Chen Hao had just wiped down his scooter seat when his phone buzzed with the strangest notification he'd seen all week:
đ” New Order: VIP Priorityđ Pick-up: "Lao Zhang's Gourmet Kitchen"đŻ Delivery: Grand Parkview Towers, Linhai Centralđ° Estimated Tip: „120
Hao squinted.
Grand Parkview?
That was where CEOs and minor celebrities lived â the kind of place with private elevators and silent doormen. He checked the pickup location again. Lao Zhang's wasn't exactly fine dining. It was a hidden gem noodle shop tucked between a tire repair place and a karaoke bar. He loved it.
But VIP customers usually ordered imported steak, not hand-pulled noodles.
Still, „120 was more than a whole evening's worth of tips. He accepted instantly and zipped off.
When he arrived, Lao Zhang himself handed over the food â carefully boxed and tied with red string like a lucky gift.
"You're delivering to Tower A?" the old man asked.
"Yeah. Something wrong?"
Zhang just shook his head. "Be careful with that bag. They didn't ask for sauce packets â they asked for art."
Hao nodded, confused but intrigued.
Twenty minutes later, he stood outside the marble entrance of Grand Parkview Towers, soaked in nervous sweat and drizzle. A concierge looked him over like he was holding a live grenade, then motioned to the service elevator.
Figures.
He rode up to the 22nd floor, heart thudding.
The hallway was carpeted, silent. He found the door. Rang the bell.
It opened to reveal a tall woman in her late forties, dressed in all black, eyes sharp.
"You're early," she said flatly.
"Traffic was kind," Hao replied.
She took the food, examined it like a jeweler inspecting a diamond, then nodded.
"My daughter ordered this. She's an artist. Refuses to eat anything 'manufactured' lately. Says Lao Zhang's food has 'soul.' I suppose you do too."
Hao didn't know what to say, so he just bowed politely.
She handed him a red envelope.
"For the service. And the speed."
Back in the elevator, he opened it. „200. Not 120.
He was about to mark the delivery complete when he saw the app had a private message:
Thank you for not being late.The world already is.â "Y"
He stared at the message for a long second.
Then he typed back:
Anytime. The noodles were carried like treasure.
No reply.
But the tip was real. The feeling was too.
Later that night, he treated himself to Lao Zhang's duck noodles. He sat alone under a flickering streetlamp and remembered how just last week, he'd eaten half a leftover bun in an alley.
Now he had cash in his pocket, warmth in his belly, and something else.
A strange kind of hope.
Like maybe this city didn't hate him after all.
Just made him work for its kindness.