Han Qian remained remarkably optimistic. After buying a pack of cigarettes, he made his way to a real estate agency in search of a place to live. Eventually, he settled on a rather expensive duplex on the top floor. Four million in debt would not be repaid by mere frugality—thrift alone could never bridge such a chasm.
The landlady was a kind-hearted woman. During their conversation, upon learning that Han Qian was currently unemployed and without a steady income, she made an exception to allow monthly payments, though she still required one month's deposit—2,500 yuan per month.
As he handed over 5,000 yuan, Han Qian felt as though blood was draining from his heart. In their exchange, he learned a bit about the landlady's life. She was a single mother raising a child in their final year of junior high. Her husband, once a successful businessman, had squandered his wealth on gambling and women. In just a few short years, his fortune was lost, and in despair, he took his own life—leaving behind two apartments. The landlady and her child lived on the second floor; the eleventh was now Han Qian's.
Upon entering, he was greeted by a modest living room. To the left, a sink and bathroom; to the right, a shoe cabinet with a decorative screen, concealing the kitchen. The kitchen wall backed onto a staircase leading to the second floor, where two bedrooms were separated by a bathroom. Another bedroom sat on the first floor, behind the TV wall.
The small duplex—three bedrooms, two baths—was a pleasant surprise. Given the rent, Han Qian was grateful he wasn't living in a major metropolis like Beijing or Shanghai, where even finding a roof over one's head could be a challenge. The apartment had all the essentials—television, sofa, new dishes in the cupboards—only bedding was missing. But even if it had been provided, he wouldn't have used it.
After surveying his new home, Han Qian was preparing to head out for supplies when a knock sounded at the door. It was the landlady again, arms full of daily necessities.
"I work at the supermarket," she said with a smile. "These didn't cost much. If you don't mind, take them. They're all brand new."
Looking at the toothbrush, towels, and other items in her hands, Han Qian smiled and took them without offering money—he knew not to insult genuine kindness with currency.
"Meeting you feels warmer than running into family," he said sincerely. "In the future, if your child needs help with schoolwork, send him my way. I was a top student through junior and senior high."
"Alright then! I like honest young men like you. If you ever find a girl you like, let me know—I'll help you win her over. But I won't bother you now. You get settled."
She had arrived unannounced and left just as suddenly. Han Qian, still holding the toothbrush, smiled faintly. He didn't feel as though he had overpaid rent—only that he'd encountered genuine human kindness.
After three years spent secluded in the role of a "house husband," Han Qian had not interacted with people in a long time.
He spent the afternoon out, stocking up on essentials. To his surprise, the simplicity of this life felt rather pleasant. Without Wen Nuan, his mother's surgery wouldn't have been possible, and he wouldn't now have this freedom. Though those three years had shackled him, they had also raised his starting point far above that of someone fresh out of university.
He bought a bed set, and—gritting his teeth—spent 700 yuan on a third-hand laptop. It was barely functional, mostly good for browsing the internet, but that was all he needed. His grasp of computers was limited.
During the day, he also visited the bank to wire 8,000 yuan to his mother, though he said nothing of the divorce.
His mother treated Wen Nuan with the warmth of a true parent, even if she couldn't provide material comfort. In contrast, Li Jinhe had shown Han Qian the harsh discipline he had never known. Ear-twisting and shoulder-smacking were daily occurrences. But it wasn't just Han Qian—Li Jinhe treated everyone, from Wen Nuan to her own husband, with that same unyielding strictness.
Now, Han Qian had only 2,000 yuan left—half for living expenses, the other half set aside for emergencies. The first thing he did with the laptop was search for Glory Group, a rising giant that now stood as a rival to Changxiang.
Wherever Changxiang had laid its roots—in real estate, retail, electronics, food service, pharmaceuticals—Glory had planted theirs as well.
His destination was clear: the Planning Department of Glory Group.
He intended to return to his old profession—not out of desperation, and not to flaunt himself. He had learned that lesson at Changxiang the hard way.
Meanwhile, Wen Nuan was on the verge of collapse.
The apartment had been sold. Li Jinhe, with her usual flippancy, told Wen Nuan she'd gambled it away to Zhao Yi while playing mahjong. If Wen Nuan had a problem with it, she could take it up with her "Aunt Zhao."
This Aunt Zhao—whom Wen Nuan had been forced to call "sister" since childhood—was the type of older woman who shamelessly asked about Han Qian's physical prowess, leaving the innocent and inexperienced Wen Nuan utterly flustered.
Emotionally frayed, Wen Nuan called Lin Zongheng seeking comfort and clarity about when he would return. She called three times. Each time, he declined the call. In frustration, she sent a message: if he didn't answer, they might as well stop contacting each other altogether.
Moments later, her phone rang. She picked up, then promptly hung up after three seconds.
She wasn't naive—she could accept the idea of Lin Zongheng having women overseas. What she couldn't tolerate was calling him while he was with one of them. The line rang again. This time, she explained her grievances. But instead of solace, she was met with suspicion: Who was that man who answered the phone? What happened between them?
Anger surged. She hung up again and sat on the bed, questioning herself.
Did she truly love Lin Zongheng, or had she simply used him as an emotional crutch?
It had been three years. He had been away for all of them.
Time, as it often does, had dulled what once felt eternal.
In the early days of her marriage to Han Qian, she and Lin Zongheng had spoken late into the night. Slowly, those midnight talks shortened to an hour. Then they ended altogether—cut off by a call from Han Qian saying, "Dinner's ready."
A sudden image flashed in her mind: Han Qian, covered in soap suds, standing between her and a deranged intruder who had forced his way in pretending to be a delivery man.
She remembered how, during her most difficult days each month, Han Qian would rise early to make her fish head tofu soup—or perhaps pork rib soup—and pack her a thermos of ginger and goji tea to take to the office.
For a moment, she felt utterly lost.
Lin Zongheng's presence was fading. It was Han Qian's silhouette that became clearer.
And she couldn't stand it.
She had been abandoned. She could not allow herself to still think of the man who left her. Overwhelmed, she grabbed her keys and phone and stormed out the door.
Out on the open road, her red Romeo Clover raced through the empty streets at 120 kilometers per hour, like a specter streaking through the night.
When she parked outside a bar, all eyes turned—not for the car, but for the woman who stepped out of it.
A white T-shirt and pale jeans elongated her figure, while a simple ponytail and makeup-free face made her seem utterly out of place in this wild, nocturnal world.
Wen Nuan hesitated for a moment, then steeled herself and stepped into the unfamiliar, unwelcome space.
She needed to vent.
Wen Nuan had no friends.