The overseas internship had turned into bed rest for recovery. Being beaten up was like an illness – it came crashing down like a mountain but departed as slowly as pulling silk.

The beating had left him looking too awful, and Zong Hang didn’t even want to leave his room. Every day, besides watching shows and browsing the internet, he spent large chunks of time examining his face in the mirror. From the ease of destruction to the difficulty of rehabilitation, he inadvertently developed a somewhat philosophical outlook.

Thanks to Zong Bishing’s attention, the internship progressed normally, though on-site learning had become oral instruction from senior department staff. To keep Zong Hang interested, the teaching was case studies – after all, the hotel had been operating for many years and had handled countless VIP guests and crisis management situations. Any single case made for good gossip.

In the second week, Long Song reported to Zong Bishing that Zong Hang had “transferred” to housekeeping training, even including a photo of Zong Hang making beds. Of course, it was staged.

Zong Hang preferred the second week’s training content because the housekeeping department’s gossip was far more exciting than the front desk’s.

Every afternoon, after room cleaning was finished, the middle-aged woman chosen from housekeeping for her excellent Chinese would come to teach him:

“There was this old man who checked in, then called for two masseuses. The bed creaking was so loud you could hear it from outside. We were worried he might have a medical emergency, so we had a doctor stationed on that floor just in case…”

“This female student insisted that someone was crouching by her bedside at midnight, breathing into her ear, so we changed her room…”

“When we went to clean the room, we saw blood all over the rattan table on the balcony, oh my, like someone had committed suicide. I meant well when I asked, ‘Madam, are you alright?’ She smiled at me, a smile that sent chills down my spine… Then I saw the messy bloody cuts all over her wrists – she must have been mentally ill. Thankfully she checked out and left, otherwise, I’d have worried about her dying here. A death in the hotel would be bad for business…”

Zong Hang listened, alternating between blushing, getting goosebumps, and feeling chills down his spine.

As his injuries gradually healed and his days passed tumultuously through these gossip stories, the only unsatisfying thing was that Apa went to the old market every night but never saw the woman Zong Hang had mentioned.

Without realizing it, their every conversation inevitably turned to that woman. Though Zong Hang had never taken a single psychology class, he would do psychological profiles of her daily:

“Generally, those who set up stalls in the old market are locals. A Chinese person mixed in among them must be suspicious, must have a complex background.”

“She has antisocial personality disorder, and can’t stand seeing others do well. Normal people afraid of trouble would at most say ‘I don’t know’ and be done with it, but she has no consciousness about creating a harmonious society, she just wants to stir up trouble.”

“Psychologically twisted – who would tattoo ‘go die’ on their ankle? Feet are for walking, taking a step with ‘go die’ with every step, how unlucky!”

He analyzed so convincingly that he created his illusion: though he’d never even met her face to face, he felt he could see right through to her heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys.

Then he wouldn’t forget to urge Apa: “Hurry up and find her, if you don’t find her soon, I might not even be angry anymore.”

Yes, he had a typical “forget the pain once the wound heals” personality. Strike while the iron is hot, mix the mud while it’s wet – when receiving bad items from Taobao, he’d be furious enough to leave a bad review at first, but after a couple of days he couldn’t be bothered anymore.

So revenge had to be taken while the indignation was still hot – as days passed, when the wounds stopped hurting and life became comfortable, his anger gradually subsided, and his heart’s desire for justice wasn’t as intense as when he was first beaten.

Sometimes when he tried to see things from others’ perspectives, he could be quite understanding: Old Ma wanted to run away, so, of course, he set him up; that woman wanted to make a quick buck, so, of course, she sold him out; the Cambodian was bleeding and in pain, so, of course, he beat him up…

Damn, he had to stop thinking like this – if he thought anymore, everything would become his fault.

That night, there was a lot of noise from next door.

Zong Hang called the front desk: “Who’s staying next door? Honeymooners?”

The response came: “No one on the left, single male guest on the right, Chinese, twenty-seven years old, surname Ding… can’t read the rest of the characters.”

Protecting guest privacy was something they only claimed to do externally – internally, they dug deep.

Zong Hang caught on: “He called for one of those?”

The reply: “Mm-hmm.”

Well, even if he did, while Cambodia hadn’t explicitly legalized this, they had always taken a turn-a-blind-eye approach.

Zong Hang lay back down.

The wall at his headboard was thumping like it might collapse.

Satisfying physiological needs was important, but sleeping was also a physiological need, and he was still injured.

Having been suppressed by Zong Bishing for many years, Zong Hang wasn’t used to violent resistance. His way of expressing anger was ineffective, almost self-deceptive.

He knocked on the wall with his hand, saying: “Could you keep it down?”

If they could hear that, it would truly be supernatural.

Zong Hang consoled himself: how long could one session last? Just endure it and it’ll be over.

To his utter surprise, after counting sheep and more sheep, it seemed endless.

His anger finally began to rise, and when it reached the breaking point, he suddenly flipped over and got up, punching the wall: “Are you going to let people sleep or not?”

Though his anger was vented, they continued as before, while he became timid – feeling it was inappropriate, then worried about causing his fellow countryman to become impotent. He tossed and turned, and it was a long while before he finally fell asleep.

During Zong Hang’s recovery period, all three meals were delivered to his room. The meal service staff didn’t know about his lack of sleep the night before and arrived at the regular time the next day.

After accepting the meal, he wanted to go back to sleep but found he absolutely couldn’t. After washing up and coming out, his head feeling groggy, he decided to go to the balcony for some fresh air.

He had barely stepped out and hadn’t even finished stretching when someone nearby said: “So you’re the one who was knocking on the wall last night?”

Zong Hang jumped in shock.

Turning his head, he saw a Chinese woman in her mid-twenties standing on the neighboring balcony, wearing a semi-transparent leopard-print camisole slip dress. The pleated hem brushed against her snow-white thighs, and the deep V neckline exposed most of her chest. There was a small red birthmark on one breast, extremely alluring and eye-catching.

Zong Hang quickly closed his eyes and turned away, speaking incoherently: “It wasn’t me… you should wear more clothes, aren’t you afraid people will see you standing so high up?”

The woman hadn’t expected this reaction from him and laughed so hard she couldn’t straighten up: “If I’m not afraid of people seeing, what are you afraid of? What era are we in, haven’t you seen bikinis before?”

Nonsense, how could that be compared to a bikini? Even a three-piece bikini at least covers what needs to be covered properly, but you – did you even wear anything underneath?

Zong Hang truly couldn’t bear to look.

After a while, the woman said: “Hey, you can turn around now, I’ve wrapped myself up.”

Zong Hang was half-believing, half-suspicious, and still worried it might be a trick. He kept one eye tightly closed while the other squinted, like taking aim, as he slowly turned his head: it was true – she had pulled out the white gauze curtain from inside the glass door and wrapped herself in it, bundled up like a huge cocoon with just her head showing.

The woman looked him up and down, her eyes curved into crescents from smiling.

In her line of work, she had seen countless men and could tell at a glance whether a man was innocent or a player. Someone like Zong Hang was too far from her world, which made her more willing to get close, like teasing a child for fun, allowing herself to relax as well.

Zong Hang said: “So you’re the…”

He stopped halfway, unable to think of a more tactful term.

The woman didn’t mind: “Yes.”

Zong Hang felt nervous – so it was her.

By rights, to remain pure and unsullied, he should keep his distance from someone like her, but she was smiling at him with such a good attitude that if he left, it would seem very impolite.

The balconies weren’t far apart, and he peered into the glass door on her side: “Your… friend…”

“You mean my client? He left early in the morning. He’s from mainland China, and said he came to Cambodia looking for someone.”

Another person looking for someone – Zong Hang immediately thought of Old Ma.

“Then why… haven’t you left?”

“He said my massage technique was good, so he booked me for a week. I’ll be staying here all week… Hey, pretty boy, were you beaten up?”

Although it had been almost a month and the swelling on his face had gone down, the bruises and blood marks were still visible, including the fracture fixator on his left ring finger, which stuck out like the nail guards of old empresses in the Forbidden City – thankfully it wasn’t his middle finger that was injured.

Zong Hang said: “I was out playing, the tuk-tuk overturned, I got hurt in the fall.”

The woman understood: “Oh, you’re here traveling? Have you seen Angkor Wat? Which do you like best? Banteay Srei or Ta Prohm?”

It was like hearing gibberish to Zong Hang, who gave a vague answer: “I haven’t toured much yet, wanted to read some books first to understand better.”

The woman knowledgeably guided him: “You can read Zhou Daguan’s ‘The Customs of Cambodia’ – every French person who comes here has a copy. If you want to understand art appreciation, you can also read Jiang Xun’s ‘The Beauty of Angkor.'”

Zong Hang felt a bit dumbfounded, not knowing how to respond: he didn’t know who Jiang Xun was, but hearing the name and the book title, it all seemed quite cultured.

The woman seemed to see through his thoughts: “What, someone like me shouldn’t read books? Should just revolve around men, money, makeup, and clothes all day?”

Before Zong Hang could speak, she flicked the gauze curtain aside and went inside.

Zong Hang’s heart sank.

Oh no, he’d offended her. He needed to explain that he didn’t think she shouldn’t read books, he just thought she wouldn’t read…

As he was thinking, the woman came out again – she’d found the gauze curtain too hot and stuffy, so she’d gone back to change clothes. Using both hands, she pulled and shook out the dress that had been bunched up under her armpits from the chest line downward…

The long dress with its water-blue rippling background and large peach-pink blooming flowers instantly cascaded down like water, flowing past her slender waistline, past the embroidered triangle underwear, all the way to her feet.

Then she walked onto the balcony, the gorgeous dress with its intense color blocks creating rippling blue water-light effects and blazing peach blossoms with every movement.

She said: “I especially love reading books written by cultured people, do you know why?”

He didn’t know. Zong Hang felt his presence, momentum, and dignity had all been suppressed by her, and he honestly shook his head.

“Cultured people respect others, communication feels natural. Ordinary people look at someone like me with contempt, convinced we have no shame. Cultured people are different, they think you have a heart – otherwise how could they write ‘The Lady of the Camellias’ or ‘Boule de Suif’?”

Zong Hang couldn’t join the conversation – he had only heard of both books but never read them.

He tried to make the topic more accessible, not wanting to expose his superficiality too much: “What’s your name?”

“Jing Xiu.”

“Like in ‘Splendid China’?”

“No, the ‘Jing’ from ‘ancient well’, originally called Jing Xiu with the ‘Xiu’ meaning elegant, but I thought it was too rustic, so I changed it to the ‘Xiu’ from ‘water sleeve’.”

Jing Xiu said she used to be a masseuse in Kunming. Her boyfriend came to Cambodia first and talked it up so much, saying how easy it was to make money here. She got carried away and quit her job to come too.

Only after arriving did she realize she’d been fooled – if someone has limited abilities, moving anywhere won’t help them become successful. After several big fights, her boyfriend found someone new, and she found a job doing Thai massage.

The environment is murky, and one is influenced by their surroundings. Combined with her weak willpower, it wasn’t long before she half-willingly got into the business.

However, this wasn’t a complete moral decline where she accepted anyone: according to her, if she was attracted to a client first and they were interested too when both parties were willing, she didn’t mind having a romantic encounter with a man she liked.

Zong Hang had originally thought that people in this line of work were either forced by life circumstances or accumulated misfortunes, with untold blood and tears behind their stories. Seeing Jing Xiu made him realize how his limited experience had restricted his imagination.

She was unique – not only was she adaptable to circumstances, but she occasionally even took pleasure in discussing it.

For example, she was quite satisfied with her current client.

“Young, handsome, and his muscles are beautifully trained. Not like you, Zong Hang – you’re just relying on your youth and good looks now. In a few years, when your flesh gets loose, your shape collapses, and your belly sticks out, you won’t be nice to look at anymore.”

Zong Hang rolled his eyes.

“He’s from the north, and I just love northern men. Also, he said his hometown is very close to the Hukou Waterfall on the Yellow River – Hukou Waterfall, just hearing it sounds like a special place.”

Zong Hang said: “That’s because you’ve taken a liking to him. Even if he lived in a sorghum field, you’d think it was special.”