Lu Yan stepped onto the small slope formed by a pile of rubble at the alley's entrance, then squatted down, glancing from afar at the cluster of stickers and small ads on the shop door.

Crookedly and haphazardly stuck on it were words like 'Eyebrow Tattooing' and 'Tattoos', along with a few concise slogans: One head, 40% off. Two heads, 50% off.

No special services provided.

The line with the largest font size read, 'All card players welcome to test their skills'.

He didn't care if it was a card room or a hair salon; in any case, with the 40% discount, the price for a full wash, cut, and perm would be just as that kid Li Zhen had said—no more than three digits.

In the time it took to find the hair salon, Li Zhen had already sent him no fewer than ten messages.

Li Zhen: Brother Yan, have you found the place?

I sent the location in the group chat. If you can't find it, remember to take a look.

Stop blindly trusting that bizarre sense of direction and sixth sense of yours.

Are you there?

Are you there?

...

Lu Yan flicked the ash from his cigarette and sent a reply.

-Here. It’s pretty remote.

Not only was it remote, but the layout of the area was also incomprehensible. The pile of stones of unknown origin beneath his feet was probably just debris left over from some maintenance or construction project.

Looking further into the distance, one could see the towering smokestacks of a nearby factory.

Chemical exhaust billowed out continuously, hanging in the air like a gray haze.

Lu Yan brought the half-smoked cigarette to his lips for a drag, the bar owner's words echoing in his mind: 'Regarding your performance this time, I have a tiny little request and suggestion...'

Tiny request.

Suggestion.

He felt it was quite remarkable that he was even able to squat here right now.

After squatting a while longer, he tossed the cigarette to the ground, climbed down from the pile of rocks, and extinguished the butt with the tip of his shoe.

The hair salon before him was surprisingly small, occupying only half a storefront that had been crudely sectioned off with a partition. The card table used for playing cards was wider than the haircutting station.

As Lu Yan ducked his head and stepped through the door, the people at a table inside were still yelling, "Pair of queens."

"Three of a kind with one."

"Fuck, bomb!"

Abruptly cutting through the noise was a voice: "Sir, a perm."

This group seemed well-accustomed to their games being interrupted; everyone had vanished without a trace in less than three minutes.

The only one left was the shop owner, a man with messy, dyed-yellow curly hair that had two plastic combs clipped into it.

"Your timing's pretty good. If we'd kept playing, I would have lost," the owner said, folding the card table and propping it against the wall. He continued in a heavy local dialect, "My luck has been so fucking bad lately..."

As he spoke, the owner stole a glance at the entrance and, out of professional habit, began to size up the other person's appearance.

First impression: devilish.

He couldn't pinpoint exactly what was devilish, but the guy exuded a devilish air from head to toe.

The man who entered was wearing a dark T-shirt with a design that looked like some English letter. He had two flashy eyebrow studs at the end of his brow—he didn't look like a respectable type. Though he wasn't wearing anything in his ears, you could see a row of tiny piercings, seven or eight of them, and some on his cartilage as well.

His legs were long and straight, and his hair was quite long.

Backlit, his features were indistinct, and he carried a long, black guitar case on his back.

Lu Yan set his guitar case down and said something that didn't quite match his appearance, haggling crisply, "You don't need to thank me, just give me a cheaper price later."

The owner was a straightforward guy too. "Done. What kind of style are you looking for?"

"Hold on, let me find a picture," Lu Yan said, looking down and scrolling through his chat history. "Do it according to this."

"I'm not just boasting, but around these parts, you won't find anyone with skills like mine. No matter the hairstyle, I can give you a perfect cut."

The owner became more and more animated as he hyped himself up. "Just give me a reference picture, and I guarantee I'll make it identi—"

At that moment, Lu Yan found the picture.

The owner's voice died abruptly.

It was a style with a strong visual impact.

It was red and purple with an explosive volume. The bangs covered the eyes, while half the hair stood on end in a wild fashion, like a flame shooting toward the sky. Every bizarre strand of hair screamed the model's style—Shamate.

Lu Yan's hairstyle took more than four hours to complete. By the time he walked out, the sky was pitch black.

It took two cans of hairspray, and the roar of the hairdryer gave him a headache.

The whole time, a song played on a loop in his head: Shamate, Shamate, wash-cut-blow-dry, wash-cut-blow-dry-dry-dry.

Smelling the pungent odor of hair dye, he turned on his phone's front-facing camera and used the light from the barber's pole by the door to get a quick look. He couldn't help but mutter a curse.

The reality of the reference photo sitting atop his head was far more shocking than he had imagined.

What is this?

What the fuck is this thing?

Walking down the street, wouldn't I become the most attention-grabbing psycho on the entire block?

Lu Yan and his reflection in the camera stared at each other for a moment before he pressed the power button, turning the screen black.

The barber's pole spun round and round.

Next to it was a large loudspeaker. Sound flowed through its old components, coated in a crackling static as it played an old song.

—"Forgive me for this life of uninhibited indulgence and love for freedom."

Halfway through the song from the loudspeaker, the screen that had just gone dark suddenly lit up again.

Li Zhen: You done with your perm?

You really got it done?

Didn't you tell Brother Qian to his face that you'd rather die than get it permed, that he could find another band for all you care, that you sure as hell weren't doing it?

You're really adaptable.

Where are you headed now? The bar's closed tonight. Brother Qian told me to tell you the gig's been moved to tomorrow night. He said you should maintain your current hairstyle.

Why don't you find a good angle and take a selfie for your bro to see?

Lu Yan couldn't be bothered to type. He brought the phone closer and sent a voice message, laughing with exasperation. "I have to maintain this style?"

After saying that, he released the button.

He thought for a moment, then pressed the voice message button again.

"A picture of my ass," Lu Yan said. "I'm in a very bad mood right now."

He'd formed a band a few years ago, and their commercial gigs consisted of playing as the house band in bars.

That day backstage at the bar, he had indeed given Sun Qian a flat-out refusal.

This thing... whoever gets this perm is a fucking idiot.

...

But sometimes, you have to bow to the pressures of life.

Lu Yan stuffed his phone in his pocket and took a couple of steps. The loudspeaker sang again: "Chasing in the wind—losing the trail in the mist—."

Listening to the song, he recalled the look the salon owner had given him just before he left. It had clearly said: 'Such a perfectly fine person, what's wrong with his sense of style?'

This residential area was very close to where he lived, just a ten-odd-minute walk away.

Its proximity also meant a similar environment, characterized by a low civility index, consistently incomprehensible urban planning, and poor public safety.

The shops lining the road all looked like they were being run as a joke.

The several eateries practically screamed: Unlicensed, fails food safety standards, come eat if you're not afraid of gutter oil.

The internet cafe was just one step away from hanging a sign that said it was a Black Internet Cafe.

Of course, it had its honors too. Just last year, it was designated a 2018 Key Rectification Zone for Pyramid Schemes. The first rule of survival in Xiajing City was to steer clear of anyone from the Lower District—eight out of ten were bound to be bad news.

Speak of the devil.

Lu Yan had just passed through the food street and was approaching the residential area's entrance when he spotted two people sitting side by side under a streetlight about five meters away. The sky was dark, and the streetlight cast their shadows long. One of them patted the other's shoulder.

"Brother, I know it's not easy raising a kid on your own. I'm divorced too, and I have custody of my child. Life is hard, sure, but as men, we have to shoulder our responsibilities. Every time I get home and see my kid sleeping, I feel—in one word: worth it! This little bit of hardship is noth—"

The other, looking downcast, said, "Bro, that's two words."

"Whether it's one word or two, the point is, I understand you. I know how you're feeling right now. I've been in your shoes, and it's tough."

The speaker was wearing a gray work uniform—it was hard to tell if that was its original color or if it had been worn down to that shade. He had an ordinary face, marked by a scar that snaked from the corner of his eye to behind his ear.

Lu Yan paused.

Then he took a few steps forward and silently squatted down behind the two of them.

Like a ghost at their backs.

The two were so absorbed in their conversation that they didn't notice anything amiss.

When Scar finished, the dejected man nodded vigorously, as if he'd found a kindred spirit. In a thick, non-local accent, he said, "Yeah, it's really tough. She just up and left, never even considered my feelings. Is the kid mine alone!"

After the other man had vented his grievances, Scar narrowed his eyes and changed his tune. "But I'm back on my feet now, brother. And let me tell you, from the bottom of my heart, the most important thing for a man is a successful career. I've got a business opportunity right now, and all you need to do is invest this much..."

Scar had just held up five fingers when a force from behind suddenly and brutally bent them backward!

"Who is it! What son of a bitch is looking for a death wish!" Scar yelled, twisting his head to look behind him.

Aside from the utterly exaggerated, gaudy purple-and-red non-mainstream hairstyle, the face beneath it was one he knew all too well—the man had long, narrow eyes with deep-creased eyelids, the outer corners tilting up. It was a sharp, severe face that carried an unidentifiable, wild streak. When he wasn't speaking and his expression was blank, his face naturally projected an "I'm about to beat someone up" aura.

"Lu Yan?!"

"That's me," Lu Yan said, greeting him with a smile, though the pressure from his hand didn't lessen one bit. "Brother Scar, it's been a few months. Are your wounds healed? You look pretty energetic. Last time it was tricking people into investing in some Dragon-Tiger Pills, what is it this time? Tell me all about it, maybe I can get rich with you."

The moment he said that, how could the man with the accent not realize he had nearly been swindled?

Lu Yan looked at him. "You're not from around here. New?"

"I... I'm from Qingcheng, here to find work..."

"Qingcheng, nice place," Lu Yan said, getting the urge to smoke again. He glanced down to search his pockets, then looked up to find the man still standing there frozen. "What are you spacing out for? Run."

The man finally snapped back to reality, scrambled to his feet, and ran across the road.

Scar's eyes were red with panic. "Hey, brother, come back... Lu Yan, you motherfucker, let go!"

Only when the man had run far away did Lu Yan finally ease his grip.

Scar's fingers had been bent back so hard he couldn't move them for a moment. Acting as if nothing had happened, Lu Yan smoothly slapped his palm in a high-five that made a sharp 'smack', then shoved the cigarette he'd just found into Scar's hand. "Brother Scar, want a smoke?"

Scar was screaming 'holy shit' in his head.

The guy just walks up and bends your fingers back.

After that, he gives a nonchalant high-five and offers a smoke. Is that something a decent human being does? He has absolutely no shame.

"Blocking a man's fortune is like murdering his parents. You should be focused on singing your songs, but you keep messing with my business. I'm telling you, you and I are not done."

Scar was so angry his voice began to tremble, but he still took the cigarette and stuck it in his mouth. He stood up from the curb, rubbing his fingers as he turned to speak, only to find that the man with the "I'm-about-to-beat-someone-up" face who'd ruined his payday was already thirty meters away.

His voice trembled so much that the cigarette fell from his lips. "You're running?! If you've got the balls to start trouble, then don't run!"

With the guitar case on his back, Lu Yan stood directly under a streetlight. The beam of light hit the towering, twenty-centimeter-high mass of red-and-purple flame on his head, illuminating every single strand until it was translucent.

He raised his hand high, waving his fingers lightly in the air a couple of times. "Gotta go, Brother Scar. I'm busy today. We can catch up some other time."

Scar cursed for a moment, threw the cigarette on the ground to stomp it out, and gave chase.

But two of his steps could barely cover the distance of one of Lu Yan's strides; the physical gap between them was too wide. Scar chased him for half a street before he couldn't go on. Thinking that blowing things up wouldn't be good for him either, he stopped, planted his hands on his hips, and gasped for breath. "Catch up, my ass! Piss off, piss off, just hurry up and piss off!"

Only then did Lu Yan slow his pace and turn right at the crossroads.

Not far ahead was the Seventh Residential Area, abbreviated as the Seventh District.

The naming convention in this part of town was rather arbitrary; the residential areas were simply named in numerical order. Calling it a residential area now, however, was a bit of a stretch. Xiajing City had developed into a new first-tier city, and this slum-like section of the Lower District was a blemish on its image. Thus, a policy had been enacted a few years prior to encourage private enterprises to acquire and redevelop the land.

The Seventh District was almost completely demolished. The surroundings were nothing but ruins and rubble, with countless "graves" made of concrete, rebar, and dirt.

Yet in this desolate, ruined place that had been almost completely leveled, there stood a building... no, half a building, sticking out abruptly.

Written on its side were the words:

—Building Six, Unit Three.