Twenty-One Years Ago. 

Early autumn brought an unexpected heavy snowfall to the mountains. Withered branches and leaves crunched under the snow. A trail of small footprints marked the ground.

A’Dou ran ahead, calling back to the boy behind him, “A’Xue, hurry up!” He wore a tattered cotton jacket, patched over a dozen times with crooked stitches from his late sister, faint bloodstains still visible. His cloth shoes were soaked, his exposed shins as red as his face from the cold. Yet his eyes sparkled, his childish voice brimming with excitement, breath forming clouds in the air.

A’Xue, panting, said in a soft voice, “I can’t run anymore… Slow down, you’ll fall…”

“No way! If we’re too slow, they’ll catch us!” A’Dou turned and sprinted on.

A’Xue massaged his aching feet, muttering, “We’re not escaping today, A’Dou…”

When he looked up, A’Dou was gone.

The howling wind whipped up snow, drowning out all sound. A’Xue stared ahead, shouting for A’Dou, but got no response. He backtracked a few steps, then stopped, pushing through fear to move forward. Amid the blizzard, he reached a cliff where A’Dou had vanished. Dropping to his knees, he yelled, “A’Dou! A’Dou, did you fall?”

“A—xue—” A’Dou’s voice, once lively, was faint, as if the snow would swallow it. “Help—”

“I’m coming!” A’Xue couldn’t see him. He turned, carefully climbing down the cliff, but soon stopped. Jagged rocks tore his jacket and hands, cotton fluff flying like snow, stained red with blood. Terrified, he cried, scrambling back up.

From the fog and snow, A’Dou’s voice still called, echoing the desperate tone A’Xue knew too well—his sister’s voice when she died, her stomach torn open, gasping, “A’Xue, it hurts so much.”

Wiping tears, A’Xue shouted, “A’Dou, wait! I can’t get down! I’ll get help! You have to hold on!”

A’Dou’s voice grew fainter. “A’Xue, save me…”

A’Xue ran, then doubled back, shouting to bolster A’Dou or himself, “Don’t die! We’re going to the south together!”

A group of fierce-eyed men in combat gear stormed up the mountain, cursing. One grabbed A’Xue like a chick. Sobbing, A’Xue cried, “A’Dou’s there! He fell!”

At the cliff’s edge, the man tossed A’Xue aside, tied a climbing rope, and descended. A’Xue watched intently. Soon, the man returned, backhanding A’Xue across the face.

A’Xue fell, spitting blood.

“He’s gone,” the man growled, kicking A’Xue before ordering him carried back to the village.

From that day, A’Xue and many village children were locked up in chicken coops, no longer allowed even brief outings to the mountains. Because A’Dou escaped, the remaining kids bore the punishment. A’Xue didn’t hate A’Dou—A’Dou must have gone to see the southern spring.

—

The southern spring wasn’t as beautiful as imagined, always rainy, endless drizzle. A’Dou had been “wandering” in Xiarong City for three months. At first, he scavenged leftovers from trash bins, but with relentless rain, the food rotted.

It had been six months since he lost Uncle Wei. He regretted not heeding Uncle Wei’s advice to wait at the inn. Waiting always brought bad luck in his life. Only running gave him a sense of safety.

But now, safety was a luxury—he was starving, his life slipping away. Cold and wet seeped into his bones. His sister said the southern spring was vibrant with color, but all he felt was biting chill.

He stood before the bright “glass house” again, swallowing hard, staring at the adults and kids inside. The table was laden with food—golden fried chicken, fizzy drinks. Through the window, he could almost smell it, licking his cracked lips, tasting blood. A’Xue faints at the sight of blood and cries loudly, but A’Dou doesn’t. He was just too hungry, his vision doubling.

No one told him the “glass house” was a kids’ paradise, but he longed for it, seeing children his age inside. He wanted to try that golden chicken. But experience taught him not to dream. He only came to look before scavenging with stray dogs and homeless men.

His vision cleared, and he noticed a boy watching him from the window. A’Dou wasn’t surprised—kids often stared, pointing and talking to their parents, who looked at him with pity, disdain, or mockery.

But this boy was different. Dressed in a clean shirt and cardigan, he looked like a proper young gentleman, yet his eyes mirrored those of the street kids A’Dou had met—no pity, no disdain, no mockery, just kindness.

The boy spoke to two adults, glanced at A’Dou, and as the woman packed food into a bag, he grabbed it and ran out.

A’Dou’s first instinct was to flee.

“Hey! Hey—” the boy called, chasing him. “I brought you a chicken leg!”

Warm, savory steam cut through the damp chill. A’Dou stopped, warily turning. The boy held up the bag. “You hungry? I’ve got chicken legs, wings, burgers—too much for me. Can you help eat them?”

Under a tree, spring leaves blocked the rain—or maybe it had stopped; Xiarong’s showers were fickle. The boy opened the paper box, pushing it toward A’Dou.

A’Dou knew nothing came free—eating might kill him—but hunger won. He snatched the food, shoving it in, golden crumbs scattering over him.

The boy, stunned, said, “Slow down, it’s all yours.”

A’Dou didn’t pause, barely tasting as he devoured it, easing the gnawing hunger. When he finished, he looked up, guarded.

The boy tied the bag. “No home?”

A’Dou thought, then nodded.

The boy scanned around, pointing north. “You can go to the welfare home. Keep heading north—Lily Fragrance Welfare Home. You won’t go hungry there.”

“Chengcheng!” a call came from nearby. The boy waved back, saying, “They’re calling me. Gotta go. Still hungry?”

A’Dou silently repeated Lily Fragrance, Chengcheng, shaking his head.

The boy smiled. “See you. Good luck.”

A’Dou stood under the tree until the boy and adults drove off. Rain seeped through, dripping on his head. He stepped out, glanced around the crossroad, and headed north.

—

Present Day.

“Is that waist drum team on a world tour? Three passes in half an hour!” 

At dinner time, a private room on the second floor of a rustic restaurant held a dozen members of Xiarong City’s Major Crimes Unit. Xi Wan, the unit’s only female member, had married six months ago but hadn’t found time for a wedding. After wrapping a case last week, she finally invited colleagues for a casual meal.

The restaurant sat on North District’s bustling food street. As the team settled in, thunderous drumbeats echoed outside. Forensic expert An Xun teased, “Sister Wan, did you hire a waist drum team?”

Xi Wan laughed. “See that martial arts-themed restaurant across the street? They’re opening, hired the team for hype.”

An Xun grinned. “We’re stealing some of their festivity then.”

The waist drum’s clanging was festive for a while, but after an hour, it was headache-inducing. Luckily, the detectives were voracious, familiar with each other, and plowed through the meal without fuss.

Before leaving, Xi Wan reminded everyone to grab their things. At the window, she glanced down. The waist drum team was “patrolling” below again—a group of retired women in gold-red silk kung fu robes, wrists tied with ribbons linked to drums and cymbals, faces caked in garish makeup, chanting dish names as they drummed.

Xiarong City had recently caught a trend: new restaurants hired waist drum teams, usually retired women, occasionally men. As Xi Wan turned to leave, her sharp eyes—honed as a trace evidence specialist—caught an unusual figure in the team.

Dressed in the same gold-red silk, with two buns tied in matching fabric and cheeks smeared with shocking peach-red blush, “she” led the group. Tall, seemingly in high heels but wearing sneakers, “she” drummed with zeal, arms flowing, ribbons dancing like a performance.

Xi Wan, stunned, realized “she” was a young man in women’s clothing. His makeup—likely lipstick for blush—was absurd, yet his striking bone structure hinted at a handsome face beneath.

“Still here?” a deep voice came from behind. Xi Wan turned, beckoning, “Captain, come look! There’s a guy in drag in the drum team.”

Ji Chenjiao, Major Crimes Unit captain, stepped to the window, spotting the man instantly. Xi Wan said, “First time I’ve seen a guy drumming. What’s he thinking?”

Thanks to his lithe frame and long arms, the man’s drumming was oddly graceful, his comical makeup somehow harmonious. “Not surprising,” Ji Chenjiao said, eyeing the man’s buns. “Waist drumming demands strength. A young man’s stamina makes him more suited than them.”

Xi Wan, just joking, hadn’t expected such a serious reply. She teased, “Captain, you joining a drum team?”

Before Ji Chenjiao could respond, the man seemed to sense their gaze, looking up at the window. Xi Wan ducked, but Ji Chenjiao met his eyes, frowning slightly. The man, face painted, lips still curved in a fading smile, didn’t seem bothered. Seconds later, he looked away, following the women forward.

As the Major Crimes Unit descended the stairs, the waist drum team had already moved on. Ji Chenjiao instinctively glanced in their direction.

“Captain?” An Xun called. “What’re you looking at?”

Ji Chenjiao pulled his gaze back, catching up with the group. “Nothing. Coffee? My treat.”

—

Past seven, the waist drum team gathered at the martial arts-themed restaurant’s entrance. The team leader, Qiang Chunliu, scanned a payment code with the owner, happily distributing the earnings to her team. Under her leadership and with her capable members, the Chunliu Waist Drum Team had gained fame in the North District within a year, even taking gigs from the south.

“Xiao Ling, come here, I’ll scan you,” Qiang Chunliu called to Ling Lie. He pulled out a phone similar to the older women’s, receiving fifty yuan.

“Thanks, Sis.” Ling Lie tucked the phone into a tacky fanny pack. Qiang Chunliu eyed his phone and bag, nagging, “Xiao Ling, why not upgrade your phone? And that bag?”

Ling Lie blinked, inspecting the fanny pack. “It’s not torn.”

Qiang Chunliu pressed, “Those bags are for old aunties like us at the market. I think they’re tacky, and you’re a young guy—doesn’t it look cheap? Your phone, too. Kids your age use Apple or Huawei. Yours… doesn’t fit.”

Ling Lie, unfazed, smiled softly. “But I’m poor.”

Qiang Chunliu: “…” His bluntness left her speechless.

The restaurant offered a meal, and the women headed inside. Qiang Chunliu asked, “Xiao Ling, eat before you go?”

“I’ll pass. Just washing my face, then I’m off,” Ling Lie said.

As he headed to the sink, Qiang Chunliu joined her sisters at the table. To her, Ling Lie was a bit odd. Two months ago, when he suddenly asked to join their team, she thought it was a scam to fleece their savings. But Ling Lie drummed earnestly and was good-looking. Since his arrival, their bookings had surged, and the team quickly warmed to the quirky young man.

Qiang Chunliu huffed with a twinge of jealousy. Their team used to dominate the restaurant-opening scene, but the Hongyun Model Team’s flamboyant “Hat Queen” had stolen their spotlight. She couldn’t fathom why owners preferred hiring old ladies to strut like models in girlish outfits—shameless! Though dismissive, Qiang Chunliu secretly followed “Hat Queen” on the video platform Muyin, occasionally leaving snarky comments while studying her makeup and style.

Today’s team makeup mimicked “Hat Queen,” but they hadn’t nailed it. Qiang Chunliu planned to up their game, maybe even learn to strut. They couldn’t let others hog the limelight forever. Luckily, she had Ling Lie as her ace card—if only he’d join every event.

She wondered why Ling Lie only came occasionally, never stayed for meals, and left after collecting his pay, saying he had food at home. He seemed strapped for cash, so why skip free meals?

Ling Lie washed off his makeup and untied his buns, shoulder-length black hair damp with water, strands clinging to his face. A chilly breeze, unappealing to most, felt refreshing to him. He tilted his face up, breathing deeply with contentment.

After getting off the bus, Ling Lie headed to Moonflower Kindergarten, only to find the gate locked—it closed at six daily.

Another common-sense slip.

He volunteered at the kindergarten, where the cafeteria served his beloved sauce-meat buns three days a week. Today, he’d missed them.

Unfazed, he noted the McDonald’s across the street. Its only downside compared to sauce-meat buns was the cost.

Half an hour later, Ling Lie returned to his rented old apartment with a McDonald’s bag. The century-old building had no elevator and terrible soundproofing but was cheap, with vibrant street stalls offering endless food options.

Ling Lie loved it.

Before entering, a small scene unfolded. Two apartments on the fourth floor had wide-open doors. A woman in her fifties, voice booming like a gong, called kids’ names, directing them to exercise in the hallway, oblivious to passersby.

Ling Lie sidestepped the adults and kids, reaching 4-2. As he unlocked his door, a child shouted, “Wow! Smells good! I want some!” and lunged for his bag. Ling Lie swiftly raised it out of reach. The kid, thwarted, tattled, “He won’t share!”

The woman glared at Ling Lie, who ignored her, opening and closing his door in one fluid motion.

“Don’t give, fine,” she huffed, shielding the child. “Don’t mess with him. He’s jobless, a good-for-nothing…”

“What’s a good-for-nothing?”

“A bad guy who eats kids.”

Ling Lie overheard clearly but scoffed indifferently. Washing his hands, he opened the bag, eyes lighting up with pure joy at the sight of the chicken burger and wings.

—

Half a Month Later.

Spring warmed the earth. Ancient trees sprouted new leaves, their green branches reaching into the gray, corpse-like old building. Wang Lifen, with her grandson, returned from grocery shopping. As usual, she left the door wide open, sat on a stool peeling beans, and let her grandson run wild in the hallway.

“Grandma! I want McDonald’s!” Ever since seeing the guy from 4-2 with a McDonald’s bag, her grandson was obsessed, demanding it daily. They weren’t rich—once a weekend was fine, but every day? Unaffordable.

Cursing 4-2 in her head, Wang Lifen glanced toward his door. Her grandson pounced, crying, “No beans! I want chicken legs!”

“Eat, eat, eat! Eat your head off!” she snapped. “Go see if that good-for-nothing gives you any!”

Sobbing, the boy crept to 4-2, peeking through the door crack. The door suddenly swung open, and he ducked, fearing the “bad guy.” After a few quiet minutes, curiosity won. He approached again.

Sunlight flooded the room, curtains billowing, casting wave-like shadows. The boy stared at the figure in the center, dressed in a gold-red silk kung fu robe, two buns tied on his head, a drum at his waist. Sunlight bleached his face paper-white, the robe soaked with dark liquid—blood, it seemed.

The boy stumbled back, teeth chattering.

Wang Lifen, done peeling beans, called him repeatedly with no reply. Cursing, she stormed over. “What kind of rotten kid are you, your dad—”

Her rant stopped. Seconds later, her scream drowned out the building’s clatter of pots, pans, and TVs.

“Dead—someone’s dead!”