Bab 2: New Identity, Unexpected Idendity
The pain of a bullet ripping through his heart lingered, making his whole body convulse.
"Ugh!"
He groaned and bolted upright!
The unfamiliar surroundings made him feel like he'd fallen from one nightmare into another.
The wallpaper was peeling off the walls, sagging down in one corner right above the TV, revealing moldy patches. Next to the TV were windows plastered with newspapers, half-open, letting in a chilly breeze.
He looked around, dazed. He was lying on a single bed with a floral quilt that had a huge stain on it, like spilled soup. He had no clue whose bed this was, but he was sure it wasn't his. He hadn't slept in a single bed since college, and he never ate in bed.
Beep, beep, beep.
The alarm clock on the nightstand blared.
He quickly turned his head, rummaged through a pile of clutter, and found a three-legged alarm clock. It took him forever to shut it off.
The room became eerily quiet without the alarm.
"Who's here?" He muttered names, but none seemed right. He couldn't think of anyone he knew who would bring him to a place like this.
The nightmare of gunshots and the piercing pain in his heart flooded back.
The cool sea breeze on his face, the shock of Li Xingchen pointing a gun at him, and the sweetness of his own voice recording – it all felt too real. He didn't think it was a dream. He even remembered driving to the flower shop and the flirty smile of the shopkeeper.
"Li Xingchen!"
He heard himself shout uncontrollably.
Could it be that he didn't die and was brought here by Li Xingchen? But why didn't he have any wounds?
He touched his chest, then suddenly threw off the quilt and stood up, only to discover something even weirder –
He'd gained weight.
This wasn't just bloating; his belly had a solid chunk of extra flab that was even pushing against his shirt.
He pinched his belly and wandered around the room, hesitantly entering a stinky, dark little room and fumbling for the light switch.
Click.
The green light made him squint.
It was a bathroom, and a pretty shabby one at that. It looked like a public restroom. There was a squat toilet, a sink, and a mirror on the wall…
He was shocked to see the face in the mirror – a round, sickly face. Actually, the features were quite delicate: upturned eyebrows, deep brown eyes, a straight nose, and a well-proportioned mouth. If his face wasn't so round, his chin didn't have a double layer, and his hair wasn't such a mess, he might have looked even better than before.
Before…
He slapped his cheeks, trying to confirm that the person in the mirror was indeed him and that this wasn't a dream.
How is this possible?!
He woke up as a completely different person?!
No, he didn't just wake up; before this, he was…
Bang.
The memory of the bullet piercing his heart hit him again.
He clutched his chest, gasping for air, then covered his nose and rushed out of the bathroom. He tripped over a stool between the bathroom and the bed and went flying forward!
Instinctively, he pulled his arms in, twisted mid-air, and landed on his butt to avoid breaking his arms. But his knee hit the corner of the stool, and the pain made him wince.
This kind of pain couldn't happen in a dream.
He rubbed his knee, slowly got up, and started looking for clues about the identity of this chubby-belly guy.
First stop, the nightstand.
The top drawer was a mess – receipts, phone cards, discount cards, keychains, batteries, and crumbs. He was sure this wasn't his place.
The second drawer had a tin box with a bankbook, a watch, some commemorative coins, and a diploma. The diploma said his name was Wang Zhiyuan, born in 1976, with some vocational degree in automotive services – something he knew zilch about. The bankbook showed a balance of 25,000 yuan, which surprised him. Given the dump he was in, he expected no more than 25 yuan.
He put the box back and rummaged through the stuff on the nightstand.
Half-eaten cookies, plastic bags, and a medley of smelly stuff – like a mini garbage dump. But he found two useful things: an ancient Nokia 8210 and a bottle of pills labeled triazolam.
Sleeping pills?
Did he overdose on these and…?
He opened the bottle; it was new and unused. Ruling out suicide was a relief. A guy with 25,000 yuan killing himself meant some serious problems, and the last thing he needed was another big mess unless he could turn back into Zhou Zhaotao, the guy he used to be.
He noticed a pile of clothes on a chair near the TV and went over. The pants had a belt, and a T-shirt and sweater were taken off together. He checked the pockets and found a wallet with an ID, 246 yuan, and a supermarket receipt. He was about to toss the receipt in the trash when he noticed something –
Date and Time:
April 2, 2004, 17:38:09
…
Why would he keep a three-year-old receipt in such good condition? It was just for cookies, instant noodles, and soap.
The ancient phone on the bed suddenly rang.
He hesitated before picking it up. He desperately needed someone to pull him out of this creepy, silent, mind-boggling space, whether he knew them or not.
He answered, and a gruff voice said, "Bruiser! I want fried dough sticks and soy milk today. Be downstairs in five."
Bruiser?
He stared at the phone, which had been hung up.
So, should he be called Wang Zhiyuan or Bruiser?
After some internal debate, he decided on Wang Zhiyuan, which sounded more sophisticated.
He didn't know how long this name would stick, but for now, until he figured out what the heck was going on, he had to let go of Zhou Zhaotao and adapt to this new life in this grimy, cluttered room.
Bighead was getting impatient, checking his watch and glancing at the staircase. He couldn't help but dial a number.
The call was abruptly ended.
Bighead was taken aback and jumped off his motorcycle just as Wang Zhiyuan came down the stairs with two big bags of trash. Bighead's jaw dropped, "You… taking out the trash?"
Wang Zhiyuan figured this must be the guy who called him earlier and nodded.
"Where are you going?" Bighead asked as Wang Zhiyuan walked past him.
"Taking out the trash," Wang Zhiyuan replied.
Bighead pointed in the opposite direction, "The trash cans are that way."
Wang Zhiyuan calmly turned around and headed in the right direction.
Bighead watched him suspiciously. It was the same guy, but something felt off.
Wang Zhiyuan walked slowly, knowing that Bighead was following him with his motorcycle. He threw the trash into the cans and turned to Bighead, "Sorry, I forgot to grab breakfast."
"Breakfast? Oh, you mean the dough sticks," Bighead said, thrown off by Wang Zhiyuan's sudden upright posture and direct gaze, "No worries, we can grab some on the way. You hopping on?"
Wang Zhiyuan nodded, hopped on the back of the motorcycle, and effortlessly grabbed the helmet hanging from the handlebars.
Bighead gave him a weird look but didn't say anything. He pulled a small helmet from the storage box, put it on, and they hit the road.
On the way, Bighead stopped at a roadside breakfast stand. Wang Zhiyuan took the initiative to buy breakfast, and they ate in silence before hitting the road again.
It was rush hour, and the streets were packed.
As fancy cars zoomed past, Wang Zhiyuan felt a pang of discomfort and envy. He realized this was still the city he knew, but his perspective had changed. He used to look down at the city from skyscrapers, but now he was on a cheap motorcycle, looking up at the towering buildings.
He didn't know what Wang Zhiyuan's job was, but judging by his living conditions and his friend's ride, he wasn't expecting anything exciting.
…
And he was right. The answer wasn't exciting, but it was shocking.
Wang Zhiyuan watched as the motorcycle nonchalantly entered through a gate with a national emblem and the words "Public Security" and "POLICE" on it. His fragile mental state crumbled again.
What the heck was he doing at a police station?
Bighead parked the motorcycle, and they both walked in. Wang Zhiyuan's mind was racing. He had to play it cool and figure out what was going on.
Inside, they went through some routine security checks and headed to the locker room. Wang Zhiyuan followed Bighead's lead, changing into a police uniform.
Holy smokes, he was a cop!
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