This is a work of pure fiction. Any resemblance to actual people or events is purely coincidental.
The story takes place in a bustling coastal metropolis in Country Z.
That year, Aoi Sora's name was already worn out from overuse, and I too had been thoroughly worn out by college.
I was twenty-two, the age of confusion. But even more confusing than life itself was the fact that I graduated straight into unemployment. My father collapsed from illness, and my girlfriend left me for another man.
After graduation, she and I went job hunting together, but rejection followed rejection. In the end, we had no choice but to take jobs at a pet shop. A month later, I found out she had taken "washing pets" to a client's bed. No matter how desperately I begged, she walked away. That night, I cried but could only accept the cruelty of reality.
Life in the pet shop was miserable—pathetic wages, a stingy boss, and colleagues who loved to step on others just to feel taller. Until one day, I met the woman who once hated me to the bone, but who would later drag me into a job at the women's prison.
She hated me because, one night, I had taken advantage of her when she was drunk.
And the story begins on that day.
As usual, I was at work, cleaning up the mess in the pet shop. After sweeping up the chaos, I stepped outside, bought a five-yuan pack of cheap White Sand cigarettes from the convenience store next door, and leaned against the wall, lighting one up.
Life had no future. Death had no reason.
Dreams had long since gone to hell, and every day I dragged myself around like the living dead.
On the steps outside the shop sat a line of people—old and young, men and women. Among them, a pale-faced schoolgirl, sweat clinging to her, her school uniform barely concealing the outline of her bra. Youth. Goddamn beautiful, cruel youth.
Cigarette dangling from my lips, I watched her as she talked on the phone, glancing at me with wide, blinking eyes before turning her gaze to the street.
A black BMW pulled up. She hopped to her feet, went over, and got into the car. Youth, so damn pretty, so damn fleeting.
Behind the wheel was a balding man in sunglasses. He pulled her into his arms, his dark hand sliding where it didn't belong.
"Beast," I cursed under my breath.
And in that moment, I understood—this glittering city was no paradise for a boy from the countryside.
"Zhang Fan, what the hell are you doing? Slacking again?" a coarse voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
I turned. It was our manager, He Hua—though we all called her Sister Hua. The boss was her godfather, which gave her license to glare at me like I was dirt.
I stubbed out my cigarette and forced a servile smile. "Sister Hua, what can I do for you?"
When you live under someone else's roof, you learn to bow your head.
"I'm breaking my back inside while you hide out here smoking. No wonder your girlfriend ran off with a rich man."
Her lips moved, thin and red, and I cursed her a hundred times over in my head.
My girlfriend's betrayal had already crushed me. Yet every day I had to endure Hua's "kind reminders":
"You can't even wash a dog properly—no wonder your girlfriend left."
"You can't mop the floor right—no wonder your girlfriend left."
"You can't do anything right—no wonder your girlfriend left."
What the hell did mopping floors have to do with my girlfriend running away?
She shoved a service slip into my hand. "Customer wants an in-home wash. Move it!"
Another hopeless day in a hopeless shop. Miserable work, miserable pay. The boss was a schemer, the workers were petty, and raises were fairy tales. Overtime was the only reality.
I thought about quitting. Clenched my teeth. Then sighed. Better to wait until I had another job lined up.
The address led me to a luxury apartment complex. After two rounds of questioning by security, I finally arrived at the customer's door.
When it opened, I froze.
A tall, striking woman stood there in a silk robe, hair draped carelessly over her shoulders, her mature curves practically daring a man to sin.
The smell of alcohol mixed with her perfume hit me at once.
There I was, filthy in my work clothes, clutching a basin of dog shampoo and towels, suddenly crushed by inferiority—buried in the dirt, blooming into nothing but a rotten weed.
"I'm from the pet shop," I mumbled.
"Took you three days to show up. What kind of service is this?" she snapped, eyes sharp and sultry all at once.
I lowered my head. "Sorry, miss. We've been short-staffed."
"Shoes off. The cat's in the kitchen. Go find it." Her tone was pure command.
I obeyed. Her home was lavish: massive wall-screen TV, an enormous sofa with a wedding dress draped across it, a half-empty bottle of imported liquor on the table.
In the kitchen, I found not a cat but a fluffy white Pomeranian, gnawing happily on a box of McDonald's chicken wings.
Even the dog ate better than me.
When it finished, I scooped it up, swallowing hard at the sight of the leftovers in its bowl.
In the living room, she was on the phone, shouting at her boyfriend. "Get your cat out of my house or I'll dump it at the vet. This is my home, not yours. And no—I'm not forgiving you. You've got plenty of pretty women out there—marry whichever you like. Just don't come back here!"
She hung up, threw the phone on the sofa, and took another swig from the bottle.
Another one broken by love.
She caught me peeking and shot me a glare sharp enough to kill. I dropped my head, focused on drying the dog.
"Hey, vet. Vet!" she suddenly called.
I flinched. "What is it?"
Her voice cracked. "Got a cigarette?"
"…Yeah."
"Give me one."
Her tone was wrong, like something breaking inside.
I handed her a cigarette. When she reached for it, I noticed her swollen, bloodshot eyes—she'd been crying. Fresh scars, deep and raw, marked both her wrists.
I looked away fast.
She smoked half of it, then tossed it to the floor. "What kind of garbage brand is this?"
A spark of anger lit in me. If I had money, you think I'd smoke five-yuan cigarettes?
"You didn't have to smoke it," I muttered.
Her eyes flared. I looked away.
She asked about the "cat," I told her it was done. She gave me money with disdain, like tossing scraps to a beggar.
Something inside me snapped.
When she insulted me again, I slapped her. Hard.
For a second, silence. Then rage. "You hit me? Nobody's ever hit me before! I'll kill you!"
She came at me with a bottle. It smashed against my chest. She clawed at me, I grabbed her wrists, and in the struggle, we tumbled onto the sofa—me pinning her down.
Her face flushed. "Let me go!"
"Let you go? You take out your heartbreak on me?!" I spat back.
She bit my hand so hard blood welled up. Pain burned, rage flared hotter. I bit her back, and somehow our lips collided—mouths locked in something between a fight and a kiss.
Her breath, my fury, her perfume, my hunger—lines blurred, and the heat of the moment consumed what little reason I had left.
And that was how I lost myself.