3: Chapter 3 Demand Notices and Discarded Dignity
The next day, as the sky began to brighten, Zhang Fan finally managed to pry his eyelids open.
The strong scent of disinfectant filled his nostrils, carrying a persistent bitterness. His head felt heavy and groggy, as if filled with lead; he had hardly slept last night, his mind consumed by the faces of Gu Feifei and Chang Yuan.
He moved his fingers, and the needle in the back of his hand immediately sent a sharp sting spreading through his veins.
The transparent IV tube swayed gently with his movements, the liquid dripping into his vein so slowly it felt like time itself was being dragged out.
His vision slowly focused on a white slip of paper lying prominently on the bedside table—it was a collection notice. The words "Past Due" at the very top were printed in a glaring red ink that made his throat tighten. Seven days of hospitalization, plus the cost of stitches, totaled 14,876 yuan.
His phone vibrated under his pillow, the screen lighting up mostly with messages from the company group chat.
"Did you hear? Zhang Fan was 'persuaded to resign' by Director Chang. They say he was absent for a week and even talked back to the leadership."
"Ah, no way. If he's gone, who's going to take over the new game project?"
"By the way, have you seen Gu Feifei today? I heard Zhang Fan is a 'Supermale' with violent tendencies, and she was so scared she moved out overnight."
Zhang Fan's fingertip swiped across the screen, stopping on Gu Feifei's profile picture—it was still the photo of them under the cherry blossom tree from last year. She was smiling brightly, leaning against his shoulder. He remembered that day she stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, "Zhang Fan, did you know? I've liked you for a long time. Can we add each other on WeChat?"
His heart felt as if it were being squeezed by a hand, a dull ache throbbing within.
A young nurse walked by carrying a treatment tray. She paused at his bed, her tone carrying a bit of routine helplessness. "Zhang Fan in Bed 302, the head nurse asked me to tell you again: if the hospitalization fees aren't paid, we might have to stop your medication."
Zhang Fan noticed the looks from the other patients and swallowed hard. "I... I'll pay right away."
The savings his parents left behind... two months ago, he had just bought the latest phone for Gu Feifei. The money left in his account was originally intended for a necklace, but now...
Just then, his phone rang. It was a call from Zhou Xu, the company's HR manager.
"Zhang Fan," Zhou Xu's voice crackled through the phone, tinged with hypocritical regret. "The company is in a difficult position regarding your situation. Director Chang said you were absent without leave and were even picking fights in the stairwell. According to the rules, we have no choice but to fire you. As for your salary... after deducting the fines, there are only a few hundred left. Should I have finance transfer it to your card?"
"I was pushed!" Zhang Fan sat up abruptly, the movement pulling at his wound and making him gasp in pain. "Gu Feifei and Chang Yuan were in the stairwell..."
"Hey, don't go talking nonsense," Zhou Xu interrupted, Chang Yuan's low chuckle audible in the background. "The surveillance is broken; who can prove it? If you're smart, don't make a scene, or you won't even get this bit of salary."
The call was disconnected, the dial tone beeping repeatedly like a slap to his face.
He stared at the ceiling, tears suddenly falling. It wasn't because of the pain, but because of how pathetic he felt—his girlfriend stolen, pushed down the stairs, framed, and now he didn't even have the strength to argue back.
Buzz— The phone in his hand rang again. It was Sister Li, his landlady, her voice shrill enough to pierce through the receiver. "Zhang Fan! I finally got through to you. If you delay this month's rent any longer, I'm throwing your things out tomorrow! Don't think you can dodge the bill just because you're in the hospital. I don't consider those few mementos from your parents as treasures!"
Zhang Fan's nails dug into his palm, and beads of blood seeped out.
His parents' belongings were in two old leather suitcases, containing his awards from childhood to adulthood and the notebook his father had pressed into his hands before dying, filled with software development notes. He had always kept them locked in the deepest part of his closet; they were his only roots in this city.
"Sister Li, just three more days, please, just three days..."
"Three days my ass!" Sister Li spat. "By five o'clock this afternoon, either pay up or pack your bags and get out!"
The call ended, leaving only the sound of his heavy breathing in the hospital room.
He pulled the needle out of the back of his hand, ignoring the nurse's startled cry, and stumbled toward the discharge counter.
After finishing the payment, his balance popped up—127.32 yuan.
On the taxi ride back to his rental, he watched the numbers on the meter ticking up, his heart sinking bit by bit. When he reached the entrance of the residential complex, he searched his entire body to scrape together enough for the fare. He clutched the five-yuan coin the driver gave him as change until his palm sweated.
Other people's trash was piled in the hallway, the sour stench hitting him full force. He pulled out his key to open the door, but the lock cylinder wouldn't turn—Sister Li had changed the locks.
"Oh, you're back?" Sister Li leaned against the opposite doorframe, crossing her arms with a cold sneer. "Where's the money?"
"I..."
"If you don't have the money, then stop talking." Sister Li waved her hand, and two men collecting scrap came out carrying his suitcases. The cases weren't closed tightly, and a few old clothes fell onto the floor, along with the programming books he had saved up for over six months, scattered everywhere.
"Don't touch that suitcase!" Zhang Fan lunged forward, trying to protect the leather case labeled "Parents' Belongings," but he was shoved aside by one of the men. He stumbled, his back hitting the stair railing, and the wound on the back of his head began to bleed again, the sticky fluid trickling down his neck into his collar.
"Zhang Fan, don't you damn well test my patience!" Sister Li cursed, hands on her hips. "You owe two months' rent, and you have the nerve to protect this junk? How much could these crappy boxes even be worth?"
The scrap collector was already dragging the leather suitcase downstairs. The corners of the case thudded against the steps, a muffled sound that felt like it was drumming against Zhang Fan's heart. He saw his father's notebook slide out from a gap in the suitcase, its blue cover marred by a large tear.
"Stop!" he roared, lunging forward to desperately hug the suitcase. "Those are my parents' things... I'm begging you, don't touch them..."
Tears mixed with blood flowed into his mouth, salty and bitter. He had never begged anyone in his life; even when Gu Feifei said she "wanted the latest phone," he had only gritted his teeth and taken on part-time jobs without ever saying the word "beg." But now, for these two old suitcases, he was kneeling on the ground like a dog.
Sister Li froze for a moment, likely never having seen him like this. She curled her lip. "Fine, fine, what bad luck! You can keep the suitcases, but get the rest of this stuff out of here quickly. It must be cleared out by five o'clock this afternoon!"
The scrap collectors left, grumbling and cursing, leaving a mess behind. Zhang Fan sat on the stairs clutching the suitcase, trembling as he stuffed the notebook back inside. The tear on the cover looked like a scar, a shocking sight.
He didn't know how long he sat there until the light in the hallway dimmed. He slowly stood up and dragged the suitcase downstairs. He had no destination; he just felt he couldn't stay here any longer—every step felt like treading on his shattered dignity.
Passing the convenience store at the entrance of the complex, he pulled out that five-yuan coin and bought the cheapest bottle of mineral water. He looked at his reflection in the glass door.
The person in the mirror had sunken eyes, blood-stained gauze wrapped around his temple, and a shirt wrinkled like dried salted vegetables. From head to toe, he exuded the wretchedness of a "loser."