Two steaming bowls of egg noodles were placed on the coffee table. The rich broth held firm noodles, and an egg—perfectly fried with golden edges but a runny yolk—was soaking in the soup, topped with some chopped green onions. Just looking at it made it seem delicious.
The two pieces of candy gave Ming Zhifei enough strength to sit up. The aroma from the noodles was almost unbearable, but he waited for the young man who had set them on the coffee table—he had gone back to the apartment across the hall to get chopsticks.
Ming Zhifei’s slow-moving brain could only come up with one question: Is this kid a chef? How did he make something look so good and smell so amazing?
The reason he instinctively called him a “kid” was because the person looked twenty-four or twenty-five at most. Combined with that overly familiar attitude, he didn’t seem like a mature, proper man; he was more like a “big boy.”
“Oh man, the chopsticks were at the very bottom of the box. Took forever to find them.” The young man’s voice drifted in before he did. Seeing Ming Zhifei sitting up, he said with a grin, “Oh, you are alive!”
“Thank you for the candy.”
“Wow, first time hearing you speak! I thought you were a mute just now!” The young man put the chopsticks in Ming Zhifei’s hand, casually saying something rather unpleasant.
Ming Zhifei was sure he did it on purpose because the young man was looking at him with a subtle smile.
“I didn’t have the strength to talk earlier. I’m sorry.”
The man laughed and pointed his chopsticks at the bowl in front of Ming Zhifei. “Eat up, or you’ll faint again in a minute.”
“Thank you.”
Only after the young man started eating did Ming Zhifei lift a few strands of noodles into his mouth. It tasted wonderful. It was hard to imagine how this person had made a bowl of noodles that tasted like it had been made with rich bone broth in such a short time.
“Luckily I bought some groceries on my way back from the hospital, or neither of us would be eating right now. Ge, are you diabetic? How did you faint that badly?”
“No, I just haven’t eaten much today.” Hunger drove Ming Zhifei to shove the food into his mouth quickly. Because the young man had been going back and forth to the other apartment to get things, Ming Zhifei finally realized that this was the same man with the head injury he had called the ambulance for earlier that afternoon. Because he had a shaved head, was wearing plain clothes, had his eyes open, and was standing up, Ming Zhifei hadn’t recognized him at first.
“So because someone almost got murdered across the hall as soon as you moved in, you were too busy saving lives to eat?” The young man said with a laugh. “By the way, Ge, I haven’t introduced myself. My name is Yang Jianzhen. I just moved in across the hall today. I take it you just moved in too? Your suitcase is still open on the floor.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Wow, Ge, you really don’t waste words. Do you hate talking that much? You aren’t going to ask how my name is written, and you aren’t going to tell me yours?” The young man simply put down his bowl and moved his face close to Ming Zhifei’s. “Ge, you saved my life. We’re ‘life-and-death’ friends now, and we’re sharing a meal. At least tell me your name.”
This person talks so much, Ming Zhifei thought.
He was too close. Uncomfortable with Yang Jianzhen’s lack of boundaries, Ming Zhifei leaned back slightly and said, “Yang Jianzhen. Is that ‘Yang’ as in poplar tree, ‘Jian’ as in construction, and ‘Zhen’ as in precious?”
“It’s ‘Yang’ as in poplar, ‘Jian’ as in gradually, and ‘Zhen’ as in chaste.”
“Chaste? Loyal? Like the ‘Zhen’ in ‘a woman of virtue’?” For some reason, hearing that word in this person’s name felt oddly funny.
“Is it funny?” Yang Jianzhen laughed. “My grandfather gave me the name. He was a primary school principal, a man of culture.”
Is a primary school principal a man of culture? This question circled pointlessly in Ming Zhifei’s mind as he wondered how to define “culture.” He suddenly realized that if a “primary school principal” was the definition of cultured, then the person in front of him probably didn’t have much of an education.
This was the first person he had interacted with lately—one-on-one—who wasn’t just a “random stranger.” It was also the first time in a long time that Ming Zhifei had paid attention to another person.
He considered the contradictions in the man before him. His name sounded like it came from a “cultured” family, but his appearance, behavior, and speech suggested his job wasn’t anything high-level—certainly not a “respectable” person by societal standards. This person had nearly died in an attack just half a day ago, yet here he was acting like nothing had happened, cooking dinner and eating happily.
He didn’t know anyone like this. What word would describe him? “Street-smart”? “Ruffian”?
“So, Ge, what is your name? Am I supposed to just call you ‘Hey’ from now on?”
“My name is Ming Zhifei. ‘Ming’ as in bright, ‘Zhi’ as in stop, and ‘Fei’ as in wrong.”
As Yang Jianzhen heard this, he was swallowing his last sip of soup. He set down the large bowl and laughed: “Wow, Ge, your name is so exhausting!”
“Why do you say that?”
“To stop what is wrong—is that what it means?” Yang Jianzhen was still smiling. “But how do you know if what you’re going through is right or wrong? How can someone use ‘stopping the wrong’ as their name? It’s like whoever named you assumed everything you do is a mistake.”
Many years later, Ming Zhifei would still often think of those words. His father had said his name meant “Using clarity to stop the wrong, so as not to fall into evil ways,” but Yang Jianzhen had said, “How do you know the right or wrong of things?” He couldn’t explain the feeling he had when he heard that—it was as if his soul, suspended over a boiling pot by a thousand threads, had suddenly frozen. He felt the fire in the midst of the ice.
Yang Jianzhen raised his eyes to look at Ming Zhifei. It had to be said that even with a shaved head, even as a man with gauze wrapped around his skull, he possessed a beauty capable of captivating any living soul. Then, he smiled again and said, “But starving yourself to death is definitely wrong.”
That day, Ming Zhifei did not starve to death. He ate the most delicious bowl of noodles he had ever tasted. After his young neighbor left, he put on his leather shoes—the soles of which were broken and held together by only a thread—and walked to the small shop at the intersection. He bought a pair of slippers, a pack of dried noodles, a pound of eggs, and a bunch of green vegetables before returning home.
His neighbor, however, did not show his face again for many days after that. During that time, Ming Zhifei went out a few times to handle the paperwork for selling his car. Walking through the parking lot a few days later, he noticed a red Porsche 718 parked next to his car. Since it was the kind of expensive vehicle he knew nothing about, he didn’t know exactly how much it cost; he only felt it was somewhat “dangerous.” He didn’t want to increase his debt by bumping into a luxury car, so he moved his own car to a different spot. At the same time, he felt a flicker of curiosity: why was such a luxury car parked in a place that could only be described as a slum? For the next few days, whenever he went out for groceries, he noticed the car remained in the same spot.
By the day he finally drove his car to the used car dealer—ten days after moving in—he noticed the red Porsche was gone.
The 180,000 yuan from the car sale would be deposited into his account, and it would likely soon turn into compensation money. During these days in the rental, he spent his time cleaning and buying daily necessities. Since the shoes he wore to go out were gone, he bought a pair of cheap beach sandals at a nearby small supermarket. Since he was no longer working, wearing a Polo shirt and dress pants with beach sandals looked quite strange, but he had no other clothes to wear. Who could blame him, considering he had worked almost 365 days a year for the ten years since graduation? No—actually, he had been like that since his student days.
When he graduated from the eight-year clinical medicine program at Lingnan Medical University, he was a young PhD under the age of twenty-seven. The Third Affiliated Hospital of Lingnan Medical, located in Qianhai, was directly under the university, and he stayed there. This was no easy feat. He didn’t have a mentor with a powerful background, so he couldn’t stay at the First or Second hospitals in the provincial capital’s city center. Even at the Third Hospital, he only secured the position by beating out many other PhD students from various programs graduating the same year. The price he paid was that, since starting university, he had focused entirely on studying, certifications, internships, and research. He did every required task perfectly, never scheduled a vacation for himself, and hadn’t even had time for a proper relationship.
He had zero interest in grooming or appearance. “Zhifei”—yes, his mother had said that pursuing outward brilliance was wrong. When he was very small, she told him in a tone that allowed no argument: You must become stronger, surpass everyone, and stand at the top of the food chain—that is what is right. As for clothing, just follow the crowd and don’t make mistakes. Only shallow people deliberately pursue a refined appearance. When you are high enough in status, you can wear rags and people will still flatter you.
The same mother who spoke those words did a complete 180 after he graduated with his PhD and found a job: “Isn’t it time to find a partner? You should at least fix up your appearance a bit. Your clothes are really lacking taste.”
Although he had never been intimate with the opposite sex, he agreed that since he had a stable job, the next life goal according to his mother’s suggestion was marriage. Back then, he didn’t doubt this goal; he even took it for granted. However, he only swapped the crew-neck T-shirts of his student days for shirts or Polo shirts and dress pants, following the lead of his colleagues. After all, since he wore a white lab coat every day, he didn’t really have many chances to wear anything eye-catching.
Having been kindly dropped off at home by the used car dealer because he no longer had a car, Ming Zhifei stood at his door and looked down at his dress pants and beach sandals. Once again, he felt completely out of place, yet he didn’t even know how he was supposed to dress now.
Just then, he heard a loud “thud” from inside the opposite apartment. Ming Zhifei turned toward Yang Jianzhen’s door and heard a faint, pained sound coming from inside—it sounded like a groan of distress.
Had Yang Jianzhen been beaten again?