The most direct way to deal with violence is to meet violence with violence.

Treat a man the way he treats others.

I wrapped myself in a single blanket and let the wind blow on me all night at the bridgehead.

As the sky slowly brightened, a pair of eyes flashed through my mind.

Black as ink dots, cold and sharp.

Half a year ago, a family from out of town moved into this small town.

They opened a tattoo shop at the very end of Ping’an Alley.

Word was, it was a mother and son—one an unruly young hoodlum who didn’t care if he lived or died, the other an unreasonable madwoman.

My father had always been the type to bully the weak and fear the strong.

Once, he got drunk outside and went on a rant, saying the crazy widow in the alley was a cheap slut, that anyone could walk through her door.

Those words reached the hoodlum’s ears.

That night, my tall, burly father was dragged home like a dead pig, scraped along the ground.

His whole face was bruised and swollen, blood mixed with two broken front teeth in his mouth.

The man was tall in build; with the light behind him, his face was hard to make out.

He tossed my father into the yard without ceremony.

He stepped forward, grinding his foot hard over my father’s fingertips, his tone venomous.

“Old bastard, if I ever hear that filthy mouth of yours talk about my mother like that again, you won’t need your tongue anymore.”

My father nodded frantically, not daring to make a sound.

I hid behind the door, watching through the crack.

Suddenly I met those deep, sharp eyes. A low, meaningless chuckle escaped from deep in the man’s throat.

By the time I came back to my senses, he had already left, and my back was covered in cold sweat.

Trouble doesn’t extend to family—the hoodlum still had his own code of honor.

That night, I pretended to be asleep, listening to my father wailing and cursing next door the whole night. Strangely, I felt a secret thrill of satisfaction in my heart.

The hoodlum didn’t hold back.

My father couldn’t get out of bed for three days, and he didn’t even have the strength to hit me as hard afterward.

Later, afraid of bringing trouble on myself, I deliberately avoided that alley every time.

I never had any contact with him.

Aside from him, I couldn’t think of anyone else who could handle my father.

So, at dawn, with the sky only half-lit.

I stepped into that little alley for the first time.

Soft green moss crept along the edges of the stone-paved path.

At the end stood a two-story building; the mottled old walls had been renovated and freshly painted a clean white.

A small osmanthus tree in front of the building was just budding, and the air carried a faint fragrance.

I took a deep breath and pushed the door open.

Inside was a living room, the walls hung with all kinds of hand-drawn sketches.

The man had his back to the door, wearing a white work vest, the muscles of his arms taut and defined.

A cigarette was pinched between the fingers of one hand; the other was arranging tools on the workbench.

Hearing the noise, he tapped the ash from his cigarette and kept working.

His tone was flat.

“It’s not open yet. We’re not in business.”

I knew that. The sign at the door said 15:00–24:00.

But I wanted to say, I wasn’t here for a tattoo.

Yet I found that even opening my mouth was strangely difficult—last night’s wound hadn’t been treated, and the corners of my lips had stuck together.

“You can come back in the afternoon—”

He turned his head.

The cigarette in his hand trembled.

His dark eyes fixed on me. After a long moment, he muttered a low curse.

Before I could think about why—

“Son, the egg fried rice isn’t—whoa, hold on, I knew I got up too early today, this is spooky, this is spooky.”

The woman had just poked her head in when she hurried back to the kitchen with her spatula, so fast I only caught a glimpse of the hem of her clothes.

“……”

Realizing something.

A small mirror was held out in front of me.

The man propped his cheek with his hand, snuffed out the cigarette, looking like someone who didn’t want to say more.

I took it.

In the mirror, a girl’s face was pale, hair disheveled.

Her eyes were ringed with dark bruising, and being large eyes to begin with made it worse. Half her face was swollen badly, and dried blood still clung to the corner of her mouth.

Her school uniform was red and white.

And she’d shown up first thing in the morning like this.

However you looked at it, it was a little frightening.

That I hadn’t just been hit on the spot—that spoke well of his temper, and of my luck.

I rubbed at the corner of my mouth awkwardly.

He reached out, picked up the leather jacket on the sofa, and threw it on in a few quick motions.

“You don’t need to come back this afternoon either. I don’t do tattoos on minors.

“Especially not on rebellious kids who’ve run away from home.”

He’d misunderstood.

I shook my head and pulled a crumpled ten-yuan note from my pocket.

I set it slowly on the table.

“I heard… you collect protection fees… so… could you… protect me?”

He gave me a glance, neither light nor heavy.

“Do I look like organized crime to you?”

I worked up my nerve and studied his face carefully.

Unexpectedly young.

Sharp, cold brows and eyes, lashes long and thick as a crow’s wing.

Very good-looking, and also very fierce.

Especially when his face was blank.

Not only did he look like organized crime—he looked like the boss of it.

That was what I thought, and somehow it came right out of my mouth.

“……”

“……”

He rolled his neck and let out a snort of laughter.

“Ballsy kid. Whose kid are you?”

“Just—that family at the far west end.”

He thought for a moment.

“…? Tang Shiguo is your father?”

“He could also not be.”

“……”

Seemingly annoyed at having to bend his neck to talk to me, he turned and sat down on the sofa.

“You saw it that night too, didn’t you?

“I beat your father.” He said this as he picked up the water cup on the table.

“So are you going to hit me too?” I asked.

“You looking to get hit?” he shot back.

I shook my head firmly.

My father deserved it. I didn’t.

He lifted his eyelids.

“Well then, there you go.”

What he meant was that he wouldn’t lay a hand on me.

I don’t know why, but I just believed what he said.

Seeing the topic had drifted, I pushed the ten-yuan note on the table forward again.

Maybe I was too indifferent about my father being beaten, or maybe I was too stubborn about asking the very man who beat him for help.

He asked, surprised, “You don’t hate me?”

“I hate you.”

“I hate that you didn’t beat him to death.” I said it without even thinking.

The man across from me choked violently and coughed several times.

He gripped the cup.

“Wait—what exactly do you want me to do to protect you?”

“Beat my father to death.”

Half out of anger, half in earnest.

He didn’t even drink the water—just set the cup down on the table.

“Small kid, but you sure walk a wild road.”

I had no confidence left, so I settled for the next best thing.

“Then crippling him works too.”

He rubbed his brow, and said, not too kindly:

“Not taking that job.”

I hadn’t expected much to begin with.

But hearing the refusal still stung.

My heart sank slowly; I felt breathless, my head spinning.

My vision blurred.

The next second, I pitched forward.

I dimly felt myself fall into a pair of arms that caught me in a rush.

The man let out an exasperated laugh.

“Damn it, ran into a scammer first thing in the morning.”