"Thank you, bro! Really! Look, bro... bro is tight on cash right now, but bro promises you, as long as bro... bro passes this exam, even if it's just a public institution staff position, bro... bro will give you a thousand bucks! Consider it... consider it a small token of my appreciation!" He promised eagerly, terrified that the other man would back out. A thousand yuan was an astronomical sum to him, the absolute limit of sincerity he could muster.
Looking at his eager and distressed appearance, Zhao Lei finally nodded. "All right, Brother Mo. Mentioning money makes us sound like strangers. I'll make a copy of the materials for you, though; I need to keep the originals for myself."
The materials soon landed in Chen Mo's hands. Brand new, thick, and smelling faintly of fresh printing ink. The latest exam outline analysis, modular special training, detailed explanations of past exams from recent years, high-quality mock prediction papers... These once-unattainable items now weighed heavily in his hands. He held them like a sacred relic, his fingertips trembling slightly. He had abandoned the single-log bridge of the national civil service exam, focusing exclusively on the provincial exam and the municipal and district-level public institution recruitments, with a clear goal—just to secure an establishment position, an iron rice bowl that would allow him to "act like a man" and give him "the qualification to be a father."
He worked himself to the bone. After his night shift, he would sleep for only three or four hours before dragging himself up to read and do practice problems. Instant noodle cups piled up like mountains in his rented apartment. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair like withered grass. Facing those materials, he was like the old man moving mountains, chipping away bit by bit, grinding through them inch by inch. When his problem-solving speed was too slow, he would do the same type of problem over and over until it became muscle memory. When he couldn't grasp general knowledge, he would memorize it by rote. He treated himself like a stubborn rock, polishing it in the most clumsy, energy-consuming way possible. Occasionally, Zhao Lei would message him to ask how his studying was going, and each time Chen Mo would reply with fearful reverence, typing "Studying, studying," too afraid to ask for more, terrified that this precious resource might be taken back. He carved the promise of "a thousand yuan after passing" into his heart, treating it as a debt he had no choice but to settle.
The exam season rolled in wave after wave. Like a gladiatorial contestant rushing from arena to arena, Chen Mo dragged his exhausted body into one examination room after another. On the day the provincial written exam ended, he walked out into the glaring sunlight. Standing outside the churning crowd, watching those young, confident faces discussing the exam questions, he felt like a scavenger who had accidentally wandered into another world. When the written scores were announced, his name was buried in the lower-middle tier of the long list, falling short of the interview threshold by over a dozen points. He said nothing, silently screenshotting the score sheet and sending it to Weiwei. The phone screen stayed dead silent for a long time before she replied with a single, chilling word: "Hmph."
Without pausing, he immediately threw himself into the next target—a district public institution recruitment. More sleepless nights of sprinting toward the finish line. When the written results came out, his rank was a bit higher, finally squeezing him into the interview list. A wave of overwhelming euphoria instantly engulfed him, his hands shaking as he held his phone. He was the first to tell Weiwei, his voice carrying undisguised excitement: "I made it! I made it to the interview!"
The other end of the line fell silent for two seconds before Weiwei's flat, monotonous voice came through: "Oh, I see. Have you prepared for the interview? Did you sign up for a prep class?"
"I... I didn't sign up for a class, they're too expensive..." Chen Mo's excitement deflated instantly like a punctured balloon. "I... I found some materials and I'm practicing on my own..."
"Practicing on your own?" Weiwei's voice suddenly shot up, carrying clear disbelief and a trace of imperceptible anger. "Chen Mo! Do you have any idea how important the interview is? Everyone else spends tens of thousands on prep classes! You're just fumbling around by yourself? What on earth can a brain like yours figure out? If you blow the interview, even the best written score is completely useless! Do you honestly think 'just passing' is good enough again?!"
"No! I don't!" Chen Mo defended himself eagerly, his heart clenched as if by an icy hand. "I... I prepared seriously! I..."
"Seriously? What are you using to be serious? Practicing in front of the mirror by yourself? Or staring at that pile of trashy books?" Weiwei's cross-examination hammered down like hail. "Whatever! There's no point talking about it now! Figure it out yourself! Don't count on me to pull strings for you! I don't have that kind of ability!" The phone was hung up brutally, the busy signal sounding like a sharp mocking laugh.
Clutching his burning phone on the bustling street, the lingering euphoria vanished entirely, leaving only biting cold and overwhelming panic. The pressure of the interview pressed down on him like a mountain. Back in his rented room, he practiced self-introductions and answer templates in front of the mirror over and over again, his expression stiff, his delivery dry. He scoured the internet for free interview classes until he was dizzy, feeling more and more like a clumsy actor the more he watched.
On the day of the interview, he put on his only barely-fitting old suit (bought back when he graduated and interviewed for jobs), his palms slick with nervous sweat. Facing the examiners, his mind went completely blank, the memorized templates vanishing from his head entirely. He answered incoherently, his eyes darting away, wiping his palms against the seams of his trousers over and over again. The result was a foregone conclusion. His interview score was atrocious, his overall ranking dropping right out of the admission threshold.
Walking out of the examination room, the sun was as blinding as ever, yet he felt as though he had plunged into an icy abyss. He didn't dare go home, didn't dare face Weiwei. He sat on a street bench until dark before dragging his leaden legs back to the old, rundown apartment. Weiwei was sitting on the only clean sofa, looking through a prenatal education brochure. Hearing the door open, she raised her head. Instead of asking about the results, her cold gaze swept over his devastated face and wrinkled suit, the corners of her mouth curling into an extremely faint, knowing, and mocking arc. That look was sharper than any reprimand, far more despairing. The last spark of his attempt to prove himself was thoroughly extinguished under that icy gaze.
Hope was like soap bubbles, bursting one after another. The provincial exam failed, the public institution interview miserably defeated. Chen Mo's spirit was completely drained out of him. He still went to his night shifts as a security guard, but his gaze grew even more hollow. Read books? He shoved that pile of brand-new materials into the deepest recess under his bed, like hiding the corpse of a shameful secret. He just sat there numbly, watching the moving light dots on the surveillance monitor as if watching his own endlessly flowing, utterly worthless time pass him by.
Until a paper notice was delivered to the security booth. It was the admission notice for the district's auxiliary police recruitment. The requirements weren't high, both written and interview tests were very basic, and the pay was slightly better than being a security guard, coming with basic endowment insurance, but it was still a contract position, not an establishment job.
Old Zhang held the notice and clicked his tongue in admiration. "Well, little Chen, not bad! Auxiliary police! Once you put on that uniform, you're at least half a cop! Much better than watching gates like us!"
Chen Mo took the thin piece of paper, his fingertips ice-cold. No excitement, no joy—only an immense, crushing fatigue and a sense of absurdity. The "iron rice bowl" he had risked his life for, smashing his head bloody trying to grasp, had ultimately yielded nothing more than an "auxiliary police" job—slightly better than a security guard, yet still lingering on the fringes of the system. Could this be considered success? In Weiwei's eyes, this probably didn't even count as a starting line.
He carried the notice back to the rundown apartment. With her bulging belly, Weiwei was bending over with great difficulty, trying to drag a box of online-purchased baby supplies into the bedroom. Chen Mo hurried forward to help. "Don't touch!" Weiwei recoiled sharply as if scalded, protecting her belly as her sharp gaze swept over his outstretched hand. "Your hands are dirty!"
Chen Mo's hand froze in mid-air. Looking down at his hands, the ring of stubborn grime wedged under his fingernails seemed even darker than before. Silently retracting his hand, he placed the auxiliary police admission notice on the table.
Straightening up, Weiwei caught her breath, her gaze falling upon the notice. She picked it up and looked it over, her brow furrowed tightly. There was no joy on her face, only a profound fatigue mixed with disappointment and resignation. "Auxiliary police?" Setting the notice down, her tone was as flat as if she were discussing someone else's business. "Contract worker? Doesn't count as an establishment post, right? Do they provide the five insurances and one housing fund? What's the pay?"
"There's... there's endowment insurance... and the pay is... a bit over four thousand..." Chen Mo answered in a low voice, not daring to meet her eyes.
"A little over four thousand..." Weiwei repeated, her mouth twisting into a bitter, the bitterest of arcs, her hollow gaze fixed on the gray sky outside the window. "Better than nothing. Still better than being a security guard." Her voice was feather-light, carrying the numbness of someone whose expectations had been entirely exhausted. "At least... when the child fills out forms in the future, writing 'auxiliary police' under 'father's occupation' will sound... just a tiny bit better than 'security guard'."
"A tiny bit better"—this was the sum total of everything he had earned after risking his life and getting battered bloody. Like the finest needle, it pierced straight into the deepest part of his heart; there was no violent pain, only an endless, lingering, icy despair. Chen Mo stood there, watching Weiwei tiredly stroke her protruding belly, her eyes filled with anxiety for the future and a reluctant tolerance for this piece of driftwood beneath their feet. He opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but his throat felt plugged with sandpaper, unable to produce a sound. In the end, he simply turned away in silence and walked into the narrow kitchen. The refrigerator was bare except for a few eggs and half a wilted napa cabbage.
At dinnertime, the dining table was filled only with the sound of silent chewing. The air was heavy enough to suffocate. Just as they finished eating, Weiwei set down her chopsticks and spoke in a flat tone, as if suddenly remembering an errand: "Tomorrow after you get off work, go to the supermarket. Buy a bottle of imported prenatal DHA fish oil; I'll send the brand to your WeChat. The doctor said it's good for the baby's brain development." Pausing for a second, she added, "Pick a cheaper one, but don't buy a no-name brand."
Chen Mo's motion of shoveling rice stopped. Slowly raising his head, he looked at Weiwei. There was no excess emotion on her face, as if she were simply arranging the most mundane household chore. Imported fish oil... good for the baby's brain development... pick a cheaper one... These phrases drilled into his ears. Subconsciously, he reached into his pocket; it was completely flat. After deducting rent, utilities, and food money, his newly issued security guard salary was nearly gone. And who knew when that four thousand from the auxiliary police job would actually arrive.
"Okay... I got it." Lowering his head, he shoved the last mouthful of rice into his mouth, tasting like sawdust. The lump stuck in his throat was hard and astringent. Outside the window, the city lights flickered on one by one, illuminating countless windows of warmth or struggle. Inside this rundown apartment, the dim yellow light fell upon the simple meal on the table, Weiwei's worried profile, and Chen Mo's deeply buried head, along with that ring of humble, black grease under his fingernails that could never quite be washed clean. The building named "Future" seemed to have changed its foundation, yet remained just as heavy, slowly sinking downward. Only this time, he had even less room to breathe.
Woman A, Man B (Part 5) (021)
Woman A, Man B (Part 5)
The child was born in the dead of night, like a piercing trumpet blast that brutally tore apart the fragile, crumbling peace barely maintained within the rundown apartment. Holding the wrinkled, red little life, Chen Mo's arms were as stiff as two rusted iron rods. The baby's sharp, piercing cries echoed through the hospital room filled with the smell of milk and disinfectant, sounding like an endless indictment. Looking down at that unfamiliar little face, a massive torrent mixed with responsibility and panic instantly overwhelmed him. A father? He was a father now. The father of a family sustained entirely by a four-thousand-yuan auxiliary police salary and a woman whose tolerance for him was filled with reluctance. Twisting about, the baby suddenly spat up a mouthful of milk, the warm liquid splashing onto the cuff of Chen Mo's washed-stiff cheap T-shirt, leaving a dark, fishy-smelling mark. Flustered and clumsy, he wiped it away with a tissue, his movements rigid and panicked. Nearby on the hospital bed, Weiwei leaned back, her face pale, her tired eyes sweeping over his clumsy movements and the stain on his cuff. Her brow twitched imperceptibly, her lips pressed into a cold, straight line.
Coming home from the hospital was an even more grueling battle. Rain poured down in sheets, lashing against the taxi windows and blurring the outside world. In the stairwell of the rundown building, Chen Mo held the tightly bundled baby in one arm (like holding a fragile explosive about to go off at any second) while lugging a huge duffel bag stuffed with diapers and baby bottles in the other. Rainwater dripped from the hem of his cheap suit, leaving dark spots on the dust-covered concrete floor. Weiwei held an umbrella, supporting her still-recovering lower back as she struggled along behind him, every step cautious, her eyes guarding against the slippery stairs ahead while remaining utterly indifferent to the battered figure leading the way.
Stumbling through the front door at last, the apartment was filled with a lingering, faint smell left over from the renovations, mixed with the wood and paint odor of the newly bought crib. Carefully placing the baby into the crib like unloading a thousand-pound burden, Chen Mo let out a long sigh, only to realize his shirt was completely soaked through with sweat and rainwater, clinging tightly to his skin, cold and clammy. He collapsed onto the newly bought, uncomfortably firm fabric sofa, tugging at his collar, where the milk stain and rainwater mark on his cuff stood out all the more starkly.
"I'm exhausted..." Weiwei's voice was thick with deep fatigue as she took off her coat and immediately went to check if the baby was sleeping soundly.
Chen Mo's gaze swept across this "home" that was finally completed. The walls were newly painted off-white, covering up the water stains that had once seeped through (he had argued until his tongue went dry to persuade his father to pay for more expensive waterproof paint). The floor was ordinary composite board, but at least level and clean. The kitchen and bathroom were newly remodeled, the fixtures of the most basic variety, but functional. There wasn't much furniture; everything was bought by Weiwei after careful calculation of essentials, exuding a chilly pragmatism. This was the result of all their desperate efforts, of squeezing out every last drop they had—a shell barely fit for habitation.
"It... it really is exhausting." Chen Mo echoed, his voice dry. Watching Weiwei's tired yet still tense profile, the thought that had been lingering in his mind for so long finally forced its way out: "Weiwei... look, now that the baby is born... and the home is more or less settled... my... my auxiliary police job..." He paused, gathering his courage, "I mean... the civil service exams... do you think... I could try again?"
The air froze for a fraction of a second. Weiwei's motion of tucking in the baby's blanket stopped. Slowly straightening up, she turned her head, fixing her gaze like a searchlight onto Chen Mo's face, carrying appraisal and a profound, long-accumulated fatigue. "Try?" she asked rhetorically, her voice soft yet sharp as an ice pick. "Try with what? Chen Mo, haven't you tried enough? The provincial exam, the public institution exams... when has any of it ended in anything other than getting battered bloody? That interview performance... have you no self-awareness at all?" There was no anger in her tone, only a numbness bordering on despair.
Chen Mo's face flushed crimson, an overwhelming sense of shame nearly suffocating him. Yet he didn't retreat or explode as he had in the past. Looking at the tiny, sleeping figure in the crib, and the despairing anxiety hidden deep within Weiwei's eyes, a desperate, do-or-die defiance welled up inside him. "I know I'm slow! I know I'm like a piece of wood in interviews!" His voice trembled slightly, but remained exceptionally clear. "B-but... last time for the public institution exam, didn't I make it to the interview stage with my written score? And this time for the auxiliary police exam, both the written and interview tests passed! Even though... even though it's just an auxiliary police job, at least it proves... I'm not completely out of chances!" Leaning forward eagerly, he pressed on, "What I lack is method! Training! Someone to teach me! Fumbling around on my own, I'll never figure it out in a lifetime! I... I want to sign up for a prep class! One of those... those short-term interview crash courses! Three months! Specifically for interview training!" He practically shouted it out, driven by a desperate, reckless courage.
"A prep class?" Weiwei's gaze turned sharp. "Do you have any idea how much those classes cost? Three months, at least twenty thousand to start! And the money? Is it going to fall from the sky?" Her gaze swept over the stain on his cuff, scanned the impoverished room, and finally landed back on his face, filled with undisguised skepticism.
"M-money... I can figure something out!" Chen Mo's heart hammered wildly, his palms slick with sweat, knowing this was his final chance. "My parents... I'll go talk to my parents! They... they have to think of their grandson at least! Make them... pay half! The other half..." He swallowed hard, his voice dropping into a nearly servile plea, "The other half... could you... help me advance it first? Consider it a loan from you! When I... when I actually pass, I'll definitely pay you back! You can manage all my salary! I... I'll write an IOU!"
Weiwei fell silent. Staring fixedly at Chen Mo, her gaze shifted with complex emotions. The man before her was still wearing that cheap suit, the milk stain and rainwater mark on his cuff, his hair damp in strands from the rain—looking an absolute mess. But a fire was burning in his eyes, one she had never seen before—a fire mixed with despair, last-ditch desperation, and an intense longing. That fire wasn't for the illusory halo of an "iron rice bowl," but for "paying back money," for "turning over his salary," and for ensuring that the baby nursing before him could have a father with an occupation that sounded "a tiny bit better." This motivation, humble down to the dust, was far more piercing and heavy than any bold declaration. After a long moment, she let out a long, exhausted sigh, the sound seemingly draining the last ounce of strength from her body. "Fine. Last time. Chen Mo, this is the last time. I can provide the money, but you must write an IOU. If you fail, you will pay me back every single penny out of your auxiliary police salary." Her voice was icy, like signing an unquestionable contract.
Money became the tightest noose tightening around Chen Mo's neck. On the other end of the phone, his father remained silent for a full minute before letting out a muffled "Hmph." The next day, a transfer of ten thousand yuan silently arrived in Chen Mo's account, the memo field completely blank. His mother chattered on the phone for a long time about how "the family isn't well off either" and "your father doesn't have it easy," before cautiously adding at the end: "And... that house renovation money... hasn't been settled yet..." Gripping his phone until his knuckles turned white, Chen Mo offered a subservient promise: "Mom, I know... once I have a job, I'll pay it back slowly..." Over on Weiwei's side, the money was transferred quickly as well, accompanied by a printed, rigorously worded IOU. When Chen Mo signed his name, his hands shook violently, the three characters scrawled crookedly, just like his crumbling life at that moment. Solemnly handing the signed IOU to Weiwei, she took it without even looking, casually shoving it into a living room drawer. It made a crisp "clack" as it landed—like a heavy stone hitting the floor, and striking straight into Chen Mo's heart.
The interview prep class was located in an office building in the downtown area, bright and clean, the air filled with the scent of coffee and freshly printed paper—utterly incongruous with the mildew smell of the urban village rental room that Chen Mo carried with him. The trainees in the class were all very young, mostly fresh graduates, their faces stamped with unworldly sharpness and buoyant confidence. Sitting in the corner like an errant rock that had rolled into a garden, Chen Mo wore the experience of a security guard and the exhaustion of new fatherhood etched into the wrinkles around his eyes and his slightly hunched back. The instructor spoke at a blinding speed, hurling various answer templates, hot-topic analyses, and bureaucratic jargon like a dense barrage of hail. He struggled immensely to keep up, his notes scribbled crookedly like a primary schooler's graffiti.
The mock combat session was purgatory. He was called out by name to stand on the platform, facing classmates and instructors acting as "examiners." With the spotlight hitting him, sweat broke out instantly. His mind went completely blank, the memorized templates vanished from his head, his eyes had nowhere to rest, and his limbs were so stiff he didn't know where to put them. A few suppressed snickers drifted up from the audience. Frowning, the instructor pointed out mercilessly: "Chen Mo, are you chanting scriptures or sleepwalking? Eye contact! You need a sense of engagement in your eyes! Your delivery needs rhythm! Even if you're reciting a template, you have to put emotion into it! If you go on like this, the examiners will want to kick you out within three seconds!"