Zong Hang was in high spirits.

From what Long Song said, Miss Yi seemed to be softening her stance and might be willing to help.

He felt he was good at reading people, momentarily forgetting that “psychologically twisted” and “antisocial personality” were also his assessments of her. He boasted to Apa: “See, I told you not to think so badly of people.”

Apa didn’t want to argue with someone so naive.

It was getting late, and Long Song reminded Zong Hang it was time to head back: he still planned to take a photo at the street corner, with the old market district’s night market as background, capturing Zong Hang driving the hotel’s tuk-tuk.

The photo was of course for Zong Bisheng, and he’d already thought of what to write: Zong Hang experiencing life as a hotel tuk-tuk driver, taking guests to tour night market attractions.

Zong Hang still had some drink left, so Long Song went to the street corner first to scout locations, telling him to join after finishing.

After paying the bill and leaving, it was the night market’s busiest time. Yi Sa’s bar was doing great business, not only full inside but surrounded by standing customers outside. They seemed to be discussing something interesting, occasionally erupting in waves of laughter.

Zong Hang felt a bit left out, feeling excluded from the merriment, and looked back several times.

On the last look, his expression suddenly turned strange.

He grabbed Apa, lowering his voice: “Look, that person standing beside the massage shop, isn’t that the man from your photos?”

Apa turned to look.

Not far from Tutu Bar, there was a massage shop with its glass doors wide open, massage chairs arranged one after another out on the street. Behind one of the chairs stood a tall man in a blue shirt with a patterned collar and cuffs.

He was well-built – even with two buttons undone at the collar, the shirt was still tight, showing the contours of muscular definition.

Apa said: “Is it?”

To him, Chinese people were like Westerners – all foreigners. He couldn’t distinguish foreign faces, instinctively thinking a change of clothes meant a different person.

Zong Hang was certain: “Definitely him, and look, he keeps staring at Yi Sa.”

After watching for a while, Apa did notice something odd: although the man tried to hide it well, often looking down, turning away, or walking off to view street scenes, there were moments when his gaze would fix on Yi Sa, inscrutable and full of scrutiny.

Apa felt uneasy: “What does this person want?”

Zong Hang drew on his crime drama-watching experience, thinking this person seemed like a pervert, stalker, potential sex offender – not a good person.

He instructed Apa: “Go tell Yi Sa, let her be aware. Whoever this person is, she should be on guard.”

Apa was reluctant: “Young Master, she tricked you.”

Zong Hang said: “Don’t be so petty. One thing at a time – what if that man’s a murderer? What does Buddha teach you? If we don’t warn her and she gets killed tonight, wouldn’t that weigh on our conscience?”

Nearly everyone in Cambodia believes in Buddhism – Buddha works better than anything else. Apa went over immediately.

Zong Hang retreated into the shadows by the street, for some reason not wanting Yi Sa to know of his presence. Perhaps he privately felt that helping others was best done as the saying goes – leave quietly after the deed, keeping both achievement and fame hidden.

He watched Apa make his way over, tap Yi Sa’s shoulder, whisper in her ear, receive a can of Cambodian beer from her, and then turn back to continue chatting and laughing with customers, not giving an extra glance in any direction.

If one didn’t know the inside story, Zong Hang would have thought Apa just went over to buy a beer.

He was about to praise Apa for being discreet, but when Apa reached him, he was holding the beer can with a blank expression, still seeming not to have processed what happened.

If the previous scene had been a play, he wasn’t directing but merely passively playing along.

Zong Hang led him away: “What did she say?”

“Nothing, acted like nothing happened.”

Zong Hang didn’t believe it: “Her expression didn’t change at all?”

If a stranger suddenly came to tell him someone was watching him, he would at least react like in novels – “heart skipping a beat,” “face changing color,” “hands trembling” or something.

Apa finally caught on: “No change, she seemed… to already know.”

As he spoke, he handed Zong Hang a folded bill: “Here, she gave this to me, put it under the beer can after I finished talking.”

Zong Hang opened it.

The handsome and benevolent face of United States President Washington immediately appeared.

Ten dollars.

The average monthly income for ordinary Cambodians isn’t high, around one hundred dollars or so – if this was a thank-you gift, it wasn’t insincere.

Apa was straightforward: “Young Master, the credit is yours, you should take the money.”

The next day passed quickly.

Zong Hang went to the infirmary for a checkup, receiving countless concerned inquiries along the way, and got a phone call from Tong Hong.

In the WeChat era, family communication mainly relied on voice messages, with phone calls reserved for important matters. Zong Hang answered nervously, and Tong Hong’s voice was indeed urgent: “Hang Hang, your father says you’re pedaling a tricycle over there? Southeast Asia is so hot, isn’t this just asking for heatstroke?”

Zong Hang felt Madam Tong needed to step out of her grand garden and see the outside world: “It’s not a pedal tricycle, it’s a motorcycle type! Just like driving a car, even simpler!”

Tong Hong breathed a sigh of relief, then made a fuss: “Oh my, they even have motorcycles? Quite developed!”

…

By evening, Zong Hang was restless, wanting to go to the old market again, but worried that visiting two days in a row would invite more teasing and speculation from Apa.

He was already hesitating when Apa added fuel to the fire, knocking on his door to ask: “Young Master, are you going to see the beautiful bartender again today?”

Zong Hang indignantly replied: “Am I that free? So desperate to see her? Not going!”

Apa was overjoyed: finally, a day to get off work on time.

Dinner was spinach and egg noodles. Zong Hang was so bored that after drinking the soup, he even washed the bowl and utensils with soap, wiped them until they shone, and placed them outside the door along with the tray, arranged neatly. Then he lurked behind the door, eye pressed to the peephole, waiting to see the server’s admiring expression when collecting the dishes.

The server might praise his quality: being overseas, an individual represents their country, meaning Chinese people are of high quality – so he wasn’t being idle, he was also fighting on a special front line to bring glory to his countrymen.

Halfway through his stakeout, before the server came, he heard Jing Xiu calling from the next balcony: “Zong Hang? Zong Hang? Are you there? Come out for a moment.”

The room light was on and the TV wasn’t playing, so he couldn’t pretend to be absent or not hear. Moreover, judging from the changes in Jing Xiu’s voice strength and direction, Zong Hang suspected she was holding the railing, repeatedly leaning her upper body this way.

Better not be careless and fall.

He responded.

Upon reaching the balcony, Jing Xiu handed him a book: “Here, for you.”

A gift?

Zong Hang was caught off guard. Looking at it, it was the “Beauty of Angkor” she had mentioned before. The cover was colorful, with Buddha heads and pagodas, and the content looked like a pirated copy, but that didn’t matter.

He stammered: “This… how can I accept this, you specially bought me a book.”

Jing Xiu said: “Not especially, it was convenient, the tourist shop downstairs has them. When you tour Angkor, some kids carry baskets of these books, specifically targeting Chinese tourists.”

Even if it was “convenient,” it was still embarrassing, he had been narrow-minded, deliberately avoiding her these past few days…

Zong Hang felt ashamed, thinking the contrast made it clear who was noble and who was petty.

He tried to make conversation: “You could have just told me where to buy it…”

Jing Xiu’s enthusiasm was low: “It’s nothing, not expensive. I’m leaving in a couple of days anyway, just thought since we met, might as well buy it when I saw it.”

Leaving?

Well, her every move was decided by clients.

Zong Hang leaned to look into her room behind her. He couldn’t see much, but the room was notably quiet, a lonely and desolate kind of quiet.

Zong Hang said: “Your… friend, not here again? Who’s he looking for? Did he find them?”

“Don’t know. During the day he asked me to help rent a motorcycle. Said he had something urgent come up. The hotel is booked until tomorrow – if he doesn’t come back tonight, he probably won’t return. Told me to check out and leave on my own.”

Women are strange creatures – not crying or making a fuss, but their tone surges with all emotions, conveying them just right to him, allowing him to glimpse three or four-tenths of understanding even if he doesn’t fully comprehend.

Zong Hang carefully asked: “Are you okay?”

Then joked: “What’s wrong, don’t tell me you’ve developed feelings, can’t bear to part with him…”

Jing Xiu didn’t respond, her expression turning somewhat ugly.

Zong Hang quickly stopped that line of conversation.

It had only been a few days – supposedly she had seen it all, should be experienced, flesh trade had no true feelings, shouldn’t be doing things like falling in love, and from previous interactions, she seemed quite free-spirited and clear-minded…

Zong Hang felt extremely awkward, looking down at his feet, and then reaching to touch the railing. It was iron, rusting where the paint had peeled.

Finally, he looked up into the distance.

The lights there were brighter than the surroundings, even the clouds in the sky reflected their colors, hazy with shifting light and shadow.

As Zong Hang was absorbed in the view, Jing Xiu said: “That’s the old market district.”

Thank heavens, finally a new topic. Zong Hang quickly grabbed onto it, afraid of drowning back in the previous awkwardness.

“How do you know?”

Jing Xiu smiled and said: “Because it’s lively.”

Strictly speaking, removing the surrounding ruins and vine-covered dense forests, Siem Reap’s urban area was only a few square kilometers.

The old market district was the liveliest “magnetic core” in this small urban area, and just slightly away from this zone, everything would return to its original state, like this still underdeveloped country itself: sparse streets, low buildings, and even electric lights were scarce and precious.

So people inside were firmly attracted like magnetic particles, like countless moths wrapped around a bright flame, unwilling to disperse until the deep night when the song ended and lamp flowers withered.

Of course, there were always some who left early.

Ding Qi straddled his motorcycle, waiting in the shadows at an intersection, watching the crowds on the main street.

This was a natural surveillance spot: one line away from the bustle of the main street, yet sparsely populated – tourists mostly just glanced this way, saw the narrow alley and dim lights, and treated it as non-existent.

Even if one or two wandered in by mistake, seeing a motorcyclist would seem perfectly normal: motorcycles were the main transportation here, their popularity similar to bicycles in China during the 80s and 90s.

Ding Qi grew up by the Yellow River, so he saw everything like a river: the main street was mainstream, with water and tides surging, while side streets were tributaries, with thin veins and calm waves.

As for when he would drive into the mainstream of people, that depended on when Yi Sa would move.

His gaze seemed to sweep randomly, but had never left that spot –

In front of that Tutu Bar, there was another semi-old motorcycle parked sideways, with a pearl-gray rider’s helmet hanging on the handlebar, and an old, very old portable tape player standing at the front of the saddle – in China, it would be worth collecting for money, but here it was still in use, no matter how old it didn’t seem out of place.

Yi Sa stood by the bike, explaining things to the person renting: pointing at the liquor, probably telling him to watch out for near-expiry stock, then gesturing at the colorful lights around the vehicle, several spots had gone out and needed replacement.

Ding Qi waited patiently. He had inquired – she was leaving tonight.

Sure enough, before long, she mounted the motorcycle, put on the helmet, and skillfully fastened the strap, her visor reflecting the street’s bizarre lights.

Then started the engine.

Ding Qi immediately shifted gears, his bike emerging from the shadow’s womb, straight into the brightly lit main street.