Zhang Lei took two days to identify his tail.
The method was simple—he went out at different times, took different routes, and stopped at corners to wait. Wait for the gray scooter to appear.
Day one: nothing. He circled his neighborhood twice at odd hours. No suspicious vehicles, no familiar silhouettes. Probably the tail operated on alternate days rather than constant surveillance.
Day two—Thursday afternoon. Zhang Lei left the apartment to hit the convenience store. At the mouth of the alley he paused, bent down, pretended to tie his shoe. His peripheral vision swept a full arc.
There. Diagonally across from the alley entrance, behind a plane tree. A gray electric scooter, parked. The rider hadn't dismounted—sitting on the seat, head down, looking at his phone. Tall and thin. Dark blue jacket. Black helmet hanging from the handlebar.
Same person. Same setup.
Zhang Lei didn't look directly. He straightened up and kept walking, turned into the convenience store. Through the glass door's reflection—he caught the man lifting his head, eyes tracking Zhang Lei's movement.
Confirmed. Same guy. At least two tails now, probably more that he'd missed.
Inside, Zhang Lei grabbed a bottle of water and a pack of instant noodles. Took his time at the register. When he stepped back outside, he didn't hurry. Stood by the entrance, cracked open the water bottle, took a slow sip.
His gaze drifted—casually, accidentally—toward the plane tree.
Then he activated his vision.
Three seconds. That was all he needed.
The X-ray sight cut through the dark blue jacket's pockets. Contents: a smartphone, a pack of Chunghwa cigarettes, a lighter, and a folding knife—short blade, the kind you'd buy at any hardware store. Inside breast pocket: a folded piece of paper. He couldn't read all of it through the creases, but three fragments were clear enough—
Zhang Lei.Trade market.Electric scooter.
His information. Written down. Carried on the person.
This wasn't casual surveillance. This was organized. Documented.
Zhang Lei cut the vision. Took another sip of water. His expression didn't change—he'd practiced that. Three weeks of card games had taught him what no acting class could: how to keep a flat face when every nerve was firing.
The license plate was smeared with mud. Deliberately obscured. But the frame number was welded to the chassis above the front wheel, and that couldn't be hidden from eyes that saw through metal.
Last four digits: 7428.
Memorized.
Zhang Lei walked back home with his plastic bag swinging gently at his side. Unhurried. No glances over his shoulder, no change in pace. The tail probably followed to the alley entrance and stopped there—same pattern as before. Never entered the residential compound itself.
Back in his apartment, Zhang Lei sat on the balcony with his water bottle and thought.
The evidence was clear. The tail carried written notes about him. Knew his market schedule. Used a mud-obscured plate. This was Zhao Si's operation—no question. And it wasn't a one-time thing. The guy had been on him at least twice that Zhang Lei had detected, probably more times that he hadn't.
What was Zhao Si after?
He was mapping Zhang Lei's business. Wanted to know what Zhang Lei did besides play cards—where the money came from, how much there was, what leverage existed. If he discovered the used car operation was profitable, ideas would form. Bad ones.
Worst case: Zhao Si shows up at the trade market with his crew. Makes a scene. Scares off buyers. Or worse—intercepts a handoff, gets physical during a car exchange, torpedoes a deal in progress. These were low-cost, high-disruption moves. Right in Zhao Si's playbook.
Zhang Lei pulled out his phone and scrolled through his contacts.
The list was short. Lao Zhou—a truck driver at a logistics company. Good guy, useless in this situation. Su Qing—a twenty-four-year-old woman who sold jade accessories. Even more useless. Xiao Ma and A-Dong—Wang Defa's people, wouldn't lift a finger for him.
Nobody.
In this entire city—he was alone.
He set the phone down and leaned against the balcony railing. Across the gap, a neighbor was hanging laundry on her balcony, a thick quilt blocking half the view. Below, children chased each other across the concrete courtyard, their shoes slapping out a staccato rhythm.
An ordinary afternoon. Ordinary lives. Nobody out there knew that a twenty-three-year-old on the fourth floor was being stalked by an underground card shark's surveillance team.
He had to figure something out.
If Zhao Si was using surveillance to map his life—then Zhang Lei would give him a life not worth mapping.
Starting tomorrow: pause all in-person car transactions. No market visits. No client meetings. No driving cars across town for handoffs. Online listings could continue—posting photos, answering inquiries—but any physical exchange would happen on Zhang Lei's terms, at a location of his choosing, with the buyer coming to him.
Meanwhile—let the tail see nothing. Feed him boredom. Stay home. Walk to the supermarket. Sit in the park for half an hour. Wear old clothes. Look like a guy with no job, no prospects, no hustle worth stealing.
Two weeks of that, and Zhao Si's guy would report back: Nothing. He's broke. Sits around all day. Not worth the trouble.
Boredom as camouflage. Make Zhao Si lose interest.
Would it work? Zhang Lei wasn't certain. But he had no better play.
He picked up his phone and messaged Su Qing:
Someone's been following me. Zhao Si's people. I'm staying off the streets for a while. If anyone asks about cars, have them come to me. I'm not going to the market.
Her reply came fast: You're sure it's surveillance?
Positive. At least twice now.
Should you call the police?
Zhang Lei considered it. Report what? Following someone isn't illegal. And I have no proof.
Then stay safe. Let me know if you need anything.
Will do.
He set the phone face-down on the railing. Looked up. Mid-April sky, high and empty—not a single cloud. The blue went on forever.
Wait.
Sometimes waiting was a strategy too.