After work, I went to a restaurant with him. We ate until 8 p.m., and he packed some extra dishes. Then he took me to a convenience store, where we picked up two crates of milk and some gifts. He gave me an address, told me to drive there, and on the way, he filled me in on the person we were going to meet—Wang Changping.
Back when I was still at the bottom of the ladder, he was already a project manager. He was extremely strict in his work, and the projects he oversaw were always of top quality. A few years ago, I heard that during a construction project, some workers didn't secure the steel pipes properly, and one fell from a height, hitting his leg. He was rushed to the hospital and had to have it amputated. Later, the company covered his medical expenses as work-related injury compensation and gave him a sum of money. Logically, that money should have been enough for him to live a decent life.
Unfortunately, he has a child. When she was seven, she got a disease—one that just wouldn't go away. She could survive with medication, but without it, she'd die. The medicine she takes costs over 20,000 yuan a bottle, barely enough for a month, adding up to 280,000 yuan a year. When he was a project manager, his annual income—including salary, living allowances, and project bonuses—was around 300,000 to 400,000 yuan. He could not only afford the medicine but also live comfortably. But after the amputation, he lost his job, and that work injury compensation didn't last long. As life grew desperate, his wife divorced him. Now, he wears a prosthetic leg and works two jobs a day, struggling to keep going—all to buy medicine for his daughter.
He's perfect for the role: over a decade of industry experience, a clean background, no ties to the group. Most importantly, his daughter's need for medicine is our leverage.
After hearing Zhou Quan's story, I felt sorry for Wang Changping, but I couldn't deny he was exactly the man Mr. Huang was looking for.
The car pulled up to his building—an old red-brick apartment block. We carried the gifts up to the third floor and stopped at the door on the right. A childish girl's voice came from inside: "Is that you, Uncle Zhou?"
"Uncle's here, little one. Your dad's not home, but let me in first—I brought you snacks," Zhou Quan called back.
"I can't. Dad said not to open the door when he's out," she replied.
"I'm not a stranger, it's Uncle Zhou. Come on," he coaxed.
"Wait, my dad'll be back soon," she insisted.
I smiled and said, "He's taught her well."
Zhou Quan nodded. "Yep, real well."
We waited in the hallway until 9 p.m. Then Zhou Quan looked down the stairs and called out, "Old Wang!"
A voice answered from below: "Hmm?"
Zhou Quan set the gifts down and went to meet him. We heard their voices as they climbed:
"What brings you here, Old Zhou?"
"Came to see the kid. Also, got an opportunity to talk to you about—could be a way out."
By the time they reached the landing between the second and third floors, I saw Wang Changping. His right leg was amputated, his eyes were swollen, and his stubble was unkempt. At first glance, he fit the image of someone barely scraping by.
Wang Changping pointed at me and asked Zhou Quan, "Who's this?"
"This is a shareholder from our group. He's here specifically to see you," Zhou Quan replied.
Upon hearing that, Wang Changping quickened his steps up the stairs, fumbling in his pocket for keys. "Sorry to keep you waiting. Come in for a drink," he said, opening the door and heading straight for the kitchen.
Zhou Quan followed with the gifts, and I came last. While they fetched water in the kitchen, I took in the tiny apartment—it was completely bare. No sofa or TV in the living room, just a small table and two chairs. Everything sellable was gone. On the table, a bowl with leftover soup—probably the girl's dinner. I glanced at the kitchen stove, where a small stool sat beside it; she must have cooked the noodles herself.
The largest wall in the living room was covered with a few kindergarten certificates and a photo frame: a family portrait of Wang Changping, his wife, and their daughter. In it, he looked sunny and handsome—nothing like he did now. The little girl in the photo was innocent, holding a magic wand. My gaze shifted right, and I saw her now: a thin child, barely a meter tall, hiding behind the door, watching me with eyes like a puppy's. She didn't speak, just swayed slightly, following my every look. She was much thinner than in the photo.
In that moment, I was speechless, my chest tight with a weight I couldn't name. I froze for a few seconds, then opened my bag, pulled out a bundle of hundred-yuan bills, thought for a second, and took out another. I carried the two bundles toward the kitchen.
Wang Changping was still boiling water. I thrust the money into his hand, grabbed Zhou Quan, and headed for the door. "This won't work. Find someone else," I said as we left.
When we reached the hallway, Zhou Quan pulled free and asked, "Brother Feng, why not? He's perfect. So what if he's got a bad leg—he can do it."
I shook my head. "It's not the leg. I can't pick him. After this is done, Mr. Huang'll send him overseas. How's a disabled man gonna survive there with his daughter?" I said, continuing down the stairs.
Zhou Quan shouted after me, "His daughter'll die without that medicine! It's over 20,000 yuan a bottle—how's a disabled man gonna earn that? What do you expect him to do?"
That stopped me in my tracks.
Zhou Quan went on: "This is a chance to make real money. Mr. Huang needs someone like him. Let's just go with him."
I hesitated, took a deep breath, and relented.
We went back inside. Wang Changping was putting away the money. I looked at him seriously and said, "This job's not clean. Are you willing to do it?"
After hearing me, he glanced at his daughter, told her to go to her room and close the door. Once she'd done that, he asked, "What kind of job?"
Before we talked, we laid out the restaurant food on the table—no alcohol. I told him Mr. Huang's plan, making it clear that afterward, he'd be wanted by the police and could never stay in the country.
Wang Changping looked hesitant, and I figured he'd probably refuse. "It's fine if you say no," I said. "As long as you keep quiet about this, the 20,000 yuan's yours as hush money."
As soon as I finished, he asked, "How much will I get if I do it?"
"A million," I replied.
Wang Changping took a deep breath. He stared at the family portrait, then at his daughter's closed door. His eyes reddened visibly. He wiped away a tear and nodded. "Fine. I'll do it. If it makes money… I'll do anything."