and began flipping through the cats’ profiles at the back.
The first column on the first page read: Coco Bean, five years old, female, calico; owner deceased; arrived at the home on July 21, 2024.
This was followed by Coco Bean’s health condition and preferences, and further down was the reason for her arrival. It roughly stated that a fire broke out in the apartment complex late at night; by the time Coco Bean’s owner discovered the blaze, it was already too late to escape, and there was no way out but death. To give the kitten a glimmer of hope, she threw the cat from the tenth floor, hoping that the cat’s innate ability to leap and the lush summer foliage would pave a path to survival. The outcome was predictable: the cat survived despite severe burns and injuries from the fall, while the owner was forever lost in that sea of red flames.
Cocoa Bean was the very cat that had been so friendly just yesterday, curling up in Hang Sheng’s palm waiting to be petted. It used to be a beautiful calico, yet Hang Sheng somehow failed to recognize it.
It had been so depressed that it had stopped eating; at five years old, its body was so thin it looked like that of a half-grown kitten. Its hind legs were nearly broken during that fall, and moving was always a struggle, so it walked with a wobbly gait.
Hang Sheng hadn’t yet run out of strength—she had plenty left to cry—so for the next ten minutes, she held Coco in her arms, screaming at the top of her lungs as tears streamed down her face.
At some point, Fang Huajun, that messenger from hell, emerged from downstairs. Standing not far from the sofa, he asked calmly, “Hang Sheng, do you want to quit?”
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