Chapter 10 : Pitiful Person
Chapter 10: Pitiful Person
In the dim basement, a nauseating stench clung stubbornly to the air—damp mildew mixed with the sharp reek of urine, trapped in the stagnant atmosphere. It clung to the skin like something sticky and suffocating; even a single breath made the chest feel tight, turning each inhale into a heavy struggle.
Old Zhong lay on the cold concrete floor, long unable to remember how many days he had been imprisoned here.
His hands and feet, once bound tightly with coarse rope, had long since lost all sensation. What remained was only numb soreness. The endless confinement had worn away the last trace of his will to survive.
He was already past fifty, no longer in the prime of youth.
If this had been in his younger days, even bound, he would have fought desperately for a chance to escape—never lying here resigned to his fate.
But now, his entire body felt weak, his eyelids heavy as if weighed down by lead. His consciousness drifted, and he did not even have the strength to lift a finger.
Just as his awareness was about to sink completely, the rusted iron door of the basement suddenly let out a harsh “creak,” followed by soft footsteps approaching from afar.
Old Zhong forced his heavy eyelids open, narrowing them into a slit. The first thing he saw was a pair of small feet in white flat sneakers walking step by step toward him.
He knew those feet all too well.
In the days they had spent together, he had held them in his hands countless times, remembering even the curve of each toe.
“Old Zhong.”
A warm hand gently rested on his shoulder, applying slight force to turn him over.
His hands, tied behind his back, pulled painfully at his joints, sending a sharp ache through his waist and abdomen. Yet the pain had long been dulled by numbness, leaving him unable to tell whether it hurt or not.
“Old Zhong, how do you feel? Are you alright?”
The one speaking was Tang Xiaolan, the mistress he had kept for many years.
In her early thirties, her appearance was not stunning, but her fair skin and delicate, pitiful expression always carried a fragile softness that stirred protective instincts in others.
It was precisely this demeanor that had made Old Zhong devote himself to her completely—providing for her, buying her a house, spending generously without restraint, wanting only to keep her by his side.
But the human heart was hidden beneath layers. Who could have imagined that beneath such a fragile exterior lay such a nature?
The most frightening part was that she truly believed she was not wrong—that everything she did was for Old Zhong’s own good.
“I shouldn’t have met you in the first place,” Old Zhong sighed deeply as he looked at her.
Tang Xiaolan did not get angry. Instead, she revealed a gentle smile.
Over the past week, every time she came to bring him food, he would say the same thing. She had long grown used to it.
She carefully helped him sit up, letting his back lean against the cold wall, then took a thin cushion from the side and placed it behind his waist, afraid he might feel uncomfortable.
“Endure it a little longer,” she crouched in front of him, her gaze earnest. “Once we get the money, we’ll let you go.”
As she spoke, she opened the white thermos container she had brought. The moment the lid was lifted, a rich aroma filled the air—it was his favorite, sweet and sour pork.
“I made your favorite. Eat more.”
Tang Xiaolan picked up clean chopsticks, lifted a piece of pork coated in sweet and sour sauce, and brought it to his mouth, her movements unbelievably gentle.
Old Zhong looked at her, his heart filled with mixed emotions—hatred, resentment, or perhaps something absurd.
Was this woman naive… or foolish?
“Untie the rope behind me. I’ll eat by myself.”
He tilted his head slightly, his voice carrying a trace of fatigue.
“No.”
Tang Xiaolan refused without hesitation, though her tone remained soft.
“My husband told me not to untie you. It wasn’t easy for me to persuade him to let me bring you food. Don’t make trouble, alright?”
As she spoke, she again brought the pork to his mouth, feeding him patiently.
Bite after bite, unhurried. She always waited for him to swallow before offering the next, displaying careful attentiveness.
This delicate tenderness was like a fine needle, lightly pricking Old Zhong’s heart, softening the surging hatred within him, leaving behind a strange sense of helplessness.
“After you eat, I’ll give you a massage. Don’t you like it when I massage you?” Tang Xiaolan added.
Old Zhong fell silent for a moment before looking at her.
“You’re so sure your husband will let me go after he gets the money?”
“Of course.”
Tang Xiaolan nodded immediately, her tone firm. “He promised me. Once we get the money, he’ll let you go. He won’t break his word.”
Hearing this, Old Zhong could not help but laugh softly. His laughter was filled with mockery, so much that his chest hurt from it.
“He promised you? Xiaolan, have you forgotten? After every time he beat you, didn’t he promise he’d never do it again? After every time he lost money gambling, didn’t he promise to live properly and never gamble again? And what happened?”
These words struck directly at Tang Xiaolan’s pain.
She had been with Huang Dayuan since her teens. From an ignorant girl to now in her thirties, more than a decade had passed without a single peaceful day.
Domestic violence, gambling, alcoholism—Huang Dayuan’s flaws were ingrained in his bones.
Yet even so, she had chosen to endure again and again, always believing he would change.
Until later, when Huang Dayuan latched onto a rich woman, forced her into divorce without hesitation, and left her with nothing. With nowhere left to go, she ended up working at a foot massage parlor—where she met Old Zhong.
It was Old Zhong who pulled her out of the mire, gave her a home, and let her live a normal life.
Old Zhong had thought he could warm her heart, but he had forgotten an old saying—pitiful people must have something hateful about them.
He had given her everything, yet Huang Dayuan only needed to turn back, say a few soft words, make a few empty promises, and she willingly returned to him—turning around to give everything to him instead.
“No, this time is different.”
Tang Xiaolan’s face turned deathly pale. Her grip on the chopsticks tightened, her knuckles turning white.
Suddenly, she slammed the thermos onto the ground with a loud “bang.” The food spilled everywhere.
Her eyes reddened as she turned and stormed out, slamming the iron door behind her with a deafening crash that shook dust from above.
Old Zhong leaned against the wall, watching her leave. He did not call out to her.
He only felt regret—regret for that bowl of sweet and sour pork. His stomach was empty, hunger burning like fire inside him.
But just as he thought she had truly left, the iron door creaked open again.
Tang Xiaolan reappeared at the doorway.
Her eyes were red, filled with tears. She walked up to him, her voice choked with apology.
“I’m sorry, Old Zhong. I shouldn’t have lost my temper.”
She crouched down, picked up the thermos, wiped it clean, and resumed feeding him, though her movements were slower now, carrying a trace of unease.
“Don’t talk about my husband like that.”
She spoke softly while feeding him, “Before, we were poor. Life was hard, so his temper was bad. But once we get the money this time, he’ll definitely change. We’ll be able to live well…”
When speaking of Huang Dayuan, a trace of sweetness even appeared in her eyes.
Old Zhong looked at her and felt suffocated, almost wanting to slap her—but he was bound and could not move.
He cursed inwardly: Damn it, a woman like this deserves whatever she gets.
After finishing the bowl of sweet and sour pork, the hunger in his stomach eased slightly, and his body seemed to regain a bit of strength.
His mind began to race, using that small strength to plan how to escape this hellish place.
But at that moment—
The iron door was suddenly kicked open with a loud “bang.”
A burly man stormed in, his face full of ferocity, killing intent nearly spilling from his eyes.
It was Tang Xiaolan’s husband—Huang Dayuan.
“Are you f*cking lying to me?”
Huang Dayuan grabbed Tang Xiaolan by the arm, threw her aside, and rushed toward Old Zhong, shoving his phone into his face.
“He deleted you? Where’s the money?”
On the phone screen, a glaring red exclamation mark stood out sharply.
Tang Xiaolan, thrown to the ground, shrank back in fear, her body trembling uncontrollably, not even daring to raise her head—like a frightened quail.
Old Zhong stared at the red exclamation mark, equally shocked.
He had not expected the client to run off with the money.
“This isn’t my fault,” Old Zhong hurriedly explained, urgency in his voice.
“I didn’t know he would run. But don’t worry—I know where he lives. We signed an agreement. He won’t dare not pay.”
In truth, this was merely a delaying tactic.
When Shen Qingzhou had worked with him, there had been no deposit, no formal contract.
Partly due to trust, and partly because their line of work existed in a gray area. Small jobs might allow deposits to reduce risk, but large deals relied entirely on mutual credibility—there were no real constraints.
Even though he had signed an agreement and conducted background checks, those meant nothing to someone who had run off with the money.
Recovering the debt through normal means was nearly impossible.
What truly constrained such people were his unconventional methods—the foundation of his survival in this trade.
But now, he could not even protect himself, let alone use those methods. His words were nothing more than deception aimed at Huang Dayuan.
Sure enough, Huang Dayuan’s anger eased slightly as he stared at the red exclamation mark, hesitation flashing in his eyes.
The agreement was still in his hands. Old Zhong’s words gave him a sliver of hope.
“Can you really get it back?” he asked coldly.
“Yes. Definitely,” Old Zhong replied firmly.
Huang Dayuan stared at him for a moment, then glanced at Tang Xiaolan trembling on the ground.
“You—come with me.”
Tang Xiaolan looked timidly at Old Zhong, forcing a small reassuring smile before quickly getting up and following Huang Dayuan without delay.
The iron door slammed shut once again, plunging the basement back into darkness and silence.
Old Zhong leaned against the cold wall, staring at the closed door as his heart sank to the bottom.
A strong sense of unease gripped him, chills running down his spine.
He had a very bad feeling.
Now, all his hope could only rest on Shen Qingzhou.