"Hey." Cupid's voice was softer now, lacking its usual sarcasm. "Hey, come on. Don't do that."
But Tòumíng couldn't stop. The tears came hot and fast, streaming down his face, mixing with the dried blood on his cheeks. His shoulders shook, his breath coming in ragged gasps that made his broken rib scream in protest.
"Listen, you're alive. That's something. You've got the system now, you've got a way forward, you just need to—"
The crying shifted. The tears didn't stop but the sound changed, became something harsher, angrier. A sound that was half sob, half growl.
"I'm pathetic." The words came out strangled, thick with emotion. "I'm a fucking whimp who can't even defend himself. I just stood there. I stood there and smiled while they laughed at me. While they touched me (pause not like that). While they called me 'brother' and patted my face like I was a dog."
His fists slammed against the floor, knuckles splitting on the concrete. "I couldn't do anything. I can never do anything. My parents couldn't fight back and they died and I can't fight back and I'm going to die the same way. Broken and alone and drowning in debt that will never, ever end." (calm down Kaneki damnn)
"You're not a whimp, you're being strategic—"
"I'm weak." Another slam of his fists. "I've always been weak. Sixteen years old when they died and I couldn't even cry at their funerals because the collectors were already there, already telling me what I owed, already making it clear that grief was a luxury I couldn't afford. Weak then, weak now, weak forever."
"Tòumíng—"
"I work twelve hours a day in a mine that's slowly killing me. I smuggle rocks to sell for pennies. I sold every single thing I owned, every piece of clothing, every scrap of dignity, and it wasn't enough. It's never enough. It will never be enough because the debt grows faster than I can possibly pay it."
("I WORK LIKE A DOG DAY AND NIGHT DRINKING FROM A POT NONE OF YOU WANNA TOUCH!" ahh monologue)
Cupid was quiet for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was measured, careful. "How much do you actually owe? Total?"
Tòumíng laughed, a broken, bitter sound. "Personal debt? From the interest that's accumulated since my parents died? Twelve point eight million yuan."
"That's... that's a lot but it's not—"
"The family debt transferred to me? One hundred sixty-five point eight million yuan."
Silence. Complete, total silence from Cupid.
"I have to pay ten thousand yuan each month to three different loan sharks. That's thirty thousand yuan just to keep them from breaking my legs. And Hǔtān? He gets thirty thousand yuan. Every month. Sixty thousand yuan total. If I'm even a minute late, the interest jumps to ninety-nine point nine percent."
"Wait, did you say ninety-nine point—"
"Ninety-nine point nine percent. Monthly. Which means if I miss a payment by even sixty seconds, next month I owe one hundred nineteen thousand nine hundred seventy yuan instead of sixty thousand. And the month after that, if I somehow paid that, I'd owe back at sixty thousand. But if I miss again?" His voice cracked. "It compounds. It multiplies. It becomes impossible."
More silence from Cupid. The usual snark, the constant commentary, all of it just... gone.
"So you see why I'm pathetic? Why I'm weak? Because even if I work every single day for the rest of my life, even if I never eat, never sleep, never spend a single yuan on myself, I will never pay this off. The math doesn't work. It can't work. My parents figured that out three years before they killed themselves. I figured it out six months ago. I'm just too much of a coward to do what they did."
The dizziness was getting worse. The adrenaline from earlier was fading, leaving behind the reality of a body that had been stabbed multiple times, beaten nearly to death, and had spent eight hours bleeding in a dumpster. His vision swam, edges going dark.
"You need to rest." Cupid's voice was quiet, almost gentle. "Your body is trying to shut down. You need sleep, actual medical attention, food, water, literally anything except what you're about to do."
Tòumíng pushed himself to his feet. His legs wobbled, nearly gave out, but he locked his knees and stayed upright through sheer stubbornness.
"I can't sleep. If I sleep, I won't wake up in time. I need two thousand yuan by tonight. Two thousand yuan or they'll do worse than last night." He stumbled forward, zombie-like, his movements mechanical and disconnected.
"Kid, you can barely walk."
"Then I'll crawl." (tuffffffff)
He made his way to the corner of the room, to the one thing the loan sharks hadn't bothered taking because it had no resale value. His pickaxe leaned against the wall, the handle worn smooth from years of use, the metal head chipped and scarred from countless impacts against stone.
Tòumíng's fingers closed around the handle. The weight was familiar, almost comforting. This was the tool that had kept him alive for the past three years. This was what stood between him and starvation, between debt payments and broken bones.
"Seriously, you need to—"
"I know what I need." He lifted the pickaxe, resting it against his shoulder. "I need to get to the mine. I need to find quartz, jade what ever gem i need. I need to make two thousand yuan before midnight. That's what I need."
His reflection caught in the small, cracked mirror near the door. He looked like a corpse propped up and forced to walk. Sunken eyes, skin pale beneath the bruises, moving with the jerky uncertainty of someone whose body was running on fumes and spite.
But he was moving. That had to count for something.
Tòumíng turned and headed for the door, each step a small victory against gravity and common sense. Out into the hallway, down the stairs, gripping the railing with his free hand while the pickaxe balanced on his shoulder.
First floor. The building's entrance. The morning sun was brighter now, making him squint as he emerged onto the street.
The mine was on the outskirts of the district, a forty-minute walk on a good day. In his current state, it would take over an hour. Maybe longer.
But he had the system now. He had Ore Sense. He could see through stone, find the valuable deposits, take exactly what he needed without getting caught.
It was a chance. A slim, desperate chance, but more than he'd had yesterday.
Tòumíng adjusted his grip on the pickaxe and started walking down the street, leaving the building and its black SUVs and its ransacked room behind.