When people get nervous, they tend to make mistakes.
Zong Hang lacked inner strength and was already feeling apprehensive. Before the words “Run!” even registered in his mind, his legs were already moving.
Only after he started running did it sink in: Who the hell is your son?
He shouldn’t have run – once you run, there’s no explaining it!
Too late. The two Cambodians had been calm at first, but upon hearing the word “police,” their nerves instantly tensed. Seeing Zong Hang bolt, how could they let that slide? Their adrenaline surged, and forgetting everything else, they gave chase.
Old Ma seized this opportunity and, rolling and crawling, disappeared into the darkness in the opposite direction.
Zong Hang was in agony. Despite his height and long legs, he had never been one for exercise. He could see he was about to be caught, and regretted his poor English – in this crucial moment, his mind went blank, unable to form short, precise sentences to explain…
Suddenly, he spotted some waste construction materials stacked against a wall. Remembering TV shows where protagonists created obstacles for their pursuers, throwing whatever they could find, he quickly followed suit, rushing over to push the materials…
The precariously stacked materials couldn’t maintain their balance and came crashing down. The lead pursuer couldn’t stop in time and was hit directly, letting out a loud cry.
Zong Hang, mindful of following the law and not wanting to hurt anyone, turned back to look, worried he might have caused serious harm…
One glance made him stop dead in his tracks.
In the light spilling from nearby houses, he saw a long streak of blood on the man’s arm.
One of the boards had a nail in it, which had caught the man’s arm as it fell. In this tropical country, most people wore short sleeves, leaving no fabric to cushion the impact – the nail had struck bare flesh.
His luck was terrible. What could have been explained as a misunderstanding now had a bloody seal on it. Zong Hang’s legs trembled, his heart full of remorse, and he said: “I’m sorry…”
The man lifted his eyelids, two cold, vicious glares sweeping over.
Zong Hang instantly snapped back to reality and ran.
Whatever the aftermath – apologies or compensation – he’d accept it all, but right now he had to run. If he didn’t get away, wouldn’t they beat him half to death?
He had been afraid of fighting since childhood.
Zong Hang ran at full speed, his calves cramping and, the wind whistling in his ears. He quickly left the side street, sweat beading on his forehead.
This area was busier than the side street, but not as busy as he’d hoped – perhaps because it was too far out, most tourists couldn’t be bothered to come this far.
Fewer people meant a sharp drop in his sense of security, with scattered stalls making it hard to find a place to hide…
As he passed a tuk-tuk bar, his ears suddenly caught a Chinese phrase: “I understand, I’ll check again in a few days…”
Tuk-tuk bars were another local specialty, essentially still tuk-tuks: a motorcycle pulling a wheeled frame, but the frame was set up as a mini-bar, with liquor cabinets and a small counter, multiple openings for easy sales, lights wrapped around the vehicle, and even a small speaker hanging above – everything a regular bar had, this had too.
For smaller frames, they’d place a board across the front with some high stools, where customers could sit and drink like at a Japanese izakaya. Larger frames had narrow tables inside that could seat three to five people, perfect for drinking, chatting, and listening to music while watching the street scene.
Packing up was easy – just start the motorcycle and putt-putt-putt away, leaving not a cloud behind.
Chinese words!
Zong Hang’s heart leaped with joy. As he suddenly stopped, he saw only one slender figure making a phone call in the tuk-tuk bar. A thought quickly crossed his mind, and like a frightened dog, he took three steps in two and dove inside, crouching down and crawling to the furthest corner, quickly pulling down a cloth cover from a stool to hide himself.
Breathing heavily with his heart pounding, he was truly panicked – he’d never experienced anything like this in his life. Only after hiding did he think to explain to the owner: “Miss, someone’s chasing me, we’re both Chinese, please help…”
The sounds of pursuit drew near, and Zong Hang quickly fell silent.
The distant noise had grown thin by the time it reached here. Perhaps due to his tension, his hearing was exceptionally sharp – he could actually hear the person’s approaching footsteps.
Thank heavens they didn’t come in, only stopping at the entrance.
Zong Hang heard him ask in English, roughly understanding that he was asking if a Chinese man had run past.
Zong Hang held his breath.
The woman put down her phone.
The cloth cover swayed, revealing a gap through which he saw a pair of white canvas shoes, somewhat worn, with a Chinese character tattoo on the right ankle – two characters vertically arranged in thin, elegant calligraphy, simple, clean, direct, and brutal.
“Go die.”
Zong Hang had an ominous feeling, like trying to light incense at a temple but failing repeatedly, or starting a trip only to have your suitcase break right after leaving home.
Then, he heard her answer: “Ten Dollars.”
What happened next was chaotic, but every scene was clear and unforgettable.
Zong Hang was dragged out like a pig for slaughter, fists, and feet raining down like droplets. His throat went hoarse from screaming, yelling jumbled English words like “call the police,” “China,” “I am Chinese”…
Then his head took a hit, and he fell face-first into the dirt. The feeling of terror grew stronger as he recalled news stories he’d read before – some beaten people only took one small hit to vital areas and ended up blind, paralyzed, permanently brain-damaged, or dead on the spot…
He covered his head with both hands, arching his body to protect his most vital head and abdomen, trying to use his buttocks to absorb all the impacts. His eyes must have swollen, as everything he saw had dreamlike double vision—
He saw the woman from the tuk-tuk bar, like a picture in a frame, turned sideways with her head lowered, lighting something – no, not a cigarette, what she held in her mouth was flat, reddish-brown, like the thin strips of cinnamon bark used for making soup at home…
Then she reached up and turned on the speaker.
The intense English song was one he knew well.
Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” – he used to scream this song with his buddies in karaoke because he loved the music video: at the beginning, sunlight floods into a room, a row of modern white coffins slowly opens, and at the end, Gaga lies on her side on a charred bed next to a skeleton.
Strong rhythmic beats, full of energy – those two Cambodians must have had music in their bones, as their beating matched the rhythm.
This grudge could never be settled!
Never be settled!
After lunch, Long Song hurriedly came to knock on Zong Hang’s door.
Apa opened it.
Long Song glared at him, and Apa hung his head dejectedly, looking ready to accept any punishment.
Last night, when Apa couldn’t contact Zong Hang no matter what, he mobilized his tuk-tuk driver friends and searched the entire Old Market area, finally finding him on a nearby street.
At the time, Zong Hang was walking dazedly along the road, his entire face swollen and bruised from the beating, his mind a bit unclear. When first seeing him, Apa barely recognized him.
Apa quickly contacted Long Song, asking if they should take him to the hospital or report to the police. Long Song was more cautious, feeling they didn’t know the full story yet – what if Zong Hang had started the trouble? Once they involved the police, there would be no room for maneuvering, so he had Apa bring him back first – fortunately, the hotel was large enough to have its medical room that could handle any injuries that weren’t too serious.
Luckily, thanks to Zong Hang’s self-protective instincts, his buttocks had done their job: although he had numerous soft tissue injuries, tendon damage, hematomas, and even a broken hand, there were no severe injuries.
Entering the room, he saw Zong Hang sitting on the bed, his head wrapped in bandages, his exposed face swollen like a pig’s head, his eyes reduced to two slits between the bruises – forget about Long Song, even his parents might not recognize him.
Long Song felt a headache coming on. Recovery was a minor issue – how would he explain this to Boss Zong?
He sighed as he sat by the bed, noticing Zong Hang’s passport beside him. His heart tightened, and he blurted out: “Are you leaving?”
Zong Hang said: “No, the embassy might need it.”
His lips were broken, the wound swollen and everted, making his speech sound like he was talking with food in his mouth: “Brother Long, have you contacted the embassy? I’m a Chinese citizen…”
Just like how you find the police when in trouble, overseas you can only rely on the embassy. He was determined to have the Chinese ambassador seek justice for him.
Long Song cleared his throat: “Zong Hang, I don’t recommend making this a big issue.”
Zong Hang became anxious: “Why not?”
The wounds hurt badly, and his anger was intense. His feelings of grievance were perfectly cultivated. He had it all planned out – he didn’t care about male pride anymore, he would cry when he met the ambassador, striving to move the ambassador’s patriotic feelings and ancestral blood ties, making the ambassador furiously storm into the Cambodian Prime Minister’s office demanding swift capture of the criminals.
Take a photo and send it back to China, it would surely make headlines. Just imagine, when fellow citizens saw their brother suffering such misfortune overseas, how could they not be outraged? How could they not shed tears?
Long Song calmly asked: “Do you remember where you were beaten?”
He didn’t remember. He had already been lost, then got beaten, stumbling around randomly – when they found him, he had no idea where he was.
Zong Hang said: “Let Apa take me back to the Old Market, maybe I can remember.”
Long Song asked the next question: “Do you remember what the people who beat you looked like?”
Zong Hang was speechless. He didn’t remember – he had been too nervous throughout the whole process, only remembering how fierce their eyes were.
He persisted: “We can check the security cameras.”
Long Song said: “This isn’t China. I’ve heard Boss Zong say that in your big cities, you have what’s called Skynet cameras everywhere – we don’t have those here.”
Then he pointed out the crucial part: “Also, according to what you said, you injured them first…”
Zong Hang couldn’t hold back: “That was an accident, and I said sorry…”
Long Song couldn’t help but laugh and cry: “Do you have proof? What if they insist you attacked them first?”
Zong Hang stared blankly at Long Song, and as he stared, his eyes reddened.
He had never encountered anything like this before. Although he had watched many dark dramas, there was a fundamental difference between watching and experiencing it yourself. Last night’s events completely overturned his trust in people and understanding of the world: Old Ma’s cry of “son” brought disaster from the sky, that woman’s “Ten Dollar” taught him what it meant to be stabbed in the back, and that beating…
Zong Hang shouted with tears in his voice: “This is too much bullying!”
He couldn’t even cry properly – any big movement made his face hurt.
Long Song changed his tone: “However, your father entrusted you to me, and I won’t let this matter rest after what happened to you. These two people – I will eventually bring them before you for an explanation… but we need to take it slow.”
There was an unexpected turn here, and Zong Hang gradually followed his lead: “And that Ma guy, he’s the most treacherous!”
The woman just didn’t help him, but Ma was different – he deliberately harmed him, calling him son and getting him beaten up. Such calculated malice was truly appalling!
Long Song nodded.
“Let’s keep this from your family for now. If your parents find out, they’ll worry, and if they make a fuss, it’ll be harder to handle.”
It made sense, and Zong Hang quickly nodded.
“Finding witnesses among tourists would be too difficult – tourists come and go daily, and according to you, there weren’t many tourists on that street anyway…”
Zong Hang’s heart rose in anticipation.
Long Song revealed another ray of hope: “But it doesn’t matter if you didn’t see who beat you. Besides Old Ma, there’s at least one other witness – that woman in the tuk-tuk bar.”
“She does business in the Old Market, so she’s relatively easy to find. If she was willing to sell you out for ten dollars, then maybe if we offer more money, she might be willing to help.”
Right! Zong Hang’s eyes lit up, suddenly enlightened, once again feeling that Long Song was truly capable.
Long Song gestured for Apa to come over.
Since the incident happened on his watch, Apa had felt guilty and inferior since last night. Suddenly seeing Long Song’s beckoning, he knew his chance for redemption had come and hurried over.
Long Song pointed at Apa: “Tell Apa any distinguishing features of that woman, let him go look for her. If he can’t find her in one day, then two days; if not in two days, then three days. The Old Market area is only so big – we’ll eventually find her.”
Distinguishing features…
Zong Hang was stumped. As he’d said before, he was too nervous at the time – he hadn’t even seen the woman’s face.
He thought for a moment and asked Apa: “Have you seen a French movie called ‘Léon: The Professional’?”
Apa shook his head.
He hadn’t seen it – why wasn’t this killer very cold? Did he wear too many clothes?
“Go watch it then.”
Zong Hang hadn’t seen the woman’s appearance, but while being beaten, he had looked up and caught her general outline.
Her hairstyle seemed a bit like the little girl Mathilda from the movie – mature yet youthful, cut straight at the chin, with the ends curving outward at the sides, making her appear even more selfish, cold, heartless, sinister, hypocritical, and treacherous.
Yes, he could see all that just from a hairstyle!