“Dr. Zhao! Emergency!”
Zhao Meiyou was jolted awake by the clatter of shuffling mahjong tiles.
He had fallen asleep in the butcher shop. Through the plastic strip curtains, several elderly aunties were in the heat of a game. The air was a thick, sweltering soup of prickly heat powder, floral water, mosquito coils, and braised meats. The women’s pale flesh, squeezed into polyester fibers, was slick with trapped sweat. To cope, they puffed incessantly on hand-rolled cigarettes made of dried krill leaves mixed with mint and tobacco. The smoke clung to the walls with an unseasonable, greasy coolness, reminiscent of an old public bathhouse where beads of moisture seeped densely from the enamel tiles.
“Dr. Zhao!” The one looking for him was an intern who hadn’t been at the hospital long. He looked visibly shaken by whatever he had just witnessed. “Can you hurry? The kid in the clinic is covered in blood. If you take any longer, I’m afraid his mother will tear the ER apart!”
“Yeah, yeah, coming.” Zhao Meiyou had just woken up, and his brain was still a bit foggy. As he stood, he realized one of his shoes was missing. He bent down to search for it. “I say, Auntie, why did you walk off with my shoe again?”
He looked at the woman at the head of the table. Half the nail polish on her left toes had chipped off, and she was currently sporting his oversized red flip-flop.
“What’s the big deal? Flip-flops in a bathhouse never match anyway!” The woman waved a hand dismissively, nearly slapping a One-Bird tile into his face. “Xi Shi, as long as there are two of them, just shuffle along!” As she spoke, she kicked a random high-heeled shoe from under the table toward him. It was also for a right foot.
“Auntie, it’s the left one I’m missing…” Zhao Meiyou started, but the woman, busy drawing a tile, cut him off.
“Scram, hurry up. When you get back, mince me two pounds of meat. We’re having dumplings at my place tonight!”
Zhao Meiyou scratched his head. “Right then. Hope you pull an East Wind soon.” He pushed through the curtain and left. Behind him, the woman’s angry shout erupted: “Hey, you little brat, how dare you peek at my tiles!” A chopstick came flying out immediately after.
“See you for dinner!” Zhao Meiyou ducked, then ran off with a limp—one foot in a flip-flop, the other in a high heel.
Zhao Meiyou was an ER doctor at the mental hospital in the 33rd Floor District of the Metropolis. The 33rd floor was located in the Lower Districts. Within a hundred-floor radius, this was the only government-affiliated hospital. Because it received subsidies, it had managed to stay open for a long time, earning it the reputation of a century-old establishment.
Due to the severe shortage of medical resources in the Lower Districts, the ER functioned almost independently from the psychiatric wards. The primary doctors were like "dog-skin plasters"—versatile jacks-of-all-trades capable of everything from treating bruises to delivering babies and performing surgery. They also doubled as hospital security, helping to catch escaped patients at a moment's notice. On top of that, they had to earn extra cash on the side. Zhao Meiyou, for instance, worked as a temp at a pork shop. He knew a bit of veterinary medicine, and his knife skills were beyond reproach, providing a full suite of services for swine from birth to the funeral pyre.
Because of his good looks and exquisite blade work, people had dubbed him "Pork Xi Shi" and the "Sick Butcher."
When Zhao Meiyou reached the ER, he was greeted by a chorus of wailing. “My Cuihua! You died such a miserable death!” The cries were mournful and lingering—it was the blood-covered child the intern had mentioned. He was clinging to a clinic chair as if he had just lost his wife or mother.
“Xi Shi, you’re finally here!” The doctor on duty was clearly at his wit's end. “Who is this Cuihua? I’ve been trying to persuade this kid for ages but he won’t let go. His mom just left, saying she’d leave him here until you arrived…”
“Cuihua is the synthetic pig he’s been raising for three months,” Zhao Meiyou said, barely lifting his eyelids.
The doctor: “...?”
“Kid, let go.” Zhao Meiyou used a clever bit of leverage, pinching the boy’s funny bone to force him loose. He hauled the boy up like a scruffy kitten. “Let me see. You spent the whole morning running ten miles with that pig in your arms. I ran so hard my shoe fell off just to catch you. Even that couple that embezzled money and eloped didn't run as fast as you... Sprained your ankle, didn't you?”
The boy looked at the man before him—face pale as paper, dark circles under his eyes as big as bowls, wearing one flip-flop and one high heel, with a white lab coat thrown over a butcher’s apron. He let out a fresh howl: “The murder of my pig is a blood feud that cannot be settled under the same sky!”
The witnessing doctor: “...”
The crying was deafening, but Zhao Meiyou acted as if he couldn't hear it. He probed the boy’s lower leg, pressing on a few bruised spots and asking if it hurt. Then he nodded thoughtfully. “Alright, it’s not a big deal. Tell your mom to make you some tonic soup these next few days.”
“...Tonic soup?” The boy’s crying subsided as he blinked. “Is there meat in it?”
Zhao Meiyou hummed in affirmation. “Like repairs like. We’ll just use Cuihua to supplement your health.”
The boy: “...”
“Try crying one more time, and we can take this leg straight to surgery.” Zhao Meiyou pulled a surgical saw from the cabinet. The steel blade screeched as he dragged it across a metal handrail. He smiled thinly. “See the blood dripping from this saw? I just used it to chop up your Cuihua this morning.”
The boy’s next sob died in his throat, stuck there as his face turned beet red. He looked like a cat that had its tail stepped on.
The other doctor couldn't take it anymore. “Enough, enough. That’s no way to scare a child... Come here, let Uncle wipe you down. Look at all this blood...” He led the boy out, returning a moment later with a plastic-wrapped cucumber sandwich. “I checked; it’s just a sprain. He’ll be fine after a few days of rest at home.”
Zhao Meiyou had a cigarette in his mouth and was searching for a lighter. “Diao Chan, you’re twenty-six. What’s with the ‘Uncle’ act?”
“No smoking in the clinic!” Diao Chan’s voice rose an octave.
Zhao Meiyou smiled. “Just one.”
“Not even one!”
Zhao Meiyou had no choice but to tuck the cigarette behind his ear.
Diao Chan sighed and began unwrapping his sandwich. In this place, they had to eat whenever they found a spare second. “What did you do this time? Getting the kid in that state, covered in blood.”
“That’s all pig blood,” Zhao Meiyou tutted. “A live hog was brought in this morning. I was halfway through the slaughter when that little monkey burst in. Good grief, he snatched it up and bolted. Not even a mugger is that bold. He didn't even grab the whole thing properly; he tore off half a hind leg, and it was spraying blood the whole way. Anyone watching would’ve thought I’d put a curse on him... His parents were the ones who decided to slaughter the pig. The little brat didn't dare throw a tantrum at home, so he came to the clinic to act out.”
“Fine, fine, fine.” Diao Chan’s head throbbed at the description. “The storytelling hall opens tonight. If your tongue is itching that much, go perform a set. Don't do your comedy routine here.”
“You’re a young master from the Upper Districts coming to experience life on the 33rd floor; I have to make sure you’re well-entertained,” Zhao Meiyou joked. “Storytelling halls are a specialty of the Lower Districts. Especially the theater on the 33rd floor—the master’s voice there is the most authentic.”
“Zhao Mode, how many pounds of sunflower seeds did you eat today? Your mouth is so petty...” Diao Chan was interrupted as another intern burst into the ER. “Dr. Zhao, come quickly! Patient 211 has escaped again!”
Zhao Meiyou patted Diao Chan on the shoulder and slipped out the door. “Coming, coming. What’s 211 performing today?”
As he spoke, a lighter appeared between his fingers. Just as he lit his cigarette, an angry roar came from behind the door: “Zhao Mode! You swiped my lighter again! No smoking in the hospital!”
Before Zhao Meiyou could respond, a large group of people came charging down the hallway. Leading them was an old man holding an enamel thermos high above his head. With the imposing aura of a hero suppressing a demon, he roared at Zhao Meiyou: “Halt! If I call your name, do you dare answer?!”
A swarm of orderlies chased after him. “Grandpa De, stop causing a scene!” “Can we just go back and watch the cockroaches race?” “Look back, your granddaughter is here to see you!”
The old man was oblivious, his eyes fixed glare-intently on Zhao Meiyou. He repeated: “If I call your name, do you dare answer?!”
Diao Chan poked his head out from behind the door. “What’s going on now?”
“Patient 211, Grandpa De. He’s our resident veteran actor.” Zhao Meiyou stubbed out his cigarette. “Looks like today’s script is the Silver Horn King.”
In a few strides, Grandpa De was right in front of him, repeating the challenge. Zhao Meiyou recalled the plot and began to follow the script: “Why wouldn't I dare? Go ahead and call.”
“Zhe Xing Sun!”
“Aye, Grandpa, I’m here.”
“Haha! You wretched monkey, your day has come!” The old man grinned wickedly and unscrewed the thermos cap. “Watch as my Purple Gold Gourd sends you to the afterlife today—”
Zhao Meiyou deftly grabbed an enamel mug and aimed it at the opening.
*Splash.* He caught a full mug of Spicy Pepper Soup.
“Try some.” Zhao Meiyou filled one mug after another, handing one to Diao Chan. “Grandpa De’s Spicy Pepper Soup is top-tier. Lots of meat. It’ll go perfectly with your precious sandwich.”
The two men stood at the door, sharing the entire thermos of soup like middle schoolers sharing a snack. Zhao Meiyou handed the last mug to Grandpa De and began reciting his lines: “Monster, where do you think you’re going? Take a cup from this Old Sun!”
The old man took it, drained the cup in one go, wiped his mouth, stroked his beard, and sang in a traditional operatic voice: “Wa-ya-ya! Good soup! We shall drink again tomorrow!”
Zhao Meiyou clinked his mug against the old man's. “Tomorrow then. Safe travels.”
Grandpa De gave him a dignified glance, then paced away with measured, theatrical steps, hands behind his back, slowly returning to his ward.
“I don't think you need to go to the storytelling hall at all,” Diao Chan said, amazed. “The performances here are plenty.”
“Grandpa De used to be the star of the Chuyun Theater on the 460th floor. Even though that’s only the Middle Districts, for a performer of old male roles, it’s considered a very good placement,” Zhao Meiyou said. “Now he sings every day without charging for tickets. Consider it a job perk.”
Diao Chan froze. Chuyun was the best theater in the Middle Districts; the actors there should have had retirement subsidies.
As if reading his mind, Zhao Meiyou smiled. “You’re still a warm-hearted young master, aren't you?”
After his routine rounds, Zhao Meiyou clocked out. Since Diao Chan had arrived at the hospital, he had taken over much of the workload, allowing Zhao to focus on slaughtering pigs to supplement his income. Back at the shop, the mahjong aunties had dispersed. He weighed out a piece of hind leg, finely minced it, wrapped it in oil paper, and grabbed a jar of pickled greens from the warehouse, intending to go for a proper meal.
The auntie who was hosting him lived on the 27th floor. Usually, one had to wait in a long line for the elevator pods. The pods in the Lower Districts had never been upgraded; they still used the primitive electrical systems from when the Metropolis was first built. During power outages, they even had to be operated manually. Zhao Meiyou thought for a moment—minced meat wouldn't stay fresh for long—so he borrowed an umbrella from the repair shop, opened it, and jumped off the building.
He landed on a windowsill. Beneath a green rain awning grew sunflowers—electronic ones, as sunlight rarely reached the Lower Districts and real plants couldn't survive. The window slid open, and a young girl poked her head out, watching him quietly.
“Little Princess.” Zhao Meiyou recalled an old movie they had watched a few days ago and performed a gentlemanly bow. “I’m not late, am I?”
“Mama is making soup.” The girl seemed satisfied with his gesture and stepped aside to let him in. Zhao Meiyou hopped into the room—the girl’s bedroom was a discarded RV suspended in mid-air. The entire room shuddered with his movement.
“How are your fish doing?” Zhao Meiyou went straight to the fish tank on the desk. “Are they ready to eat yet?”
The girl glanced at him. “I’m raising piranhas.”
“Electronic ones too?”
“So you can’t eat them. Stop thinking about it.”
“Little Princess, you’re definitely going to be a queen one day.” Zhao Meiyou raised his hands in surrender and headed for the kitchen. “Auntie, I brought the minced meat. I also brought some pickled greens for the filling...”
“Just bringing your mouth would have been enough! Why bring things?” The woman didn't stand on ceremony, opening the jar and fishing out some greens. “Ooh, this smells good. Sour and crisp. It’ll really open up the appetite!”
Zhao Meiyou quickly rolled up his sleeves. “Let me help you.”
Pickled green and lard-residue dumplings, a dipping sauce made of minced garlic, millet chili, and aged vinegar, accompanied by four cold side dishes: pickled spicy eggplant strips, celtuce, shredded tofu in red oil, and soy-sauce cucumbers. The sour soup for the dumplings was garnished with dried shrimp and seaweed, and there was even a steamer of beef pies.
After eating his fill, Zhao Meiyou washed the dishes while leaning against the sink for support, feeling stuffed. He couldn't help but sigh, “Life is complete.”
The woman’s voice drifted in from outside. “Xi Shi, are you done washing? We girls are playing cards tonight. Take your sister out for a stroll. Don't let her eat junk!”
“Got it, Auntie!” Zhao Meiyou called back. He shook the water off his hands and walked out of the kitchen, finding the little girl waiting by the door. “Want anything else to eat? Want to go hear some opera? We can grab skewers after the night show.”
The girl looked him up and down. “I think you need some digestive capsules.”
“Opera helps digestion. Or how about a comedy show? Last time, a solo performer did a routine listing all the dishes in a feast; it made me hungry again right after I’d eaten.”
The girl thought for a moment, then suddenly said, “Brother.”
“Yeah? What’s up?”
“Have you ever seen your dad?”
“What made you ask that?” Zhao Meiyou crouched down to meet her eyes. “Did someone say something to you?”
“The crazy fortune teller on the street told me that I’m just like you—neither of us has a father.”
“I have a father, he’s just unreliable. He knocked my mom up and then vanished. My mom gave me his surname just so she could claim child support.” Zhao Meiyou waved his hands dismissively. “Don't listen to that fortune teller. He’s an escaped patient from our hospital. Are there any sane people in our ward?”
He added, “Except for your Brother Diao Chan.”
“But have you ever seen him?”
Zhao Meiyou thought about it. “No.”
The girl stared at him for a moment as if making a decision. She climbed up the slide into the RV and slid back down a moment later, holding a box Zhao Meiyou had never seen before.
Zhao Meiyou watched her fiddle with it. “What’s this?”
“Brother, listen to me.” The girl climbed onto his lap and looked him seriously in the eyes. “It’s not that we don't have fathers. It’s that the system programming left us out.”
“Have you started reading fantasy literature lately? The works from the 20th and 21st centuries are pretty good, though you don't often find digital copies from those two hundred years on the black market. I’ll transcribe a book for you from memory later...”
“Brother.” The girl interrupted him.
“I’m telling the truth. This isn't real reality. We’re inside a massive virtual world.”
She finished speaking and held the object up to Zhao Meiyou’s eyes.
Zhao Meiyou studied it for a while, suddenly realizing he had seen this thing in a black market auction catalog once. But that one had been ancient. This kind of thing had been out of production for centuries; it was impossible for one to be preserved in such pristine condition.
Zhao Meiyou thought for a moment. “Did you have someone at the repair shop make this?”
“I’m not interested in mechanical work, Brother,” the girl said. “I brought this in from the real world.”
It was a brand-new disc player.
Its surface was as smooth as mercury. On the back, the production year was laser-engraved.
They were currently living in the 25th century.
But the year on the disc player was 1999.
***
