Chapter 2 - The Iron Shackles
Returning to the dormitory, Zong Yan pushed open the door, only to be met by a wall of sweltering air thick with the sickly-sweet stench of decomposing food. She looked down; several takeout containers had been tossed into the trash bin beside her bed. Gnats had already begun to swarm, circling the fermenting remains in a frantic, buzzing dance.
Zong Yan could never afford takeout.
She moved with practiced numbness, pulling a pair of yellow rubber gloves from her drawer and tearing a black plastic liner from a roll. She began to scrape the contents of the containers into the bag: curdled milk tea, yellowed cabbage leaves, a viscous white slime of unknown origin, and pieces of rotting chicken that gave off a pungent, sulfurous odor. The scents collided, launching a violent assault on her senses.
Zong Yan’s expression remained carved from stone, as if her olfactory nerves had long since withered away. She tied the bag, walked to the end of the hallway, and tossed it down the chute.
*Thud.*
Trash merged with trash.
She scrubbed the bin clean, fitted it with a fresh liner, and tucked it back beneath her desk. From her meager wardrobe of three outfits, she selected her last clean set of summer clothes and headed to the communal bathroom.
As she passed her roommate’s bed, she paused. A meticulously decorated schedule was taped to the desk, several dates circled in pink ink. Beneath the dainty, ruffled bed skirt, a multi-legged insect scurried around a stray crumb. With a swift, fluid motion of her foot and a flick of her wrist, Zong Yan caught the creature and deposited it beneath the roommate’s plush, silk pillow.
In the shower, cold water cascaded over her head like a torrential downpour. Zong Yan tilted her head back, eyes wide open, letting the spray pelt her face and sting her retinas until they flushed a deep, irritated red. As the water slicked her hair back, the birthmark beneath her eye became starkly visible—a vivid, jagged brand of shame that seemed to announce her lowly station to the world.
She was thin, but not frail. The muscle wrapped tightly around her frame possessed a deceptive, wiry strength that belied her gaunt appearance.
The muffled sound of rustling came from outside; her roommates had returned. Hearing the shower, they knew exactly who was inside, yet for once, they didn't come looking for trouble. They had more pressing matters to occupy their minds. Zong Yan, after all, was a permanent fixture of their disdain—poor, homeless, and going nowhere. They had all the time in the world to torment her later.
Through the thin door, their conversation drifted clearly into Zong Yan’s ears.
"What should we get Si Jiang for his birthday this year? We did the signed sneakers last year."
"I don't know. I’ll have to ask my parents for more money. They only give me 5,000 yuan a month—how am I supposed to survive on that?"
"Tell me about it. My mom complains I spend too fast, but between daily milk tea, takeout, dining out, shopping, and gaming... not to mention clothes, skincare, and gacha pulls... the money just vanishes."
"Did you finish using the stuff you bought during the 11.11 sale?"
"No, I haven't even unpacked the boxes."
"Speaking of which, I have a new package! It’s the limited-edition collaboration I snagged the other day!"
The two roommates chattered excitedly, their conversation drifting into the mundane details of consumerism. After a while, the third girl—the one from the wealthiest background—interrupted them with palpable impatience.
"Enough whining about a few thousand yuan. Fix your makeup and change. Si Jiang’s basketball game starts in thirty minutes. Don't be late."
"Right!"
Zong Yan stepped out of the bathroom just then, drying her hair with a threadbare towel. She had changed into a T-shirt she’d bought years ago at a street stall—three for ten yuan. The fabric was thin, the collar and cuffs frayed, and the nonsensical foreign script on the front was peeling. With her damp hair pushed back, her neck looked unnervingly long and thin. Combined with her hollow gaze, she didn't look beautiful; she looked like something out of an urban legend—a gaunt, damp specter lurking in the shadows.
The two roommates stood before the third, their faces masks of sycophantic obedience. Zong Yan didn't give them a second glance. She hung her freshly washed clothes to dry and retreated to her bed.
"Cheap," someone hissed with a sneer.
They were laughing at her soap—a sliver so thin it was practically translucent.
***
The indoor basketball court was a cauldron of stifling heat and surging hormones. The acrid scent of sweat filled the air, a smell that seemed to thrill the girls watching from the bleachers.
The scoreboard showed a staggering deficit; the game was a landslide. The rhythmic *thump-thump* of the ball, the screech of rubber soles against the hardwood, and the heavy, ragged breathing of the players created a frantic, restless energy.
The figure commanding the center of attention stood at the edge of the three-point line. Si Jiang leaped with effortless grace, his jersey billowing to reveal a glimpse of lean, defined obliques and abdominal muscles. A wave of hushed screams rippled through the crowd.
With supreme confidence, he curled his lip into a smirk and flicked his wrist. The ball traced a perfect arc through the air, dead-set for the hoop. If this went in, the game was effectively over.
Without waiting to see the result, Si Jiang turned and began walking off the court, waiting for the referee’s whistle to signal the end.
"Ah!"
Instead of a whistle, a collective gasp erupted.
A blur of motion streaked past him. A lithe figure sprinted to the basket, leaped, and swatted the descending ball away with a violent crack.
"Si Jiang, how many times do I have to tell you? Don't get cocky!" a boisterous male voice shouted.
Si Jiang frowned and turned to see a smug, handsome face. He felt a sudden urge to throw a punch. "Stop posing, you prick."
"Pot calling the kettle black," the other replied.
The two squared off from a distance, tension crackling between them, until a commotion near the sidelines drew their gaze. A small crowd had gathered around a girl clutching her head. She sat on the floor, her long hair veiling her face.
Zong Yan had been working. She frequently took odd jobs from the campus help-board—running the 800-meter dash for others, signing into lectures, or picking up deliveries. The pay was abysmal, but it was her only lifeline. Today, she had taken a shift for a student responsible for organizing the gym equipment.
She had been pushing a cart laden with sports gear past the court, her eyes lingering for a split second on the intense match. In that heartbeat of distraction, the stray basketball had rocketed toward her. She tried to dodge, but the heavy cart pinned her in place. The ball slammed into her temple with sickening force.
For a moment, the world went black, replaced by a kaleidoscope of dancing gold sparks. A wave of nausea and throbbing pain crashed over her.
Someone ran to her side, offering a frantic, half-hearted apology. Zong Yan wanted to punch him and ask if *he* was okay, but she lacked the strength. When she finally forced her eyes open, her lashes were wet with physiological tears. Standing before her was a familiar face—young, handsome, with sharp brows and bright eyes. He was rubbing the back of his neck, looking awkward.
"My bad. I didn't realize how hard I hit it. Want me to take you to the clinic?"
"Heh."
Before Zong Yan could respond, a cold, mocking laugh drifted over.
The boy turned, annoyed. "Old Si, what the hell are you laughing at?"
Si Jiang walked over, his expression bored. "Little Shu, she’s not as fragile as you think. Her life force is more resilient than a cockroach's."
Chen Bai—Si Jiang’s childhood friend—looked between them. "You know her?"
"I don't associate with people like that," Si Jiang said, turning his back and heading back to the court.
Chen Bai stood there awkwardly, trying to salvage the situation. "Look, classmate, let’s add each other on WeChat. I’ll transfer you some medical expenses."
Zong Yan didn't want to add him, but then she thought of the loan payment due at the end of the month. She silently pulled out her phone. Chen Bai quickly transferred 1,000 yuan, immediately deleted her from his contacts, and pocketed his phone.
"Sorry again," he said casually, before jogging back into his world of privilege and passion.
Zong Yan crouched on the floor until the vertigo subsided. Then, she stood and slowly pushed the cart away.
***
That evening, Zong Yan traveled twenty kilometers to a residential complex to tutor a young boy. He was a spoiled brat who couldn't sit still for five minutes. When she told him to solve a problem, he spent the time doodling.
Fortunately, the parents paid well.
Zong Yan frowned as she pulled his worksheet away, only to find he had drawn a graphic image of male genitalia. She tore the paper in half, slapped a fresh sheet on the desk, and said coldly, "Redo it."
The boy stared at her, stunned. He didn't understand why she wasn't reacting. Usually, when he showed this to girls at school, they turned red with anger or embarrassment.
"When you're finished, I’m sending a photo to your parents," she added.
The boy gritted his teeth and began to write, the sound of his pen scratching aggressively against the paper echoing in the quiet room. Zong Yan pinched the bridge of her nose, fighting the lingering ache in her skull. The spot where the ball had hit was now a deep shade of purple.
Thinking of the money, she checked her phone and transferred the 1,000 yuan from her WeChat wallet toward her debt. Seeing the massive number decrease slightly brought a flicker of grim satisfaction.
As she left, the mother walked her to the door. "Xiao Ying, come say goodbye to the teacher!"
The boy walked over with a polite, practiced smile. "See you next time, Teacher."
The mother beamed. "How was he today, Ms. Zong? No trouble, I hope?"
"No. He was very focused."
Zong Yan nodded, stepped out, and once in the stairwell, tossed the crumpled, torn drawing into a trash can.
She didn't head back to school. Instead, she took a long bus ride to the outskirts of the city, arriving at a skeletal, unfinished building project. She expertly avoided the dozing security guard and slipped inside.
Building One, Unit 1301. This had once been her home.
The entire structure was a dark, hollow shell. After the initial protests by the homeowners had failed, the project had been abandoned, the funding evaporated into a bottomless pit. Some residents had moved in out of desperation, rigging illegal electricity and water, but eventually, even they had given up and left.
Zong Yan opened the door. The floor was bare concrete, the walls roughly plastered. Meager furniture sat gathering dust in the corners. She hadn't thrown away the belongings of the two people who had lived here.
Her biological father had been a violent alcoholic; her mother, a mentally unstable woman with a chronic addiction to infidelity. Zong Yan’s childhood had been a symphony of screams and blows. After her father died of rage, her mother had squandered the remaining money. To fuel her lifestyle, she had seduced a man ten years her junior, tricked him into buying this apartment in her name, and married him.
Only after the wedding did the stepfather realize he had inherited a stepdaughter. The facade of the gentle lover shattered. He had dragged her mother into the bedroom by her hair.
The screams had started all over again.
Zong Yan had stood by the front door, numb. No one ever invited her inside. Eventually, the real estate market crashed, the building became a "hot potato," and the atmosphere grew even more toxic. Her mother resumed her affairs; her stepfather lost his job and spent his days protesting at government offices. During a clash with security, his leg was crushed, leaving him disabled.
When her mother tried to leave, a final war erupted. Her mother had run out into the street, face covered in bruises, and was struck and killed by a car. Zong Yan had lived here with her stepfather until he, too, passed away.
Zong Yan picked up a broom and began to sweep. She pushed open the bathroom door to wet a mop.
Her eyes fell on a heavy iron chain hanging from the wall. She froze, memories of pain and confinement flooding back. She knelt and picked up the chain; its icy temperature seemed to seep into her very marrow.
Finally, she set the chain back in its place and continued cleaning. The heavy iron rings lay on the floor, silent and cold, as if waiting for the day they would be needed once more.
