Liu Ruòruò carefully folded the note with "7, 3, 9" written on it and put it into his inner pocket. He didn't look in the mirror again, nor did he listen for any movement outside the door. He just moved the desk lamp back to its original position, sat at the edge of the table, and stared blankly at the work injury appraisal.
The sky was about to break.
He had slept less than three hours, his eyes were a bit dry, but his mind was very clear. His phone lay under the bed, silent. He knew he couldn't avoid the scene today.
If Zhāng Wěishàn wanted to perform, he would go and support him.
But he wouldn't be a supporting actor.
He changed into a clean work uniform, pulling the cuffs tight, his right hand hidden beneath the fabric. The pattern was still there, neither painful nor itchy, just heavy, like a piece of iron pressing down. He didn't think much of it, raised his hand to smooth his hair, and pushed open the door to go downstairs.
There wasn't much wind outside, and the air carried a scent of damp earth. He got on his electric scooter and headed straight for the city center.
The charity gala was being held at a five-star hotel. A red carpet was laid out at the entrance, flanked by reporters and security guards. Camera stands were arranged like a forest, and the flashbulbs popped, blindingly bright.
Liu Ruòruò reached the entrance and was stopped.
"Name?" The security guard looked down at the list.
"Liu Ruòruò."
The guard looked up at him, then back down at the list, muttering, "What a strange name." Then he waved him through.
Liu Ruòruò didn't smile, nor did he get angry. He walked straight in.
The banquet hall was vast, with crystal chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and silver cutlery and wine glasses on the tables. There were many people, some in suits, others in qipaos, all wearing smiles. He stood at the entrance and scanned the room, not seeing Lǐ Jídù or Lín Qiānxuě.
But he knew that among these people, there were Zhāng Wěishàn's associates.
He found a seat by the wall, his back against a pillar, giving him a clear view of the entire hall. No one came to greet him, and no one poured him a drink. He remained still, sitting like a nail.
After more than ten minutes, the lights dimmed slightly and the music stopped. The host walked onto the stage, beaming.
"Next, let us welcome the most special guest of this charity event – an ordinary deliveryman who has written an extraordinary life story with his resilience!"
Applause erupted.
All eyes turned towards him.
Liu Ruòruò didn't move.
The host called out again, "Mr. Liu Ruòruò, please come to the stage!"
Only then did he slowly rise and walk leisurely towards the stage. His steps were neither hurried nor dragging. Cameras followed him, their lenses focused on his face.
He reached the front of the stage and did not take the microphone or look at the host.
The host chuckled awkwardly and handed him the microphone, "Mr. Liu, can you tell us about your experience? How did you continue working after the car accident?"
Liu Ruòruò took the microphone and looked down at it.
Then he turned around and looked at the man in a dark suit in the front row.
The man was in his forties, his hair meticulously combed, a gentle smile on his face. It was Zhāng Wěishàn.
"President Zhāng," Liu Ruòruò began, his voice not loud but clear enough, "how much did this gala cost you?"
A hush fell over the room.
The host was stunned, and Zhāng Wěishàn's smile faltered.
"Well..." Zhāng Wěishàn stood up, his tone calm, "the money isn't the point. The important thing is how many people we've helped."
"Oh," Liu Ruòruò nodded, "then how much do you think I'm worth?"
Someone in the audience chuckled, and the reporters quickly snapped photos.
Zhāng Wěishàn's expression changed slightly, but he maintained his composure, "You are not a number, you are a witness to the warmth of our society."
"A witness?" Liu Ruòruò smiled, "Then why did you ask me to come up here? To prove how kind you are?"
"I want more people to see hope!" Zhāng Wěishàn raised his voice, sounding sincere.
Liu Ruòruò didn't retort. He simply put down the microphone and walked off the stage.
No one stopped him.
He returned to his seat and had just sat down when he saw Lǐ Jídù entering through a side door, holding a glass of red wine. The man's eyes flickered, and he lowered his head, walking towards him.
Liu Ruòruò remained composed, watching Lǐ Jídù's hands.
Lǐ Jídù placed the wine glass on his table and forced a smile, "Have a drink. Don't be so tense."
Liu Ruòruò looked at the glass. The liquid was clear and reflected the light. He didn't reach for it.
Seeing that he wasn't drinking, Lǐ Jídù pushed it closer, "It's good wine, don't waste it."
Liu Ruòruò suddenly raised his hand and gently nudged the glass aside, changing its position. Then he looked up and met Lǐ Jídù's eyes directly, "Why are your hands shaking?"
Lǐ Jídù paused, then immediately shook his head, "No, I'm quite steady."
"Then why didn't you look at me when you came near my cup just now?" Liu Ruòruò asked.
Lǐ Jídù gave a dry laugh, turned, and left.
Liu Ruòruò didn't touch the wine. He just pulled his sleeves down further, his right hand resting under the table, his palm feeling warm.
He knew there was something wrong with that drink.
A few minutes later, the host returned to the stage.
"That little interruption does not affect our heartfelt moments," he said with a smile. "Now, please welcome President Zhāng Wěishàn to present Mr.Liu Ruòruò with a condolence payment of thirty thousand yuan and take a commemorative photo!"
Zhāng Wěishàn stood up, holding a red envelope, and walked to the center of the stage with an expression of loving kindness.
The spotlight shone on him, and the reporters adjusted their angles.
"Mr. Liu, please come to the stage." The host invited him again.
Liu Ruòruò stood up.
This time, he didn't walk towards the host but first went to his own table and picked up the wine that Lǐ Jídù had brought.
He raised it to his eyes and examined it in the light.
Then, holding the wine, he walked step by step towards Zhāng Wěishàn.
The entire room fell silent.
Zhāng Wěishàn stood on the stage, his smile still in place, but his eyes began to tighten.
Liu Ruòruò reached him and did not take the microphone or the envelope. He simply raised the wine glass a little higher and his voice clearly carried throughout the hall:
"President Zhāng is so enthusiastic, have you yourself ever been in a situation that required charity?"
Zhāng Wěishàn's smile completely vanished.
He stared at Liu Ruòruò, his lips moving, but no words came out.
Sounds of murmuring began in the audience, and the reporters frantically took notes.
Liu Ruòruò gently placed the wine glass on the main table, the bottom making a soft clink.
"I suggest this drink be sent for testing," he said.
Zhāng Wěishàn finally snapped out of his stupor and immediately turned to the staff, "Take it down, replace it with a clean cup."
Two waiters rushed forward to collect the glass.
Liu Ruòruò placed a hand on the rim, preventing them from touching it.
"Wait," he said, "the evidence hasn't been recorded yet."
The host panicked, "Mr. Liu, this is a misunderstanding, there's no need..."
"A misunderstanding?" Liu Ruòruò sneered, "You arranged for someone to drug me, and you call it a misunderstanding?"
The entire audience erupted in shock.
Sweat beaded on Zhāng Wěishàn's forehead, and he tried to remain calm, "Who drugged you? Don't make baseless accusations!"
"Whether it's baseless or not, you'll know if you check," Liu Ruòruò stared at him, "or are you afraid of what you might find?"
Zhāng Wěishàn's eyes flickered, then he lowered his voice, "What exactly do you want?"
"What do I want?" Liu Ruòruò took a step closer, his voice audible only to him, "I want to know, have you settled the accounts from the psychiatric hospital three years ago?"
Zhāng Wěishàn's pupils contracted sharply.
He took half a step back, almost bumping into a chair.
Liu Ruòruò didn't pursue, just withdrew his hand and stood his ground, his gaze as cold as ice.
A commotion ensued in the audience. The reporters had already focused their cameras on Zhāng Wěishàn's face, capturing his moment of losing composure.
The host tried to smooth things over, "Distinguished guests, let us continue with today's donation segment..."
No one paid him any attention.
Zhāng Wěishàn raised his hand to signal the security guards, saying something in a low voice. Two men in black appeared from the side door and slowly approached Liu Ruòruò.
Liu Ruòruò didn't move.
He simply raised his right hand and slowly rolled up his sleeve.
The patterns on his skin were revealed, darker than usual, their edges slightly raised, like ancient carvings.
He looked at the two bodyguards and said, word by word, "Whoever dares to touch me will be laid up for three days."
The bodyguards stopped in their tracks.
Zhāng Wěishàn gritted his teeth and waved his hand. The two men retreated.
Liu Ruòruò lowered his sleeve, turned to face the entire audience.
"You all want to see me as a hero?" he said loudly, "But a hero isn't a script you write. Who I am, I decide."
With that, he stopped looking at anyone, walked to the edge of the stage, picked up the empty wine glass, and placed it gently on the table.
The lights were still on.
The applause had ceased, but the murmuring only grew louder.
Liu Ruòruò stood there, his shadow stretching long.
His right hand rested by his leg, the warmth in his palm undiminished.