It was 6:23 PM, on a narrow alley bordering the urban village and the commercial district.
Liu Ruòruò was riding his electric scooter through the torrential rain. He was a delivery driver, twenty-five years old, thin, not tall, wearing a faded blue rainsuit. There was a crack on the right side of his helmet, left from crashing into a utility pole the previous week. Rainwater streaked his face, his eyelids were swollen, his lips were chapped, and he had already been delivering food for fourteen consecutive hours.
His phone vibrated in its mount, its screen showed a green border after getting wet, and a broken signal tone rang out: "One of your orders is about to exceed the time limit. Please deliver it as soon as possible."
This order was for mala tang, to be delivered to Building 3 of Sunshine Residential Area. The delivery fee was eight yuan and fifty cents. A bad review would cost thirty, and exceeding the time limit would cost fifteen. He couldn't stop.
The rain was too heavy; he couldn't see the road ten meters ahead. The ground was covered in standing water, and muddy splashes erupted as his tires rolled over it. He stuck his left hand out of his rainsuit, lifted the brim of his helmet, and squinted ahead. The navigation had failed long ago; he could only rely on his memory. He turned into a small alley, the fastest route to Sunshine Residential Area, saving three minutes.
The alley was narrow, flanked by old residential buildings with tightly shut windows. No one looked out. Two of the street lamps were broken; the remaining one flickered. His headlight illuminated a raised manhole cover ahead, so he swerved left, the back of his scooter brushing against the wall. The tires slipped for a moment; he gripped the handlebars tightly, steadying the bike.
After passing two more intersections, one more turn, and he would be at the complex entrance. He slowed down, driving close to the right side, listening for any vehicles behind him. The rain was too loud to hear anything.
Just as he was about to cross the alley entrance, a black car suddenly turned right from the main road, no turn signal, no deceleration. The front of the car headed straight for him.
He yanked the handbrake; his body leaned forward. The electric scooter skidded half a meter in the standing water, completely out of control. He instinctively jumped to the right, trying to dodge the impact point, but it was too late. The car and the man collided with a dull thud.
His body went airborne, flipping halfway. His right hand still clutched the delivery box tightly. In the air, he saw raindrops fly diagonally, saw the street lamp sway, and then his back slammed heavily into a puddle by the roadside.
The delivery box broke free, falling to the ground. Food containers scattered, and the spicy red oil mixed with rainwater flowed across the ground.
He lay in the water, unable to breathe. His chest felt as if it were pressed by a stone, his ears ringing. He moved his hands; his left hand could still lift, but as his right hand touched the ground, a sharp pain shot through it, like being cut open by a knife. He looked down. His palm had split open, blood oozing from between his fingers, washed a pale red by the rainwater.
He gritted his teeth and sat up, propping himself on his left knee, his head swimming with dizziness. His vision went black, his sight blurred, as if someone had stirred a stick in his brain. He shook his head, trying to clear it.
His phone was still vibrating in his rainsuit pocket. He pulled it out; the screen was completely black.
He stared at the scattered food containers. The noodles of the mala tang soaked in the water, cilantro floating on the oily broth. He reached out to pick them up, but as his left hand touched the box, his right hand sent another jolt of searing pain through him. He pulled his hand back, finding the wound on his palm was deep, the edges ragged, as if cut by shards of broken ceramic.
He took a few breaths and stood up again. His legs felt weak, unsteady. He leaned on the electric scooter to try and upright it, but the handlebars were bent, and the front wheel was stuck in the drainage ditch. It wouldn't budge.
At that moment, the black car stopped in the middle of the road. The driver rolled down his window, stuck his head out, and yelled: "Are you blind? Didn't you see the red light?"
Liu Ruòruò said nothing, only looking down at his hand. Blood still flowed, unstoppable.
The driver continued to scold: "Wearing a blue vest, and you dare to charge ahead like that? Do you know how much it costs to fix this car?"
Liu Ruòruò looked up, rainwater streaming from his hair into his eyes. He opened his mouth, his voice lost in the sound of the rain.
The driver, seeing his lack of response, grew angrier: "What are you pretending to be? Get your boss to come! Call them right now!"
Liu Ruòruò finally spoke, his voice hoarse: "Me... my order... can I still deliver it?"
The driver paused, then sneered: "You still want to deliver it? The food is all spilled! Are you out of your mind?"
Liu Ruòruò didn't move. He slowly squatted down, trying to put the food containers back into the box. As his left hand picked up a container, he put some force into his right hand, and the wound tore open, blood dripping onto the plastic box.
He stopped himself.
His head started to spin again. This time it was worse than before, the world spinning, his feet feeling light. He grabbed onto a utility pole, trying to steady himself, but his body ignored him. He leaned back, his head hitting the pole with a "thump."
His vision went black, and he slid down the pole, falling back into the puddle.
His breathing became rapid, his chest heaving. He opened his mouth, like a fish out of water. His right hand hung limply by his side, blood dripping continuously from his fingertips, mixing with the rain and spreading in rings.
The electric scooter lay on its side in the road, its headlight still on, flickering. The delivery box lay overturned beside it. The order slip, blown by the wind to a corner, read: "Sunshine Residential Area, Building 3, Unit 602. No cilantro. Extra spicy, extra hot."
The black car remained stationary. The driver rolled up his window, muttering something to himself, and didn't get out.
Liu Ruòruò leaned against the utility pole, his eyes closed. The rain hit his face, chilling him to the bone. He wanted to move, but his limbs felt heavy as lead; he couldn't lift his hands or move his legs.
He remembered his mother lying in the hospital, an oxygen tube in her nostril, the monitors beeping. The doctor said she needed a dressing change next week, requiring another eight thousand yuan. He had already completed three thousand four hundred orders this month; he needed three hundred more to get the full bonus. Now, this single order was ruined.
He opened his eyes, his vision blurred. He could only see the cut on the palm of his right hand; blood was still flowing. Drop by drop, it fell onto his knee, then washed away by the rain.
The street lamp at the alley entrance flickered twice and went out.
The wind swept rain across the ground, blowing a soaked order slip. Liu Ruòruò's fingers twitched.
A drop of blood landed on the slip, right covering the words "extra spicy."