The gray Corolla sold.
The buyer was a rideshare driver, twenty-four or twenty-five, who'd slid into Zhang Lei's DMs after seeing Su Qing's photos in the group chat. He showed up on a Tuesday afternoon — lean guy, cheap sneakers, the slightly jittery energy of someone who'd been doing math in his head all night. Viewing and inspection took all of twenty minutes. He knew a bit about cars himself — circled it twice, crouched to snap photos of the undercarriage with his phone flashlight, sent the images to a buddy.
The buddy's verdict came back in a voice message Zhang Lei could hear from three feet away: "Looks clean. Go for it."
Twenty-seven thousand. Deal.
They shook hands. The rideshare driver grinned like he'd won something. Honestly, he had — that Corolla was rock-solid, low mileage, and priced fair. He'd run it into the ground doing twelve-hour shifts and it would keep going.
Transfer of ownership completed by four. With Zhang Lei's purchase price of twenty-one thousand plus two hundred for the paperwork — net profit: five thousand six hundred yuan.
That evening, Zhang Lei crouched on the balcony with his back against the railing and ran his full ledger in a beat-up notebook:
Card game earnings (discontinued): roughly fifteen thousand.
Used car business, total profit to date: Mazda 6 earned eleven thousand eight hundred. Buick Regal earned seven thousand. Nissan Sentra earned three thousand six hundred. Honda Civic earned six thousand six hundred. Toyota Corolla earned five thousand six hundred. Grand total: thirty-four thousand six hundred.
Total income since this all started: approximately fifty thousand yuan.
Subtract: twenty-one thousand three hundred in loan repayment. Roughly four thousand in daily living expenses — noodles, utilities, phone bill. About two thousand for his parents' medicine and groceries.
Bank balance: around twenty-three thousand.
He stared at the number. Two months ago he'd had nothing. Negative nothing — just debt and a dead-end life. Now twenty-three thousand sat in his account and the machine was still running.
And then there was — the Audi A6, if he could land it.
Zhang Lei pulled up the owner's phone number he'd saved. Last Saturday at the trading market, he'd spotted that dark green A6 — mechanical condition near-perfect, exterior looking like hell. But the Chen family had been circling it too. He'd backed off voluntarily. Smart move at the time.
Four days had passed since then. The car was still listed online — Zhang Lei found it on a local used car site, same photos, same plate number. The asking price had dropped from thirty-five to thirty-two thousand.
The Chens had passed?
Zhang Lei dialed the owner's number.
"Hello?" A middle-aged man's voice on the other end, slightly hoarse. Smoker's throat.
"Hi — are you the owner of that dark green Audi A6? I saw your car at the trading market last weekend."
"Oh — yeah, still available. You want to come look?"
"Sure. Is it still thirty-two?"
"Thirty-two." A pause. Lighter clicking in the background. "Some dealership guy came by before. Offered twenty-eight thousand. What a joke — the mechanical side of this car is flawless. I'm not desperate."
The Chens had offered twenty-eight. Owner refused.
Zhang Lei suppressed a smile. Twenty-eight from the Chens meant they'd seen the bad exterior and low-balled hard. But the owner knew his car was solid underneath and wouldn't budge. Stalemate. Perfect.
"Mind if I come by this afternoon?"
"Sure, come on over."
Three o'clock. Zhang Lei rode his e-bike across town to the owner's place — an older residential complex on the north side. Gray apartment blocks, laundry hanging from balconies, a tired-looking security booth with no guard in it.
The dark green A6 sat in the lot downstairs. Under direct afternoon sunlight, the paint oxidation looked even worse than it had at the market — chalky patches along the hood, the clear coat peeling near the rear quarter panel. But none of that mattered. Three thousand yuan of reconditioning would make it shine like factory-new.
Zhang Lei circled the car slowly. He crouched to peer under the chassis — for show. Popped the hood and leaned in to study the engine bay — also for show. He'd already confirmed everything with his vision days ago. The performance was for the owner, who stood smoking by the stairwell, watching.
"Condition's genuinely solid," Zhang Lei said, brushing off his hands as he stood up. "But you have to admit, this exterior... the paint oxidation is severe on at least three panels. Front bumper has that dent. Rims are scuffed up. I'd need to spend real money bringing it back to sellable condition."
"Reconditioning won't cost that much —"
"Full polish and wax, three thousand. Bumper panel beating and respray, fifteen hundred. Rim refinishing, eight hundred. We're talking over five grand total." Zhang Lei's figures were slightly inflated, but only slightly. Just enough to justify a harder push. "At thirty-two, the numbers don't work for me."
The owner dragged on his cigarette and stared at the car for a while. The ash grew long before he tapped it off. "What's your offer?"
"Thirty."
"Twenty-nine five."
The owner studied him. Young guy. Worn jacket, e-bike parked behind him. Didn't look wealthy. But he spoke with quiet precision — like someone who'd done this before and wasn't bluffing.
"Fine. Twenty-nine five."
Deal.
They completed the transfer that afternoon at the vehicle registration office — the same fluorescent-lit room Zhang Lei was starting to know by heart. Paperwork signed, stamps applied, new registration in hand.
Zhang Lei drove that dark green Audi A6 back to the old factory district. The engine hummed smoothly — 2.0T turbo, pulling clean through every gear. Beautiful machine wearing an ugly skin.
As he parked downstairs, his father happened to be pedaling his tricycle in from the opposite direction. Zhang Jianguo spotted the Audi and froze. The tricycle's brakes let out a thin squeal as it rolled to a stop beside him.
"Whose car?"
"Mine. Bought it for the business — flipping it."
Zhang Jianguo climbed off the tricycle and circled halfway around the Audi. He reached out and ran his palm across the roof — the thick calluses on his hand scraped against the oxidized paint with a dry, sandpaper rasp.
"How much?"
"Under thirty thousand. Fix it up and it'll sell for forty, maybe fifty."
Zhang Jianguo didn't respond. He looked at the car for a few more seconds — his expression unreadable, somewhere between pride and confusion — then turned back to his tricycle and rode it toward the storage shed. The tarp covering the cargo bed was coated in gray dust. A few empty cardboard boxes still sat inside, uncollected.
Zhang Lei stood in the lot watching his father's retreating back. Fifty-five years old. His spine was already starting to curve — a permanent stoop from years of hauling and pedaling.
Soon.
A few more scores like this one, and the old man would never need to pedal that tricycle again.