4: Chapter 4: Mustering up the courage to borrow money, the door opened as soon as I raised my hand.

Lin Chen stood at the entrance of the tin shack, his fingers repeatedly rubbing against the cold, rusted doorknob; the chill from his fingertips seemed to burrow into his heart along his veins. He took a deep breath, the air filled with the sour, pungent smell of rust and garbage. He raised his hand and slapped his cheeks hard, trying to shake off the lingering timidity, then looked down and tugged at the hem of his old T-shirt—the only thing he owned that was still relatively clean, though washed until it had faded.

Then, he pushed the door open, head bowed, shoulders slightly hunched, like a fledgling bird forced from its nest, stiffly shuffling toward the direction of Chinatown in his memory.

His footsteps were unsteady, as if he were walking on cotton.

【Path planning updated. Destination: "Rongchang Grocery Store" in Chinatown. Estimated walking time: 12 minutes.】

【Environmental data: Overview of the Chinatown area—a local Chinese community, business is primarily family-run, small-scale operations, with many restaurants, grocery stores, and laundromats. Long-term exposure to outside gang harassment and policy pressure; internal community cohesion is relatively high, but generally wary of strangers.】

The AI's cold voice broadcast in his mind, but Lin Chen had no heart to pay attention to it at this moment. All his energy was used to fight the roiling fear and instinct to escape within his heart. He gripped the fabric on the sides of his T-shirt tightly, his knuckles protruding and turning white from the force, his shoulders tensed like two hard stones. He didn't dare to look up, his gaze locked firmly onto the uneven, stained cement road beneath his feet, as if it were the only safe zone he could grasp.

There weren't many pedestrians on the road, but every figure walking toward him or passing by made his nerves tighten. As long as someone came within three meters, he would, like a startled rabbit, suddenly tense his body and quicken his pace, almost walking while pressed against the moss-covered walls. An invisible social pressure, like a thick membrane, separated him from the whole world.

Turning around a street corner piled with abandoned wooden crates, a familiar Chinese face came into view—it was Old Chen, who often set up a stall nearby to sell some wilted vegetables. Old Chen was squatting on the ground, organizing his vegetable baskets. When he looked up and saw him, his wrinkled face revealed a simple, honest smile, and he habitually greeted him: "Yo, Little Chen? You're in such a rush, where are you headed?"

Lin Chen's body stiffened as if electrocuted, his feet instantly nailed to the spot. Blood rushed to his head with a "buzz," and his cheeks burned hot. He lowered his head even further, his chin almost touching his chest, and squeezed out a vague, barely audible "Mm" from deep in his throat, like a startled whimper. Before the words had even faded, he was already almost running, hurriedly bypassing Old Chen's vegetable stall, as if the other man were some kind of monster.

Old Chen watched his fleeing back, opened his mouth, but in the end, just shook his head, muttered something under his breath, and bent back down to continue tending to his greens.

【Fifty meters ahead, entering the main street area of Chinatown. Pedestrian traffic is increasing, please be aware.】

The AI's prompt forced Lin Chen to lift his eyes slightly.

The familiar, bustling noise with the scent of his homeland rushed toward him. The street was not wide, lined on both sides with slightly old, two- or three-story buildings, densely hung with traditional Chinese character signs in gold on red or gold on black backgrounds: "Guangshenglong Grocery," "Chen's Roasted Meats," "Ren'an Pharmacy." The signs had faded somewhat from wind and rain, swaying gently in the afternoon sun. There were even more stalls set up along the street; bamboo baskets held fresher vegetables and fruits, simple wooden racks hung with cheap clothes and shoes, and the air was mixed with the salty fragrance of brine, the bitterness of herbs, and the sweet, cloying scent of pastries drifting from somewhere unknown.

This was an isolated island in the chaotic map of East Los Angeles, slightly heterogeneous and filled with the atmosphere of ordinary life.

However, beneath this warm backdrop, the undercurrents remained clear. A white police officer in a dark blue uniform with a baton at his waist was strolling slowly from the other end of the street with his hands behind his back. His eyes beneath the brim of his cap lazily swept over the stalls and pedestrians on both sides, his gaze carrying a condescending scrutiny and undisguised detachment. The stall owners who were swept by his gaze, whether they were shouting or working with their heads down, all unanimously lowered their voices, either turning away or bowing their heads, avoiding eye contact. The sound of the entire street seemed to have lowered slightly because of this.

Lin Chen's heart tightened, and his shoulders, which had relaxed slightly due to the familiar atmosphere, tensed up again. He shrank himself deeper into the shadows of the buildings, moving quickly along the base of the wall like a ghost.

【Target location marked. Ten meters ahead, on the left, "Rongchang Grocery Store." Operating status: Normal.】

Lin Chen looked in the direction of that faint guidance in his consciousness and spotted the shop at a glance.

It seemed even older than in his memory. The old-fashioned wooden door had mottled paint but was wiped very clean. A round red paper lantern hung on the door, with some dust on the shade, swaying gently in the breeze. The shop window glass was wiped bright, and inside, some of the most ordinary daily necessities were neatly arranged: tin biscuit tins, soap, matches, sewing kits, cheap candies... An old and steady atmosphere emanated from within.

This was it.

About five steps away from the shop entrance, Lin Chen was like someone under a freezing spell, unable to move a single step further. The last trace of color drained from his face at a speed visible to the naked eye, turning him ghastly pale. His palms were instantly soaked with cold sweat, sticking damply to the seams of his pants. His legs began to tremble slightly and uncontrollably, a subtle yet irrepressible weakness radiating from his knees.

He pressed his lips together tightly, so hard that they lost all color, becoming a pale straight line. In his chest, the sound of his heart pounding wildly felt like it was about to shatter his ribs; his breathing became heavy and difficult, every inhalation carrying a tremor.

That ordinary, even somewhat intimate wooden door, in his eyes at this moment, was no less than the gate to a tribunal or the guillotine. Behind the door, it could be a glimmer of hope leading to crude oil futures and relief from debt; more likely, it was an embarrassing end where dignity would be crushed and hope extinguished.

He raised his right hand, his arm as heavy as if filled with lead, slowly and tremblingly reaching toward that door. When his fingertips were a few centimeters away from the rough wooden door panel, he stopped abruptly. All the imaginings of being rejected—Uncle Zhao's confused and strange gaze, the awkward silence, the helpless evasion, or even just a polite and distant response—surged like a tide, instantly washing away his meager courage. His arm fell dejectedly, hanging limply at his side.

He couldn't retreat. Retreating meant a dead end. The futures data, Marcus's grinning face, the moldy smell of the tin shack... images flashed alternately, like a whip lashing him. He gritted his teeth again and raised his arm with more force; this time, his fingertips were almost touching the cold surface of the door panel...

Just at the moment of impending contact, his gaze inadvertently swept across the shop window next to him. In the bottom right corner of the window, a small, yellowed piece of paper with curled edges was pasted, which seemed to be a missing person notice. The photo was very blurry, but the faint outline... Lin Chen's heart inexplicably skipped a beat, but the feeling was fleeting. At this moment, his entire mind was occupied by the words "borrow money," and he had no time to think carefully; that blurry image was like a ripple on the water, dissipating before it could become clear.

No more hesitation!

He closed his eyes and used all his strength to press that trembling hand decisively against the door panel—not pushing, but more like leaning himself against it.

However, just at the moment his fingertips were about to feel the wooden texture—

"Creeak—"

A dull and familiar sound of old door hinges turning.

The wooden door was actually pulled open from the inside.

A middle-aged man wearing an old-style dark gray short jacket, with graying hair and an honest face, was holding a steaming aluminum basin and was about to use his foot to close the door. He looked up and happened to come face-to-face with Lin Chen, who was frozen at the doorway with one hand still ridiculously stretched out in mid-air.

The man was stunned for a moment, then squinted his slightly presbyopic eyes and looked carefully at Lin Chen's face.

Immediately, a genuine and gentle smile spread across that face etched with wrinkles by time, the lines at the corners of his eyes smoothing out. He put his foot down, opened the door fully, and his voice carried surprise, but even more so, familiar concern:

"Little Chen? It really is you! Why are you standing at the door instead of coming in? Quick, come in!"

Lin Chen was completely petrified.

His raised arm hung stiffly in mid-air, unable to be retracted or extended. His mouth was slightly open, but his throat felt as if it were being tightly strangled by an invisible hand, dry and tight, unable to squeeze out even the simplest syllable. Only his pupils dilated slightly due to extreme embarrassment, tension, and the sudden "encounter."

Uncle Zhao's smile, in his eyes at this moment, was like scorching sunlight, leaving him nowhere to hide.