A week had bled into the calendar since Michael's return from that other, terrifying world. Seven days of mundane routine—the blare of alarm clocks, the grimy press of the morning commute, the fluorescent hum of the office—had worked a kind of magic. The sharp, serrated edges of memory, the ogre's roar, the chilling pursuit, had begun to soften and blur, retreating into the realm of a bad dream. In their place, a novel and fragile sensation had taken root: something approximating happiness.
It was, he reflected, a simple, uncomplicated happiness. Its foundation was purely, almost childishly, material. The windfall from the silver goddess had granted him a temporary reprieve from the grinding anxiety of insolvency. He had ventured into a proper department store, not a discount rack, and spent what felt like a king's ransom—over two thousand yuan—on a single suit and a pair of shoes that didn't pinch. Standing before the smudged mirror in his rented room, he'd seen a stranger: a young man with a sharper silhouette, the fabric hanging with a respect his old clothes never afforded him. He looked, if not prosperous, then at least possible.
His diet had upgraded from greasy street stall noodles to proper meals in small restaurants where menus were laminated and the air smelled of actual stir-fry. Even the cigarettes in his breast pocket had been promoted from the furtive, cheap "Baisha" to the bold, blue packet of "Furongwang," a brand he'd once considered a symbol of unattainable success. He'd even, buoyed by a sudden surge of confidence, spent a solitary evening in a bar, the bass thrumming through his bones as he nursed an overpriced beer, half-hoping, half-dreading some form of connection. None came, and he'd left alone, the artificial cheer of the place fading behind him, but the act itself felt like a luxury.
Life, in its essential drudgery, remained unchanged. He still reported to his job, still forced a smile for clients, still played the meek subordinate to his manager. Yet, these small upgrades—the feel of new wool, the taste of a well-seasoned pork chop, the tangible weight of a premium cigarette—were enough to create a buffer against the world. Michael was a man of simple needs; his happiness was built on such modest foundations.
This fragile equilibrium shattered at eight o'clock on a perfectly ordinary Tuesday evening. He had just stumbled back into his cramped apartment, the city's grime clinging to him, and was shrugging off his jacket when the phone on his bed screeched its insistent ringtone. The screen glowed with the name "Hu Ling." His sister. A warm, surprised affection bloomed in his chest. Their calls were infrequent, cherished for their rarity.
"Heavy traffic on the road to remembering your little brother, eh, Sister Hu Ling?" he answered, forcing a lightness into his voice that he didn't quite feel. "To what do I owe the honor?"
The sound that came back was not a retort, but a choked, wet sob that seemed to travel a thousand miles down the line to ice the blood in his veins. "Di… it's bad," she stammered, her voice trembling with a effort to form words. "Mom… she collapsed. It's serious. They've taken her to the central hospital in the city."
The room seemed to tilt. Michael groped for the wall, his hand meeting the cool, flaking paint. "What? What is it? Can they fix it?" The questions tumbled out, sharp and desperate.
"Th-the doctor said… aortic dissection. A rupture. She needs surgery, now. To put in stents." Hu Ling's voice was a threadbare whisper, straining under the weight of the medical jargon. "They said… without it… a fifty percent chance she won't… won't make it two days. And after that, every hour…"
"Then tell them to operate! Now!" The words were a roar, torn from a place of pure, animal fear.
The sob that answered him was one of utter, helpless despair. "They need the money upfront, Di. For the surgery. With the stents… even the cheaper, domestic ones… it's two hundred thousand. We have thirty thousand at home. Your brother-in-law just put everything into a truck… I can maybe get twenty thousand more. Dad says he'll find a way, but… where? Who do we ask? We need a hundred and fifty thousand more, just to start!"
The number—two hundred thousand—hung in the stifling air of the room, a suffocating presence. It wasn't an impossible sum in the abstract, but the timeline was a merciless garrote. He thought of his father, a proud, stubborn man who would now be swallowing a lifetime of dignity to beg from relatives they barely knew, for loans that would never come. The responsibility, the crushing weight of it, settled squarely on Michael's shoulders.
He took a deep, shuddering breath, fighting to keep his voice level, to be the anchor his sister needed. "Jiejie. Listen to me. Don't panic. I'll handle the rest of the money. I'll transfer it tonight. You get them to schedule the surgery immediately. Mom… she's kind. She's strong. She'll be okay." The words felt like ash in his mouth, a hopeful lie uttered into the void.
He ended the call before his composure could crack. The silence that rushed back in was deafening. He fumbled for his phone, his fingers clumsy as he opened the banking app. The digits on the screen glowed with a cruel, mocking finality: 58,426.37 yuan. The remains of his otherworldly windfall. A wave of self-loathing, hot and acrid, washed over him. Years of decent earnings, frittered away on transient comforts, on evenings in bars like the one he'd just visited, while sending only token amounts home. He had been a fool, a careless grasshopper chirping through the summer, and now winter had arrived with a vengeance.
Smack! Smack!The sound was sharp and startling in the quiet room. He struck himself twice across the face, the stinging pain a feeble punishment for his monumental stupidity. "You worthless spendthrift!" he hissed at his reflection in the dark screen of the phone.
But recrimination was a luxury he couldn't afford. The calculus was brutal and non-negotiable: his mother's life. He would pay any price.
The avenues were few and grim. His close friends were in the same financial boat—surviving, not thriving. The wider circle of acquaintances would vanish at the first mention of a five-figure loan. Online fundraising was a slow, uncertain beast; raising such a sum in hours was a fantasy.
There was only one path, dark and lined with thorns. His thumb hovered over a contact saved simply as "Dong Ge." A man from a boozy business dinner, all sharp smiles and sharper terms. His business was liquidity, at a cost. Michael pressed the button.
"Dong-ge. It's Michael. I need to borrow one hundred and twenty thousand. I understand the terms. All of them. But I need it tonight." His voice was a flat, dead thing.
…
It was past eleven when Michael let himself back into his apartment. He moved like a man who had aged a decade in an evening. His first act was to call his sister back, painting a smile into his voice. "Jiejie. It's done. I transferred one hundred and seventy-eight thousand. Go pay the hospital. Get the surgery scheduled for tonight. The extra is for Mom's recovery." He spun a tale of prudent savings and minor borrowing, a fiction of stability designed to comfort. He promised he couldn't return for the surgery, citing work pressures he knew were insignificant compared to the reality in that hospital room.
The moment the call ended, the mask dissolved. He slumped onto the edge of his bed, the weight of the transaction crushing him. The meeting with Dong had been brisk and brutally efficient. The contract was a masterpiece of predatory clarity. The interest was astronomical, a snake already coiled around his future, ready to squeeze. The first repayment was a mountain he knew his normal income could never climb. Not unless he stumbled upon a miracle deal, a prospect as likely as finding another portal in his bathroom.
He spent the night in a fugue of cigarette smoke and circling thoughts. The small, bright things he had recently cherished—the new suit, the better meals—now seemed like pathetic indulgences, the prelude to this disaster. He saw his life stretching ahead, a desperate scramble to feed the debt, with Dong's enforcers as constant shadows. This was what it meant to become an adult, he supposed bitterly; not a single moment of revelation, but the slow, dawning horror of consequences, and the acceptance of a terrible bargain.
A little after six, as a grey light seeped around the curtains, his phone vibrated. His father's number. The old man's voice, usually gruff, was softened by a profound, weary relief. "The doctor says it went well. The surgery. She's going to be alright." There was a pause, heavy with unspoken emotion. "You did good, son. Your mother… she'll be okay. You focus on your work there. Maybe… bring a nice girl home at New Year, eh?"
Michael managed a few words before the line went dead. He walked to the mirror. The man who stared back had bloodshot eyes, shadowed by a sleepless night, his face pale under the stubble. A grim, humorless smile twisted his lips.
If I can't pay that money back, will I even be in one piece to go home for New Year?The thought was cold, clear. But beneath the fear, another certainty solidified, hard and unyielding. However this ended for him, he would not regret the choice. Some prices were meant to be paid.