The battered phone in his pocket vibrated until his thigh went numb.
Chi Xingran pulled out the secondhand phone with its cracked screen. System notifications kept exploding across the top like a runaway stream of live comments.
His “Street-Stall Ran” account had shot past a million followers. The video of him flipping a table on a blind date and taking down a pickpocket barehanded was number one across the trending charts. The platform had even sent a revenue-sharing contract invitation reserved for top creators. The estimated earnings from viewer gifts had so many zeros he could barely take them in.
“Ones, tens, hundreds, thousands, ten thousands...”
Chi Xingran jabbed at the cracked screen, his eyes as bright as light bulbs. “I'm rich! Your boy Chi just skipped twenty years of grinding!”
A thick, neatly bound document landed precisely in the center of the coffee table, cutting his get-rich fantasy short.
Assistant Zhou adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, wearing a professionally frosty imitation of a smile. “Don't celebrate too soon, Mr. Chi.”
“Given the severe psychological stress you caused Mr. Zong in the private dining room, compounded by cracking its custom floor tiles, damaging property, and provoking a public relations crisis, our legal department has completed its assessment. Under the breach-of-contract and public relations provisions, you owe Mr. Zong twelve million.”
Zhou offered a solid black fountain pen, all business. “The Zong Group finance department has assumed full management of the top-creator agreement just received from the platform. Revenue will be divided ninety-ten toward your debt. Ten percent for your living expenses; the other ninety percent goes toward repayment. Sign here.”
Pointing at the string of zeros, Chi Xingran sucked in a breath. “Twelve million? What, are your floor tiles inlaid with sacred relics?”
“You don't have to sign.”
Zong Wen sat in an armchair opposite him, holding a glass of warm water. Without even raising his eyes, he spoke in a voice as cold as crushed ice. “Legal and the economic crimes investigators are outside. The detention center is ready to feed you anytime.”
Chi Xingran stared at that handsome, utterly cold face, his mind racing.
Stay alive, stay in the game. As long as he remained on the outside, sooner or later he'd fleece this Zong bastard bald!
“I'll sign! Boss Zong is so generous! May Boss Zong make a fortune!”
His expression changed in a heartbeat. Snatching the pen, he scrawled his name and added a bright red thumbprint.
After signing, Chi Xingran tugged at his trouser leg. The scuffle in the private room had torn a large new hole in his already ripped jeans, and greasy soup stains clung to one leg, sticking horribly to his skin.
He reached back and opened the large red-white-and-blue woven bag he carried.
With a screech of the zipper, he pulled out a pair of enormous shorts printed with bright red and green peonies. Synthetic fabric, two pairs for fifteen yuan, carrying that cheap, low-quality smell intensified by baking in the sun.
Right in front of Zong Wen and Assistant Zhou, he swiftly pulled the shorts on, wriggled the grease-stained ripped jeans off from underneath, and tossed them into the bag.
Then he swaggered over and dropped into the top-of-the-line, Italian custom-made leather sofa in the middle of the room.
“Ahh, this leather's soft. Way more comfortable than my folding camp bed!”
Chi Xingran sprawled out, bare feet propped on the armrest. His enormous red-peony shorts stood out painfully against the mansion living room's minimalist black, white, and gray.
The temperature seemed to plunge to freezing.
The crystal glass in Zong Wen's hand gave a faint creak. A storm brewed in his eyes as his obsession with cleanliness flared.
That sofa was a one-of-a-kind piece he'd had airfreighted from Milan. A single stray hair ordinarily warranted complete disinfection. Now a street punk reeking of bargain stalls was rubbing himself all over it without a care.
Strangely, though, the cheap smell did not trigger the severe physical nausea that could ordinarily send him into shock. For once, it failed to strike immediately. Only a dull throbbing remained at his temples.
“Bodyguards.” Zong Wen ground his molars, his cold fury restrained. “Throw the sofa and the man into the incinerator.”
Two black-clad bodyguards immediately stepped forward.
“Mr. Zong, let's not get impulsive!”
Utterly unruffled, Chi Xingran waggled his feet, grabbed the newly signed agreement, and tapped it. “It's right here in black and white. I'm your group's contracted debt worker now, and Party A guarantees my living arrangements! Changing into clean shorts isn't illegal or a breach of contract. Throw me out and cripple me, and who's going to earn you that ten million? I've got nothing to lose. We can take it to court and see who can afford the embarrassment!”
Zong Wen stared hard at that shameless face, so bursting with life.
The ruthless old foxes of the business world went out of their way to avoid him. Yet this kid was impervious to everything, forcing a breach in territory Zong Wen had considered absolutely his.
He pressed between his pounding brows, suppressing the surging agitation, and ordered coldly, “Stand down.”
Assistant Zhou privately wiped away a cold sweat and waved the bodyguards back.
Just then, a side door opened.
An old butler in a tailcoat entered with two servants, his hair immaculate. This was Butler Xu, the informant the Zong family estate had sent to keep watch.
Xu set a silver platter on the coffee table. It held several pieces of hard baguette baked dry and dark, along with two cold slices of pan-fried beef almost devoid of oil.
With drooping eyelids, he spoke in a tone dripping with insinuation. “Second Young Master, the family heard you'd brought an outsider home and specifically instructed the kitchen to prepare a light meal. Mr. Chi comes from the streets, but the Zong household observes strict rules. No speaking while eating or in bed. If the food is not to your taste, there are leftovers by the kitchen's back door. All you can eat.”
Every word was an insult rubbed in his face.
Leaning back in his seat, Zong Wen watched coldly, his eyes dark, his fingertips lightly pressing his aching temple.
The people at the old estate had been using such tactics to disgust him for a long time. He wanted to see how Chi Xingran would respond.
Chi Xingran glanced at the cold beef, as tough as shoe leather. Instead of getting angry, his eyes lit up.
“Oh, old man, your timing with this content is perfect!”
He whipped out his phone, propped it against the water glass, and expertly adjusted the angle into a tight close-up. The frame avoided both a broad view of the mansion's interior and Zong Wen's face, while capturing himself and the platter perfectly.
The livestream went on instantly.
“Family! You are not going to believe this!”
Chi Xingran slipped straight into character, raising his voice at the camera. “We're live, we're live! Come experience the hardcore cuisine of the ultra-rich! Look at this beef, cold and dark as the King of Hell's face. And this baguette—”
He grabbed the rock-hard loaf and slammed it twice against the edge of the expensive marble coffee table.
“Thud! Thud!”
The heavy, crisp impacts burst clearly through the microphone into the stream.
“Hear that? This isn't a baguette. It's the Zong family's ancestral demon-slaying club!”
Wearing a streetwise grin, he rattled on like a machine gun. “What's wrong with a five-yuan bowl of hot noodles from a street stall? A reality show about swapping lives with the rich? Even a dog would buy a standing-room ticket overnight to get away!”
Already packed thanks to the trending video, the stream exploded with comments.
[HAHAHA a demon-slaying club, for fuck's sake! You're going to crack the coffee table!]
[Red peony shorts with a fancy cold buffet. This man understands contrast!]
[The butler's face is greener than spinach. Are you going to survive until the end of the stream? LOL!]
[Sending gifts! Let's crowd-fund his medical bills for the beating!]
Exposed to hundreds of thousands of live viewers, Butler Xu turned from pale to livid and began shaking. “You... vulgar! Utterly shameless!”
“I'm using my skills to sell things and pay my debt. No stealing, no robbery. What's vulgar about that?”
Chi Xingran bit off a corner of baguette with a crack and chewed noisily, giving Xu a sidelong look. “As for you, why act like such a big shot on camera with a plate of cold food? Want to join the frame and demonstrate breaking a baguette on your chest?”
From his armchair, Zong Wen listened to the crisp crunching and utterly fearless mockery. Watching the old estate's usually overbearing representative have his facade torn to shreds, an almost imperceptible ripple passed through his eyes.
“Assistant Zhou.” His voice broke the stalemate with unquestionable authority. “Take it away. Have a new meal prepared to his taste.”
Publicly humiliated, Butler Xu choked on his anger. But he didn't dare defy Zong Wen. He could only shoot Chi Xingran a vicious glare, pick up the platter, and retreat in disgrace.
Chi Xingran raised an eyebrow triumphantly at the camera. “Brothers, first victory for the working man! Hit follow so you don't lose me...”
He hadn't finished speaking when Zong Wen, sitting opposite him, suddenly drew his brows tight and clamped a hand to his temple, his knuckles turning frighteningly white.
Without warning, his tall, rigid body swayed. He collapsed heavily onto the sofa as though all his strength had drained away, rapid, agonized breaths escaping his throat. Every trace of color vanished from his already pale, elegant face.
“Mr. Zong!” Assistant Zhou cried out.
The hard baguette fell from Chi Xingran's hand onto the coffee table with a clatter. He stared blankly at the unconscious man on the sofa, his whole body shaking violently.