The way Song Lee Lee and Wei Zhi Yuan got along was more unpredictable than the changing fashion trends among high school girls.
On any given day, they could cycle between being at each other's throats and swearing eternal friendship a dozen times in five minutes flat. It was faster and more fickle than a lightning bolt, far beyond the comprehension of ordinary mortals.
In this ongoing feud, Little Bao’s rare linguistic genius shone brightest in her endless supply of nicknames for Wei Zhi Yuan. Her personal favorites included "Dog Pup," "Big-Eyed Lantern," "Sheep-Dung Ball on a Stick" (or "Sheep-Dung Ball" for short), "Little Bastard," and "Son of a Bitch."
Wei Zhi Yuan, on the other hand, was far more concise. Three simple words—"Ugly little girl"—could drop her dead on the spot in the blink of an eye.
Yet after that night in the alley, Little Bao’s colorful repertoire vanished overnight. She streamlined her vocabulary down to two quiet, respectful words: "Second Brother."
She ceased her one-sided provocations entirely. In front of Wei Zhi Yuan, the obnoxious, unruly brat transformed into a sweet, well-behaved little girl. Returning the favor, Wei Zhi Yuan naturally softened his address, calling her Little Bao from then on. Thus, the two arch-enemies officially evolved into a normal, affectionate brother-and-sister pair.
Wei Qian, however, had no time to delight in their childish antics and truce. So long as they weren't drawing blood, he didn't care whether they were squabbling or bonding. When it came to things that didn't directly concern survival, Wei Qian possessed a remarkable talent for remaining completely oblivious.
That afternoon, after applying anti-inflammatory salve to the dark bruises on Wei Zhi Yuan’s face, Wei Qian kept his features rigidly impassive. He made no grand speeches, nor did he offer awkward, roundabout comfort to the terrified Little Bao.
The girl stared at him with tear-filled eyes, her pitiful gaze enough to break anyone's heart. "Brother... are you still mad at me?"
Wei Qian kept his eyes lowered, his fingers unconsciously twitching against his trousers. His expression remained hard and severe, but inside, he was churning with a mixture of embarrassment and deep chagrin. Facing his little sister, Wei Qian was utterly incapable of standing up like a normal, mature adult to say, "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have hit you." Nor could he simply smile and say, "I'm not mad anymore."
A stiff, suffocating silence hung between them for over ten seconds before Wei Qian cleared his throat.
"I... ahem. From now on, I'm giving you two ten-yuan a week for allowance. Don't you love popsicles?"
Listening from the doorway with ears pricked up, Fatty San nearly choked on his own spit, thoroughly convinced that this stubborn wild donkey of a boy was utterly hopeless when it came to softer emotions.
After wiping away Little Bao’s tears, coaxing her to sleep, and packing both children off to bed, Wei Qian stepped out into the courtyard to address Fatty San and the others.
"Find that bastard," he said softly. "I'm going to cripple him."
His expression and tone were terrifyingly flat, delivered with the same casual nonchalance as saying, "I'm heading downstairs to buy a pack of cigarettes."
It was likely around this time that the teenage Wei Qian learned the art of masking every trace of emotion behind an impenetrable wall of cold calm.
Fatty San felt that out of brotherly loyalty, he ought to voice his agreement, yet an instinctual, creeping dread rooted itself in his gut. It was something he couldn't share with the others without sounding cowardly. Wei Qian was now one of Brother Le’s most favored lieutenants, and Little Ho and the other foot-soldiers eagerly swore to hunt down the predator.
Fatty San simply stood beside the youth, patting his thin, bony shoulder without uttering a word.
While everyone else shouted promises of revenge, Fatty San felt a profound, heavy terror settling into his bones.
Street fights, turf wars, even petty theft—these were the daily bread and butter of street delinquents. None of it was good, but none of it would bring the world crashing down. Yet Wei Qian said those few words, dropped the subject entirely, and turned to thank Little Ho and the boys with cold, flawless politeness.
Fatty San knew him too well. He knew the boy was harboring something dark and massive, holding back a desperate, lawless intent to kill -- a slow slide into madness.
In that fleeting moment, Fatty San sincerely prayed to the heavens that the pervert would run far away and never be found by Wei Qian.
Wei Qian was indeed going mad.
The very next day, he went to the clinic to have his arm cast removed prematurely. He immediately transferred his night shift to the Demonic Nightclub so he could continue picking up and dropping off his two cubs at school during the day.
It was an era before synthetic party drugs like ecstasy swept the market, a time of lax regulations where nightclubs harbored every vice under the sun—from street-walking sex workers to emaciated addicts, from wild, neon-soaked dance floors to underground halls where underground rock bands thrashed until dawn.
It was a cauldron of sleepless nights and cheap liquor. Two bottles of wines went straight to men's heads, and violent brawls erupted almost daily.
This was the crowd Wei Qian managed.
His fractured arm had barely knit together before he plunged headfirst into a relentless, blood-soaked lifestyle. He led or broke up fights almost every night, staggering home every morning drenched in stale booze, covered in dark bruises, and smelling of iron. In the span of just two months, Wei Qian earned a fierce reputation across the district as a relentless mad dog—a lethal, renowned fighter.
Brother Le never shortchanged a capable soldier, and that brutal stint earned Wei Qian a substantial pile of cash. Meanwhile, his street brothers kept their eyes peeled for any whisper regarding the predator.
Yet maybe the heavens had truly answered Fatty San’s silent prayers, the man seemed to have vanished into thin air.
Through one violent clash after another, Wei Qian’s thin frame filled out with lean, hard muscle. People on the street began calling him "Brother Wei." He wrapped himself in the lethal, razor-sharp aura of a genuine enforcer at terrifying speed, leaving behind any trace of the scrawny teenager who used to sneak out of school at noon to hustle pool games for lunch money.
Violence is a insidious, self-reinforcing trap. It feeds off itself, rewiring a person's psyche from the inside out.
Those who have never touched it can never comprehend why anyone would become addicted to blood and steel. It acts like a potent narcotic, instantly igniting adrenaline, forging a twisted sense of pride, confidence, security, and belonging. Under the terrified, awe-struck glares of younger thugs, Wei Qian found a fleeting sense of his own worth.
It yielded an experience akin to "success." And just as success shapes a person's mindset, violence systematically reshapes how a mind functions.
Those addicted to it inevitably swell with hollow arrogance, bypassing all normal human considerations of consequences, morality, or rational problem-solving. Fear and guilt are the first to erode under the thrill of dominance; self-control crumbles next, until every drop of conscience, morality, and warmth is hollowed out, leaving behind a husk beyond redemption.
Some say that outlaws are simply men who don't care about dying for money. But that is inaccurate—what they gamble their lives for is far more complex and toxic than mere cash.
Wei Qian was marching down this well-trodden, ruinous path with steady, unhesitating strides.
He himself was blind to his own transformation, but Fatty San, watching from the sidelines with cold clarity, was utterly terrified.
Unable to hold his tongue any longer, Fatty San cornered Wei Qian in private one afternoon. "Stop doing this to yourself. Why don't you switch to guarding the internet cafe? It's easy work, you can rest during the day, and I'll handle picking up the two kids from school for you. How about it?"
It was late autumn by then. Relying on his youth and sheer stubborn vitality, Wei Qian slept on a cold straw mat and thought nothing of thrusting his head under the courtyard tap, rinsing himself with ice-cold water. Hearing Fatty San’s proposal, he raised his dripping head.
Grabbing a rag, he wiped the water from his face, gave his wet hair a hard shake, and muttered coldly, "No need. Don't stick your nose where it doesn't belong."
Fatty San was forced to shut his mouth. He had watched Wei Qian grow up and understood the boy's temper. A single warning was fine; Wei Qian knew it came from a good place and appreciated the sentiment. But push him too far, and that stubborn donkey side would flare up until he refused to recognize his own kin.
Sighing, Fatty San changed the subject. "Hey, what do you think happened to Pocky? He's acting strange lately. We live in the same courtyard, and I've been running to the hospital every day to visit his mom, but I haven't seen his face in over half a month. What's going on with him?"
Pocky's mother had spent weeks in the intensive care unit. The astronomical medical bills had forced the three boys to scrape together every cent they possessed. In the end, Pocky had mortgaged his family's dilapidated flat and taken out a high-interest loan, barely securing enough cash to pull his mother back from death's door. Yet her injuries were horrific—she was burned beyond human recognition, with one arm and one leg amputated. She would never stand again, condemned to live out the remainder of her life in agonizing disability.
There would never again be a breakfast stand where they could drink fresh soy milk and eat hot dough sticks.
Wei Qian paused, his dripping hair freezing in the autumn chill. Whenever he had a free moment during the day, he would drop by the hospital to check if Pocky's medical account was running dry, topping it up whenever he had spare cash. Yet he hadn't seen Pocky in over two weeks either—even though Pocky was supposedly working shifts at the very same nightclub.
Fatty San frowned deeply. "That idiot is a complete airhead. You don't think he got himself mixed up in something bad, do you?"
The comment struck a chord in Wei Qian’s mind.
Later that week, while working the late-night shift at the club, Wei Qian deliberately lingered in the security room. He waited until past three in the morning, when the rest of the staff was fast asleep. On the flickering, grainy security monitors, he spotted Pocky emerging from the back hallway, carrying a trash bag from the private VIP rooms.
The feed was blurry and dark, but Wei Qian noticed a shadowy figure lurking a short distance behind Pocky. He couldn't make out the man's face, but the stranger maintained a strict, deliberate distance behind Pocky—as if meticulously trying to avoid looking like they were together.
With a sudden jolt of alarm, Wei Qian slipped quietly out of the monitoring room. Avoiding the security cameras, he tailed Pocky into the dark streets.
He didn't dare follow too closely. The stranger accompanying Pocky was hyper-vigilant, glancing over his shoulder every few paces.
Pocky and the stranger slipped into a narrow, wind-sheltered alleyway. With the sky still pitch-black, Wei Qian kept his distance, barely able to make out Pocky pulling out a thick stack of banknotes and handing it to the man. The stranger counted the cash, pocketed most of it, pulled out a few bills to hand back to Pocky, and finally passed him a small, tightly wrapped package.
The two parted ways in a hurry. The cold, biting wind of late autumn gave Wei Qian a sudden, throbbing headache.
Once the stranger had vanished into the darkness, Wei Qian carefully trailed Pocky for a few more turns. When he felt they were safely out of sight, he stepped out from the shadows and called out sharply, "Pocky!"
He was prepared to corner Pocky and demand answers about the midnight transaction, but the moment Pocky turned and saw him, he spooked like a startled bird and bolted down the alley.
Wei Qian instantly gave chase.
Pocky ran like a desperate rabbit, darting left and right through the maze of narrow alleys. It wasn't long before Wei Qian lost his trail in the darkness.
Kicking a loose brick into the gutter, Wei Qian spat a low, venomous curse: "Fuck!"
Having lost him, Wei Qian marched back to the shantytown and crouched near the entrance of Pocky’s home, waiting in ambush.
He waited until the sky turned pale and the lights inside his own flat flickered on, signalling that Wei Zhi Yuan and Little Bao were awake and preparing for school. Yet Pocky never returned.