The next day.
The summer that year seemed exceptionally hot. Through the car window, Zhao Chang saw fashionable women in cheongsams and Western dresses on the streets, as well as coolies stripped to the waist, gulping down cold water.
Even bare-bottomed children ran past every now and then.
With so many people, the traffic crawled.
Suddenly, he caught the curious eyes of a child staring at him, and he jerked back in shock.
He almost dropped his camera!
—This was an imported piece of foreign equipment, something even his newspaper office didn’t own. It had been sent by some big shot after word got out that he’d been chosen to interview Miss Su.
He probably couldn’t even afford a single lens of this camera with three years’ salary.
Leaning back in the car seat, Zhao Chang’s mind wandered. He was a veteran reporter, having traveled to many places and interviewed many people for news, even ventured onto battlefields.
But battlefields weren’t romantic.
They were dirty and stinking.
Most of the time, he stayed in the rear, and what he saw most were wounded soldiers.
Those shot, those stabbed, those caught in bomb blasts—missing arms or legs.
The rear was always stretched thin for hands.
Even the injured, if they could still move, had to help care for others. As a reporter, Zhao Chang was no exception. Sometimes he got so busy he nearly forgot his own identity, knowing how to bandage a wound blindfolded.
It was there that a profound truth struck him—
Life and death are unpredictable.
A man with a severe, half-dead wound might survive, while another with a minor cut or just a scrape from shrapnel—someone you joked with yesterday—could wake up with a high fever the next morning, unconscious.
And then die without warning.
He was an ordinary man.
So.
He fled.
He left the battlefield.
But it seemed he never truly left. At midnight, it haunted his dreams. At home, he grew tense at any injury, even a small wound, and always put off assignments involving hospitals and news.
Zhao Chang had heard that soldiers returning from war often struggled to reintegrate into normal life.
They were always on edge.
It was a bit like his own case, yet different.
He couldn’t quite sort it out.
Then—
“Do a good job. You’re a smart man. You know how important interviewing Miss Su is. I daresay every reporter in Shanghai, no, the whole country, is green with envy right now.”
The Big Boss, who rarely visited the newspaper office, patted him on the shoulder warmly.
Su Ning.
Those two simple words represented incalculable wealth. A figure of such stature that a single stomp of her foot could shake the ground three times. And inevitably, her name was mentioned alongside traits like cold-blooded, vicious, and relentlessly pragmatic.
Of course, lately.
When people brought up that name, the first thing that came to mind was only one thing.
Penicillin!
The miraculous wonder drug.
So, Zhao Chang couldn’t help but ask, “I heard the theme of this interview is penicillin?”
“That’s right.”
The Big Boss smiled and sighed, “This is a true lifesaver. Diseases that once meant certain death can be cured with a single shot. Anyone who wants to live covets it and watches it with burning envy. Now, even the shoeshine boys on the street can rattle off a few words about penicillin. This—this is the tide of the times!”
“Even someone like Miss Su can’t stand against it.”
For once, Zhao Chang’s mind worked with lightning speed.
His eyes lit up.
“Is penicillin about to hit the market?” He had thought the interview would touch on penicillin but only cover its effects, origins, and development process.
He had never imagined it would involve its public release.
After all.
Scarcity made it precious. By holding the reins on penicillin, there were plenty of bigwigs who, desperate to save their own lives, would let Su Ning have anything she wanted.
But that only worked if it was scarce.
If it could be bought with money—even if the first batch sold at a price rivaling gold, to some that was nothing—it would lose that value, dealing a huge blow to Su Ning.
This was a woman who only ever let others suffer heavy losses—never herself.
How could she allow it?
Of course, she wouldn’t be willing, but others didn’t want to be fleeced either, so they banded together to create this “tide of the times.”
No matter how powerful one person was, they had to give way.
The Big Boss nodded, confirming his suspicion. Seeing the sudden smile on Zhao Chang’s face, the Big Boss felt a flicker of curiosity but didn’t dwell on it.
After a moment’s pause, he said, “Although the interview about penicillin was proposed by Miss Su’s side… well, you’ve heard about her temperament, haven’t you?”
The memory ended.
A bitterness crept into Zhao Chang’s mouth. No matter what, he had to mention penicillin. Why else would the Big Boss waste so many words on a small-time reporter like him?
It was a veiled nudge.
Besides, penicillin hitting the market meant that more people who were doomed would have a chance to live—small, but real.
He was insignificant.
But he wanted to do something.
If he was careful, even if he faced some trouble, it wouldn’t be life-threatening… right?
Come to think of it, it was so late that he’d been about to sleep when they suddenly bundled him into a car and notified him that Su Ning wanted to see him. That itself was a power play.
As his thoughts drifted, the car screeched to a halt.
“We’re here.”
Startled, Zhao Chang looked up. Before him lay a scene of brilliant lights, bustling and lively. Surprised and puzzled, he let out an “Ah.”
Miss Su was here?
…
No wonder he was confused.
This place was Shanghai’s famous den of iniquity, where everything imaginable and unimaginable could be found, with sky-high prices… hardly suitable for an interview, by any stretch!
Stepping inside, the atmosphere was unusually cheerful. Waiters, singing girls, dancing girls—everyone wore smiles, genuine smiles.
On stage, a singer performed.
She was voluptuous, every glance and smile steeped in allure, though her singing was merely passable.
Zhao Chang recognized her. She had once been a sought-after “queen of flowers” in Shanghai’s high society—but fame came and went fast. Within a couple of years, she lost her novelty, her reputation fell, and her price dropped.
Ordinarily, once you fell, you never recovered.
But—
Zhao Chang glanced at the crowded, fragrant baskets of flowers crowding the stage. These weren’t ordinary flower baskets; different sizes represented different price tags, and every single one here was the highest tier: thirty silver dollars each.
At a rough count, there were over a hundred—at least three thousand silver dollars.
To put it in perspective, his base monthly salary was exactly thirty dollars. These baskets could pay him for a hundred months.
Such a massive sum was enough to lift someone back up. A flicker of bewilderment passed through Zhao Chang’s eyes. That’s how the rich and powerful operated—with a casual gesture, they could raise someone who was plummeting into hell back into heaven.
As he passed a corner, he heard excited laughter, likely from a waiter or dancing girl sneaking a break.
“My tip is fifteen bucks! How about you guys?”
“More than you—eighteen.”
“I only got twelve, but it’s still better than before. I hope Miss Su comes here often. Not only is she generous, but other customers are too.”
“And they don’t take a cut from this money.”
"That's right, those skinflints were way too arrogant before. We worked hard for our tips, and they wanted to take half for doing nothing. Miss Su had just handed out a reward, and they couldn't wait to take their cut. They all got beaten up, hahahaha."
Around this corner.
The voices gradually faded, but Zhao Chang seemed to be infected by their cheerfulness as well.
He couldn't help but smile.
His heart stirred.
Perhaps Miss Su wasn't as cold and ruthless as she seemed. If he appealed to her reason, made her understand how many people were waiting for penicillin to save their lives, maybe...
He took the elevator to the top floor.
Underfoot, the soft wool carpet felt plush, and even the door handles were gilded. The man who brought him knocked and announced their presence. Zhao Chang took a deep breath, just as the door opened from inside.
He looked up.
There were plenty of people in the private room, but only one was seated. The multicolored light from the neon signs fell on her porcelain-white profile but seemed to add no warmth.
Not far away.
A person knelt on the floor, begging for mercy with tears and snot running down their face.
"Handle it."
Those three indifferent words fell. The kneeling person was dragged away like trash. As they passed Zhao Chang, their eyes were wide open, bloodshot red, struggling and screaming hoarsely:
"Save me... I don't want to die..."
Then a fist struck their chest, and they curled up like a shrimp.
The person quickly disappeared.
But Zhao Chang's heart slowly sank to the bottom of an abyss.
