The power of money

Morning sunlight filtered through the dust-covered window, falling in patches across the battered mattress.

Zhao Fan opened his eyes and stared at the maplike patch of mold on the ceiling for a full minute before he could be sure that everything last night had not been a dream.

There was no hangover headache, no anxiety about creditors coming to his door, only an unprecedented sense of security that even felt a little unfamiliar.

He instinctively reached beneath his pillow, his fingertips touching the cold black metal business card. The cutout gear design pressed painfully into his fingers, but it also made him utterly clearheaded.

This was his admission ticket, and his contract of servitude.

Zhao Fan sat up and felt the cash hidden beneath his pillow.

Just yesterday, he could not have scraped together ten dollars.

The four thousand dollars beneath his pillow-for Zhao Fan at this moment, it was what allowed him to straighten his back and breathe freely for the first time in over a hundred days.

"Whew..." He let out a long breath and swung himself out of bed.

While washing up, he looked at himself in the mirror. The dark circles beneath his eyes were still heavy, his cheeks gaunt, his stubble dark. Although exhaustion still lingered in his eyes, the deadened look of someone ready to be crushed by life at any moment was gone.

In its place was a deeper, more restrained light.

He ate a few slices of bread, discounted stock he had bought the day before yesterday. They tasted as awful as sawdust, but today, he enjoyed them.

Before leaving, he specifically checked the backpack used to carry the "goods," making sure it was empty except for his grease-stained work clothes.

As he descended the stairs, he habitually softened his footsteps. Passing Maya's door, he paused. It was still shut, and the pile of scrap metal collected a few days ago was still outside.

Zhao Fan hesitated briefly, then bent down and picked up the heavy cardboard box full of discarded gears and bearings with one hand.

[Weak Energy Perception] activated.

His mind was utterly still, without a ripple. Good. These really were just ordinary industrial scraps, with no radiation or alien residue.

He quietly carried the box to Maya's door, set it down neatly, then turned and headed downstairs.

Today's meeting point was on the outskirts of Zone A-6.

Zhao Fan arrived neither early nor late. Old Dog was already waiting, leaning against a broken concrete pillar, still holding that bottle of cheap whiskey that seemed impossible to finish.

Seeing Zhao Fan approach, Old Dog narrowed his cloudy eyes slightly. His gaze lingered for a moment on Zhao Fan's noticeably lighter footsteps before he gave a knowing smile.

"Looks like you slept well last night?" Old Dog screwed the cap onto his flask, his voice as hoarse as ever.

"Well enough." Zhao Fan walked up beside him and lowered his voice. "Did you get the money?"

After returning to his apartment last night, Zhao Fan had still insisted on transferring three thousand dollars to Old Dog through that secret black-market transfer channel. Although Old Dog had said Shadow had already paid the "referral fee," Zhao Fan had his own principles.

In this world, favors were harder to repay than money. If money could settle something, it was best not to owe a favor.

"You brat, that was unnecessary." Old Dog spat, but his deeply wrinkled face had visibly relaxed. "That three thousand is enough for me to live like God in the city's Pink Alley."

"That's your retirement money. Make it last," Zhao Fan said evenly.

"Retirement? Ha!" Old Dog sounded as though he had heard a joke. "There's no retirement in our line of work. You either die in the ruins or on your way there."

Just then, a somewhat bulky figure came running over, panting.

It was Fat Ben.

He looked much more energetic today. His black-framed glasses were polished to a shine, and although he still wore the same ill-fitting work clothes, he radiated an excitement he could barely conceal.

"Brother Zhao! Uncle Dog!" Ben jogged over with a guileless smile, then leaned toward Zhao Fan's ear and lowered his voice. "The money... I saw the money! It's... it's so much!"

Before work that morning, Zhao Fan had handed him the envelope. For this programmer who had been unemployed for so long and survived on expired canned food, the money was not only a lifeline, but recognition of his worth.

"You earned it." Zhao Fan patted Ben's broad shoulder. The muscles beneath his palm were taut, revealing the fat man's excitement. "That was our first pot of gold. There'll be more."

"I... I'll work hard!" Ben nodded vigorously, admiration shining in the eyes behind his glasses. If yesterday he had still needed Zhao Fan's protection to survive, today he already considered himself a full member of this little team.

A burst of grating laughter came from nearby.

Rattlesnake Rick swaggered over with his two lackeys. After yesterday's "paint bath," Rick looked considerably worse for wear. Although he had changed into clean protective gear, his arrogance had not diminished at all. Instead, humiliation had made him even more vicious.

Seeing the three of them gathered together, a flash of venom crossed his eyes.

"Well, if it isn't our 'dumb-luck squad'?" Rick sneered, his gaze circling Zhao Fan like a venomous snake. "What's the plan? Where are you picking through trash today?"

Ben instinctively ducked his head and hid behind Zhao Fan. Old Dog merely picked his ear with an indifferent expression, as though he had heard a fly buzzing.

Zhao Fan raised his head and looked calmly at Rick.

Before, he might have lowered his head and avoided that provocative stare. But today, he merely regarded Rick indifferently, as though looking at a pile of Class D scrap about to be cleared away.

He could not even be bothered to argue.

That disregard enraged Rick more than any retort could have.

"What's with that look?" Rick abruptly stepped forward, reaching out to shove Zhao Fan. "Kid, don't think a little luck means you can-"

"Tweet-"

The assembly whistle sounded at just the right moment, cutting Rick off.

"Everyone! Assemble immediately! Time for assignments!" Foreman Mike's booming voice echoed over the ruins through a loudspeaker.

Rick glared viciously at Zhao Fan and threatened him in a low voice. "Lucky you. But this isn't over. Just you wait."

With that, he turned and headed toward the assembly point with his lackeys.

Watching Rick's retreating figure, Zhao Fan felt no fear, only a sense of absurdity. Rick was like a toad at the bottom of a well, throwing his weight around over a few dead flies, utterly unaware of how vast the sky outside was or what a real predator looked like.

"Let's go," Zhao Fan told Old Dog and Ben behind him, his voice as calm as deep water. "Time to work."

The day's work was unusually monotonous.

Because of yesterday's "equipment malfunction" and "accident" in Zone A-6, security was noticeably tighter today. Official D.O.D.C. tactical teams had set up checkpoints at every intersection. Even a trip to the bathroom required a scan.

Zhao Fan attempted nothing risky.

Like the most diligent, honest cleanup worker, he mechanically swung his shovel, tossing pile after pile of worthless concrete and rebar into trucks.

During a break, Ben secretly contacted Zhao Fan over an encrypted channel. "Brother Zhao, the intranet shows the technical team seems to have gone crazy. That doctor named Evelyn rejected three cleanup teams' completion reports in one go today, and she's personally leading a 'blanket search' in Zone C. Everyone's complaining."

Zhao Fan shoveled up a chunk of rubble without the slightest pause, silently filing away the information.

Evelyn Reed.

She really had noticed something.

"Leave her alone," Zhao Fan said quietly into his built-in microphone. "We do our own work. As long as we don't make mistakes, she won't have anything on us."

"Understood." Ben sounded a little nervous, but there was also a hint of excitement.

Zhao Fan disguised himself as a speck of dust drifting with the current, utterly inconspicuous and unremarkable.

But he knew this peace was only the calm before the storm.

Having tasted power and wealth, he could no longer resign himself to spending his entire life as dust.

He was waiting for the storm to return, or... to stir one up himself.

At six in the evening, the end-of-shift whistle sounded right on time.

Zhao Fan showered thoroughly three times in the changing room. He scrubbed his skin hard with a stiff-bristled brush until it reddened, as though trying to wash away the stench of decay from the ruins, the smell of rusted metal, and the darkness of that underground world, all of which had seeped into his very bones.

He changed into his slightly more presentable casual clothes-a pair of faded jeans and a gray hoodie.

Leaving the worksite, he declined Old Dog's invitation to have a drink at the bar, nor did he return to Queens with Ben.

Alone, he boarded a subway bound for Midtown Manhattan.

The train sped through the dark tunnels, its windows reflecting Zhao Fan's somewhat gaunt but sharply defined face. Watching the lights race backward outside, he unconsciously pressed a hand against the inner pocket at his chest.

Inside was the six hundred-odd dollars he had brought out today.

Half an hour later, he stood outside an art supply store on 57th Street.

The store was called the Eye of the Muse. Its display window held exquisite plaster casts and expensive paints Zhao Fan could not name. Warm yellow light spilled through the glass, making it seem a dimension apart from the filthy, chaotic ruins of Queens behind him.

Zhao Fan pushed open the door, setting the wind chimes at the entrance ringing crisply.

The pleasant scent of turpentine and paper filled the store. Several well-dressed art students were choosing canvases, quietly discussing light, shadow, and composition.

Zhao Fan looked somewhat out of place. Although he had washed thoroughly, his hands, rough from holding a shovel for so long, and his cheap clothes made him look like a deliveryman.

A clerk approached, polite but slightly distant. "Sir, can I help you?"

"I'd like to buy a set of paintbrushes." Zhao Fan paid no attention to the clerk's gaze, scanning the dazzling array of merchandise on the shelves.

"Hello, we have beginner practice sets here, currently on sale for just fifty dollars..."

Zhao Fan's gaze settled on a finely boxed set of paintbrushes inside the glass display counter. Their handles were deep red natural wood, their bristles had a luxurious sable sheen, and they lay quietly in a black velvet box like a work of art.

He remembered Maya staring at this set for a long time in an old magazine. It was a limited-edition Winsor & Newton series.

It cost the equivalent of several days of Zhao Fan risking his life working in the ruins.

"No," Zhao Fan interrupted him. "I want that set." He pointed at the luxurious brushes in the counter.

The clerk froze briefly, then quickly recovered. "Of course, sir. That is a professional-grade set, priced at three hundred and fifty dollars."

He took out the money and laid it gently on the glass counter. "Wrap it up, please. Use some nice wrapping paper."

Walking out of the store with the exquisite ribbon-tied paper bag in hand, Zhao Fan felt lighter than ever before.

Was this the power of money?

No, it was not just money. It was the power to give. In a world where everyone demanded and plundered, being able to give someone something beautiful was itself an extravagant happiness.

By the time he returned to Queens, night had fully fallen.

Zhao Fan went back to his apartment first and put down his backpack, then carried the paper bag next door and knocked softly.

"Knock, knock, knock."

"Coming!" A clatter came from inside, as though something had fallen over.

A few seconds later, the door opened, revealing Maya's face, streaked with colorful paint. She wore an oversized, stain-covered work apron, her hair piled messily atop her head, and still held a palette knife.

When she saw Zhao Fan, her eyes instantly lit up like two brilliant stars.

"Zhao! You're back!" She excitedly stepped aside. "Come in! Perfect timing-my 'steel behemoth' is finally standing steady! All thanks to your advice!"

Zhao Fan entered the room.

The apartment, never particularly spacious, was now more than half occupied by the enormous sculpture. It was an abstract piece assembled from discarded car exhaust pipes, twisted rebar, and half a shattered Chitauri aircraft shell.

It looked like a giant throwing back its head to roar at the sky. Though covered in scars, it was filled with power.

"It's stunning," Zhao Fan praised sincerely. Although he knew nothing about art, he could feel the emotions within the sculpture-that defiance, that struggle. It was practically a microcosm of the city.

"Really?" Maya happily circled the sculpture. "I'm planning to call it Rebirth. The graduation exhibition is next week. I hope I can make it."

"You definitely will." As he spoke, Zhao Fan handed over the paper bag he had kept behind his back. "This... is for you."

"For me?" Maya took the bag in surprise. "Is today some special occasion?"

"I passed an art supply store and saw this. I thought you'd like it, and it suited you, so I bought it," Zhao Fan said simply.

Maya carefully removed the wrapping paper and opened the exquisite black box.

When she saw that neat row of gleaming new paintbrushes, she froze completely.

"These... these are Winsor & Newton brushes..." Covering her mouth, she looked at Zhao Fan in disbelief. "Oh my God, Zhao! This is too expensive! I can't accept it!"

"Take it." Zhao Fan's voice was soft but firm. "You've helped me so much, and I haven't had anything to repay you with. You're an artist. Good warriors need good weapons, and good artists need good brushes."

Maya's eyes instantly reddened. She raised her head and looked deeply at Zhao Fan. In that moment, she seemed to see a tenderness and strength she had never seen before in this quiet, exhausted neighbor.

"Thank you..." She sniffed, then broke into a brilliant smile. "Then I'm... treating you to dinner! No refusing!"

"All right." Zhao Fan smiled. "But no bread this time."

"Of course! I'm taking you out for a feast!"

Twenty minutes later, the two of them were sitting in an Italian restaurant on the corner called Luigi.

Although it was no top-tier Manhattan restaurant, here on the edge of the Queens ruins, it counted as a rare "upscale establishment." Before, whenever Zhao Fan passed and smelled the basil and tomatoes wafting out, he could only swallow and quicken his pace.

Now, he sat at a table covered with a red-and-white checkered cloth, a brightly smiling girl across from him.

The waiter brought two steaming T-bone steaks and a serving of seafood pasta.

The steaks were cooked just right, sizzling and giving off an enticing seared aroma. Zhao Fan picked up his knife and fork, cut off a piece, and put it in his mouth.

Juices flooded his mouth. It was the long-missed taste of real food-not the strange flavor of synthetic meat, not the sour rot of expired canned food, but something genuine and full of vitality.

At that moment, Zhao Fan almost felt like crying.

"How is it? Is it good?" Maya watched him expectantly.

"It's delicious." Zhao Fan nodded emphatically. "This is the best steak I've ever had in my life."

"That's such an exaggeration!" Maya rocked with laughter. "Once you get rich and visit a Michelin restaurant in Manhattan, you'll definitely think this tastes like rubber."

"No, I won't." Zhao Fan looked at her and said earnestly, "Because that would be different."

Maya paused, seemingly understanding the deeper meaning in his words, and her cheeks flushed faintly.

"Zhao, actually..." Maya set down her fork and began somewhat hesitantly. "I think you've changed lately."

Zhao Fan's heart tightened, and his knife and fork paused. "Changed? How?"

"You've become... more hopeful." Resting her chin on her hand, Maya regarded him gently. "Before, your eyes were always so gray, like... like you were ready to give up at any moment. But these past two days, although you're still tired, I feel like you've found a direction. Like... like my sculpture. Even though it came from the ruins, it can still come alive again."

Zhao Fan fell silent.

Looking at the innocent, kindhearted girl before him, he felt a complicated mixture of feelings rise within him.

She was right. He really had changed.

But he could not tell her the price of that change. He could not tell her that this lavish dinner and those expensive brushes had all been stolen from the edge of hell. He had traded dangerous goods that might destroy a city for this moment of warmth.

Although they sat facing each other, they seemed to inhabit two different worlds.

Her world held color, art, and rebirth.

His held radiation, scheming, and wreckage.

"Maybe." Zhao Fan raised his glass and gently clinked it against Maya's, hiding the gloom in his eyes. "To rebirth."

"To rebirth!" Maya happily raised her glass.

The glasses met with a clear chime, like the sound of a dream shattering, or hope knocking at the door.

Outside, the night was deep. In the distance, Stark Tower still glittered with dazzling neon, staining much of the sky crimson. Beneath that red canopy, countless shadows were breeding and spreading.

Zhao Fan knew this dinner was stolen time.

But to protect this time, to protect the people who had shown him kindness, he was willing to step into the shadows once again.