The week after selling the Mazda 6, Zhang Lei hit a rhythm.
Days were for hunting at the used car market. Wednesdays and Saturdays were the open-floor days for private sellers; the rest of the week he made rounds to the smaller consignment lots scattered around the city. Three seconds of X-ray vision per car — life or death in a glance. Each sweep covered forty to fifty vehicles. Two or three would be worth buying.
Nights, he played cards every other day — down from his previous frequency, because the car margins blew gambling out of the water. One car clearing ten grand was worth a full week of winning at the tables.
Within seven days he'd picked up two more vehicles.
A black Buick Regal — 16,000 yuan. He spotted it at a consignment lot on Tuesday morning. The seller was a middle-aged woman who kept apologizing for the color. "Nobody wants black around here," she said, twisting her hands. "Too hot in summer." The paint gleamed like obsidian in the morning sun. Zhang Lei activated his vision — three seconds of focus, that familiar pressure behind his temples — and saw what he needed: pristine internals, zero accident history. Perfect condition, ugly color. Classic mispricing.
Then a white Nissan Sentra at 14,000. The previous owner, a nervous college kid, complained it "shook when driving" and wanted it gone cheap. Zhang Lei activated his vision: engine and transmission both clean. The vibration came from a single worn engine mount — the rubber had cracked and hardened with age. Two hundred yuan fix.
The Buick Regal he photographed and posted to the dealer chat group. Someone bit the next day. Sold for 23,000 — seven thousand profit.
The Sentra got a new engine mount at a roadside shop, two hundred yuan out of pocket. Listed at 18,000. Sold three days later. Net profit: 3,600.
Combined with the 11,800 from the Mazda 6, three cars had earned him 22,400 in total.
Card games added another three thousand and change for the week.
Zhang Lei sat on his bed that Sunday night, back against the cold wall, tapping numbers into the calculator app. The screen glowed blue-white in the dim room.
Bank balance: 46,000 yuan.
He stared at the figure. Blinked. Tapped the numbers again to make sure he hadn't fat-fingered a digit. Same result.
From 1,800 when he'd been fired — to 46,000 now. Less than a month.
The number glowed on his screen. He stared at it for a long time.
Forty-six thousand.
His father pedaling a cargo tricycle all year earned barely twenty thousand. His mother gluing electronics components brought in seven or eight hundred a month. The two of them combined would need over a year to make what he'd earned in four weeks.
Zhang Lei closed the calculator and looked up at the ceiling. There was a small patch of black mold — leftover from when the upstairs neighbor's pipes leaked last year. He stared at it for a good ten seconds, then let out a single, quiet laugh.
Not joy. Relief. Forty-six thousand meant the twenty-thousand debt could be cleared. And after paying it off, he'd still have over twenty thousand left. For the first time in his life, his bank balance was bigger than what he owed.
That afternoon he went to the bank. The branch was nearly empty — a Tuesday at three in the afternoon. He took a number, waited six minutes, then sat down at the counter and said the words he'd been rehearsing in his head for two years. Get faster updates on g.com.
"I'd like to pay off my loan in full."
The teller — a woman in her thirties with frameless glasses — pulled up his account. Principal plus interest: 21,300 total. Zhang Lei counted out the bills. The teller fed them into the counting machine, typed something, and printed a settlement certificate.
Zhang Lei stood outside the bank holding that stamped piece of paper, staring at the line that read: "Outstanding balance: 0.00 yuan."
Lighter.
The weight that had sat on his shoulders for two and a half years was suddenly gone. He couldn't quite name the feeling. Not euphoria — something quieter. Solid. Like a stone sinking through water, finally hitting bottom and settling still.
On the way home he swung by Lao Zhou's logistics depot. Lao Zhou was loading cargo, wiping sweat when he spotted Zhang Lei.
"What brings you here?"
Zhang Lei pulled five hundred yuan from his pocket and held it out. "What I owe you."
Lao Zhou blinked, took the bills, counted them. "Didn't you already transfer last month? That time you sent—"
"That was the five hundred I borrowed. This five hundred is interest. You ran interference for me with Wang Defa's people. This is a thank-you."
"Fuck off." Lao Zhou laughed. "You're something else — fine, I'll take it. Come on, drinks tonight?"
"Another time. Got stuff to do."
Zhang Lei rode his electric scooter home. The spring air had warmed up. Willow trees along the road had sprouted fresh green, their fuzzy branches dangling low enough to brush the pavement.
He pulled out his phone and sent Su Qing a WeChat message:
"Paid off the twenty thousand today."
A minute later she replied: "Congrats! You're buying me dinner."
"Deal. This weekend."
Zhang Lei pocketed the phone. The curve at the corner of his mouth held all the way home.
When he walked in, his mother was cooking dinner. The smell of stir-fried greens and hot oil drifted from the kitchen. His father sat on the old sofa watching the evening news, volume cranked high — the old man's hearing was going.
"Ma." Zhang Lei stopped in the kitchen doorway.
"Mm?" Liu Guifen didn't turn around, spatula working the wok.
"I found a new job."
"Huh? What kind of job?"
"Used car business. Working for myself."
Her spatula paused. She turned to look at her son — new jacket from a couple weeks ago, face somehow brighter than it had been last month.
"Working for yourself? Do you have the capital?"
"Yeah. Saved up some."
"Oh." She turned back to her cooking. "Well, be careful out there. Don't get scammed."
"I know."
Zhang Lei went to his room. He slipped the settlement certificate into his dictionary — right next to the old IOU. One piece of paper that said "20,000 owed." Another that said "Balance: 0.00."
He looked at the two sheets for a while. Then closed the dictionary and slid it back under his pillow.
Tomorrow, back to buying cars. He still had 25,000 in working capital — play it right, and within a month he could double it to fifty.
Fifty thousand. Enough to open his own little dealership.
Zhang Lei closed his eyes. No card game tonight. Tonight, he could sleep well.