Chapter 17: Colliding with a BMW

This story is purely fictional.

It was already past midnight. The deep blue sky was shrouded in an eerie atmosphere, and the neighborhood was veiled in mist, with barely a soul to be seen on the streets. Sensing something amiss, they decided it was best to investigate in person.

Their car, wheels still muddy, was parked in a concealed corner of the alley.

Wu Zhengzhe rolled down the window, letting in a breath of fresh air that eased his troubled and anxious mind, allowing him a moment of relaxation and relief.

Yet, as long as he remained in the car, apprehension gnawed at him. Relying on his intuition, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was bound to happen on this trip to Hexi.

In the past, Wu Zhengzhe’s instincts had always proven accurate.

The two of them crept cautiously, one after the other, toward the house.

The night was eerily still; their breathing was so loud it seemed to echo.

Xiao Jin widened his eyes, scanning every corner around the house. He peered inside through the window; the room was shrouded in darkness, touched only by a faint glimmer of moonlight. Not a sound.

Suddenly, footsteps echoed from not far away. A shadowy figure swept past with a gust of cold wind, vanishing swiftly into the night.

Xiao Jin twisted the doorknob—it was unlocked. The air inside the room carried a metallic tang of blood, creeping into his nostrils and raising goosebumps all over his body. He pressed the light switch—no power; the electricity had been cut.

Abruptly, Wu Zhengzhe’s foot landed on something soft. With a sharp cry of terror, he recoiled at the chilling touch, his nerves nearly snapping in that instant. His mind screamed at him to stay still.

“What’s wrong?” Xiao Jin whispered.

“I stepped on something soft!” Wu Zhengzhe managed to stammer, his voice trembling.

“What is it?” Xiao Jin looked at him.

Moonlight shone through the white curtain, its glow ethereal and pure.

“It’s a body,” Wu Zhengzhe replied.

Xiao Jin switched on his flashlight. Focusing the beam, he saw it was Shi Tou’s friend—Guo Yang.

Wu Zhengzhe checked for breath at his nose—Guo Yang was dead. The tendons at his ankles had been severed.

He couldn’t fathom it: Shi Tou was already dead, and now even Guo Yang lay here lifeless.

Was Guo Yang silenced? Had word leaked that they were coming to his house? A flurry of questions raced through Wu Zhengzhe’s mind...

~~~~~~

In the bustling city center of Dahe, traffic flowed thick as ever.

The weather in Dahe was fickle—sunshine in the morning, and by noon, a downpour had soaked the streets, slowing the cars to a crawl.

Occasionally, elderly figures shuffled along the sidewalks, vehicles halting and inching forward like a trail of ants.

From the tailpipes of cars, feather-shaped plumes of white smoke drifted, carrying with them the pungent scent of unburned gasoline.

Zhao Ming watched as people in raincoats pedaled their bicycles through the rain, children perched in rear seats. It reminded him of how Dujuan, on her own at home, had to ferry their son Xiyu to and from kindergarten—it was a hardship he couldn’t help but feel for.

Driving slow, Zhao Ming propped his arm on the window and rested his chin in his hand.

The car’s CD played “Find a Word Called ‘Love’ Instead.”

Listening to the music, his thoughts drifted to Xiao Jin’s uncanny knack for making money. Money seemed to come so easily to Xiao Jin, spent however he wished—a true life of ease.

His mind wandered to his own cramped living space, which suffocated him with its narrowness.

And now, he seemed to have found a path to wealth: to do as Xiao Jin had done—turn his passion for football into a lucrative hobby, striving to make his fortune.

Zhao Ming mused that as long as he analyzed each bet carefully, making money should be a breeze.

He even allowed himself a daydream: buying a house, a car, living a life of leisure and comfort.

So absorbed was he in his thoughts that he failed to notice the cars ahead had stopped at a red light—his old car bumped right into a BMW in front.

~~~~~~~~

At that moment, Dujuan, riding in a taxi, passed by the scene of the accident.

She recognized Zhao Ming’s car, and immediately called him. “I just saw your car on the road—you collided with a BMW. What happened?”

“Yes, I was distracted and rear-ended it. But it’s okay, the car’s insured, it’s not a big deal,” Zhao Ming replied.

“Make sure to handle it properly and avoid any disputes,” Dujuan advised.

“I know, don’t worry!” Zhao Ming responded.

In truth, he sat frozen in his car, unable to get out. He thought, This is bad—BMWs are so expensive, at least three to five hundred thousand yuan. He really was having the worst luck.

The BMW’s trunk had been deeply dented by the impact; his own bumper had fallen to the ground.

Zhao Ming climbed out, trembling, to see the headlights shattered, shards of glass scattered everywhere. He knew he was at fault, yet he braced himself and knocked on the BMW’s window.

A handsome man stepped out. He was over 1.75 meters tall, wearing a fitted shirt that barely concealed his muscular build—clearly someone who worked out. Around thirty-five, he kept his hair cropped short, his forehead smooth and unlined. His beard was under a centimeter long but looked especially bristly.

The man removed his sunglasses, revealing bright, piercing eyes. Despite his single eyelids, he had the air of a Korean star like RIN—magnetic and arresting. Perhaps from lack of sleep, his face showed clear signs of fatigue. His skin was dark but healthy.

Zhao Ming gave him a once-over; he looked strangely familiar. Wasn’t this Dai Yunjiao, whom he’d dreamt about just the night before?

“You’re Yunjiao—Dai Yun—jiao?” Zhao Ming pronounced the name slowly.

Yunjiao pointed at Zhao Ming. “You know me?” Then, tapping his own temple, he seemed thoughtful.

After a long pause, he suddenly exclaimed, “I remember now! You’re Sergeant Chi, aren’t you?” Yunjiao shouted. “What a coincidence, what a coincidence! I’m so glad to see you, really!”

“It’s been more than ten years since we last met. If not for this accident, we might have passed each other on the street and not even recognized one another.” Old comrades-in-arms and fellow countrymen, their reunion was especially heartfelt.

They’d barely exchanged a few words before a line of cars had queued up behind them, drivers leaning out their windows to shout, “Move your cars! This isn’t your private road! Get out of the way so we can get through!” Zhao Ming glanced behind him—the traffic jam stretched as far as the eye could see.

“Let’s go, let’s go. We’ll catch up somewhere else or we’ll block the whole road.” Yunjiao urged, “My workplace is nearby. Let’s go to our Supreme Music Bar for a coffee and some music.” He hurried Zhao Ming away from the scene.

“Supreme Hotel? I was just there not long ago for a gathering,” Zhao Ming replied.

“Come on, let’s go!” Yunjiao grinned.

Zhao Ming quickly got back in his car and followed Yunjiao.

The two cars drove one after the other, arriving at the parking lot behind a standalone building on Riverside Avenue.

Zhao Ming followed Yunjiao into the lot and parked. Standing in front of the hotel, he noticed the building’s vintage character.

It was an old structure, built during the Japanese occupation. The exterior was ochre, solid and thick, with rounded corners and a glossy finish. The architecture, though robust, bore hints of European, even Roman, influence.

Rainwater still trickled down the carved patterns on the walls.

Standing on the open space before the entrance, the air was fragrant with the scent of greenery from the surrounding plants.

The building had five stories—not tall—echoing the city clock tower in Dahe. Atop the roof was a giant neon billboard, modern in style, yet in daylight the artful letters of “Supreme Music Bar” were barely discernible.

They walked side by side into the lobby, where greeters in ceremonial uniforms awaited. As Yunjiao entered, the hostesses bowed and chorused, “Welcome, President Dai!” He waved his right hand in greeting as he spoke to them.

The first floor housed a coffee lounge—dimly lit, but artfully arranged.

Soft saxophone music played inside. Under the golden glow, couples sipped coffee and whispered sweet nothings, smiles on their faces.

In one corner, two men sat, one speaking loudly. Likely discussing last night’s match between Dahe and the Tigers. Both seemed regretful, perhaps from losing a bet—one even slammed his empty cup on the table, shattering the silence with a sharp clink. He cursed in a Northern dialect, “Damn it, what the hell!”

The two made their way into a private booth. The lighting inside was a warm orange, the famous tune “Going Home” playing softly.

After so many years apart, the old comrades were awash in memories, touched with a hint of nostalgia.

“So where have you been all these years? I remember, the first year after my discharge, you called my home, but after that, we lost contact. Why?” Zhao Ming asked.

(To be continued)