Chapter 0 – Prologue

[First person perspective: writer]

Since the beginning of this year, I resigned and returned to Chongqing, planning to take some time to adjust, read books, play games, and live a luxurious, relaxed life. Resigning is like breaking up—it means saying goodbye to the past and starting a new life, whether it’s a lazy or an active one. After submitting my resignation letter, I finally breathed a sigh of relief, packed my bags, and prepared to return to this city where I had lived for many years, a place filled with countless happy memories.

The reason I chose Chongqing, the Mountain City, is that it’s where I studied, grew up, and made many close friends. In Chongqing, riding a bicycle or an electric scooter can turn you into a wild dog with its guts flying out from a sudden steep slope, or a struggling frog hopping painfully up a 30- or 45-degree incline, singing miserably, “I’ll climb up step by step…”

In the 40-degree Celsius heat, many men go shirtless in roadside hotpot restaurants, drinking and playing finger-guessing games. This is a vibrant city with fiery local customs and bizarre sights, yet it’s different from the “toughness” many regions boast about. Sometimes, it’s even frighteningly enthusiastic. Perhaps one word can describe Chongqing—jianghu¹A Chinese term that generally refers to the social environment in which many Chinese wuxia and xianxia stories are set. Here it means “a world of its own.”. It’s a vast jianghu, where everything from daily life to food and clothing is steeped in its unique atmosphere.

During college, my boyfriend and I, afraid of exposing our sexual orientation, moved out of our dorms and posted messages on forums to share apartments with other gay men. Co-renting is a strange thing—like roommates, you eat, sleep, and live together in a two-bedroom apartment, wandering around in underwear in the morning, fighting over the bathroom, and arguing or fooling around at night. Guys are generally careless, so there’s hardly any privacy.

Those who co-rent for over a year often become very close friends after parting ways. Like family under the same roof, they may not always stay in touch, but when they do, they have endless topics to discuss. Friends have friends, and those friends have their own friends—some like one-night stands, some enjoy mingling in the scene, while others keep to themselves… It’s like a secret little society, with tops and bottoms, an Apple store manager, a stamp collector working at a bank, someone from Xinhua News Agency—people from all walks of life, coexisting harmoniously. Most seem perfectly normal on the surface, except they’re all gay.

Like Diagon Alley in Harry Potter or Platform Nine and Three-Quarters, what we see on the surface and what lies beneath are often two entirely different things. It’s like a small society—a little circle with shared characteristics nested within the larger world.

The community we live in was found by my partner. When he heard we were returning to our hometown, he eagerly came back first to rent a unit here. According to him, many gay men live here too—two men walking their dog are instantly recognizable, and there’s even a single bottom living next door.

My partner came back early to apply for a job, working from 8 a.m. to 6 p.m., disappearing as soon as he opens his eyes in the morning. Moving to a new city is a massive undertaking, with packages arriving one after another, and many things needing to be repurchased. So, I, the unemployed slacker, was left to laboriously move things like an ant with the delivery guys, hauling our belongings into the elevator. Most of it was stuff we had packed and mailed from our previous city. Moving in May was no picnic—sweating profusely while squeezing into the freight elevator. That’s when Chongqing’s warmth shone through—almost every passerby would help me hold the security door downstairs, and neighbors on the same floor would even join in the “pushing boxes” game. Even the KFC delivery guy, on his way to another apartment, would place the takeout on a box and help me push and shove the cardboard into our home.

It was during this time that I met Lin Ze. At first, I didn’t realize he was gay. Honestly, I’ve always been curious about how those so-called “gaydar” or “fujoshi radar” things work. Why can my partner instantly tell if someone’s gay, while I’m completely oblivious to strangers?

Lin Ze lives in the building across from mine. Seeing me drenched in sweat pushing a large box with the delivery guy, he came over from the other side of the garden to hold the door for us and asked, “New here?”

“Yep,” I replied, looking quite disheveled. Lin Ze helped us push the box into the elevator and then into our apartment, chatted for a bit, and left.

After he left, I thought about it, and that evening, when my partner came home from work, I mentioned over dinner that there was someone across the way who might also be gay, and we could hang out with them sometime. My partner made an “oh” sound, and after my detailed description, he seemed to recall something and replied, “That guy has a boyfriend. They have an Alaskan Malamute. I met them when we first moved back—I talked to his boyfriend for a long time. They’re really nice people. We agreed to play badminton together this weekend.”

I was instantly stunned, my mind already spinning countless touching stories about Lin Ze, his boyfriend, and their Alaskan Malamute. But not long after, the topic of Lin Ze was pushed aside by another friend’s breakup drama.

The second time I saw Lin Ze was in the evening when I went downstairs to practice tai chi. I can’t wake up early, so I settle for pretending to practice a few moves on a secluded lawn at dusk. This time, Lin Ze was out walking his Alaskan Malamute and asked me, “Why does your tai chi look different from others?”

“It’s a very niche style,” I explained. “It’s indeed different from the popular Yang or Chen styles.”

Lin Ze stood by with his Alaskan Malamute, watching. After I finished, he remarked, “Your boyfriend’s pretty funny.”

I immediately knew he’d already chatted with my partner, so I started gossiping with Lin Ze. After talking about his dog for a bit, I was about to ask if he had any interesting stories to share when Lin Ze quipped, “I’m a journalist. Got any scoops for me?”

His words left me speechless, tears streaming down my face as I looked to the heavens. I suggested we get ice cream instead, so Lin Ze tied his Alaskan Malamute to a railing and went with me to buy some.

From that day on, I often ran into Lin Ze walking his dog downstairs. Whenever he saw me, he’d tie his Alaskan Malamute to the railing and join me for tai chi. Lin Ze was incredibly smart—he learned the entire routine in less than five or six days, and his movements were quite polished. But his work schedule was irregular, and he sometimes had to work overtime. When he saw me, we’d practice; when he didn’t, he’d slack off.

So, we’d meet downstairs every now and then for some lazy exercise, then grab ice cream from the convenience store and buy a sausage for the silly Alaskan Malamute that had been sitting patiently for half the day. The more we chatted, the closer we became. Some people just click instantly, while others never really connect no matter how long they’ve known each other. Lin Ze’s interests aligned surprisingly well with mine—about 70% overlap. One day, he finally asked the question that had been puzzling him: “So, what exactly do you do?”

“I’m a writer,” I answered, then immediately realized that sounded too self-important and corrected myself, “I’m a small-time writer.”

“You don’t seem like a writer,” Lin Ze responded skeptically.

I had to concede, “Alright, fine. I’m a part-time writer. Or maybe writing is my main gig, and my previous salaried job was the side hustle.”

“Qidian? A lot of my colleagues read books on Qidian, like Battle Through the Heavens, A Record of a Mortal’s Journey to Immortality…” he mused.

I earnestly told him, “Those are way too mild. We usually prefer stuff like The Lewd Tang Chronicles, Fuck the Boss, Fuck the Drill Sergeant, Fuck the Knight Commander, Fuck… or The Hegemon of Western Chu²The author namedropped his own abandoned PWP novel here, The Hegemon of Western Chu… Straight guys? I’d highly recommend Alibaba’s Unattainable Chronicles and Crimson Pearl…”

Master Luo Sen’s works have been legendary for a decade—any guy would’ve heard of them. Lin Ze choked on his drink, and I added, “I’ll show you what I’ve written when we get back. Give me your QQ.”

That night, I sent him The Hegemon of Western Chu. He replied with a smirk emoji, followed by a string of ellipses ten minutes later. After I pestered him a few times with no response, he called two hours later and asked, “Why is this document incomplete? Where’s the rest?”

So I told him honestly, “There is no rest. It’s abandoned.”

Lin Ze, who could fall into a pit just from reading high-smut erotica, sounded thoroughly frustrated. I added, “Come over to my place sometime. I’ll cook you some Cantonese dishes.”

He agreed to come over on the weekend when his boyfriend wasn’t working overtime, bringing groceries for me to cook. But a few days later, on a weekend noon, I went downstairs to pick up a package and return a stainless steel pot that had come with a hotpot delivery. Passing by a noodle shop, I heard someone call my name. Turning, I saw Lin Ze, whose expression clearly screamed, “Save me!” I couldn’t help but laugh—he was wearing a tank top and very short athletic shorts, his toes gripping a pair of flip-flops. Seeing me was like seeing family, and he pleaded tearfully, “Lend me ten bucks. I’ve been waiting forever—was just about to call someone, but all my friends live kinda far…”

I happened to have a ten-yuan deposit from returning the pot, so I paid for his noodles. His appearance told the whole story—he’d woken up naturally on the weekend, come downstairs in shorts and flip-flops for a bowl of noodles, and realized he’d forgotten his money and keys.

“Did you not bring your phone?” I asked.

“Nope. Just thought I’d come down for a quick meal. Didn’t bring my keys either,” he admitted gloomily.

“What about the person you live with?”

“Went to Chengdu. Won’t be back till eight tonight.”

I was floored. “Come hang out at my place while you wait. My partner’s not home either—he’s working a side gig as a wedding emcee and won’t be back till afternoon.”

“Nah, nah. Your boyfriend said you’re still busy even after quitting your job, working from home every day. I’d feel bad taking up your time. Just lend me some cash—I’ll buy a pack of cigarettes and go see a friend in Nanping.”

I went upstairs to get my package, then gave him a hundred yuan. Lin Ze thanked me profusely. I left my door open, also in flip-flops and shorts, and walked him to the elevator, asking if he wanted to come over for dinner later. “No need. I might just crash at my friend’s place tonight…” he replied.

Just then, there was a loud bang in the hallway—the door slammed shut from the wind.

Me: “…”

Lin Ze: “…”

When I heard the door close on its own, my only thought was: Thank god I brought that hundred.

Now I couldn’t get any work done either, so I had to go out and call my partner. That Pig-Bear wouldn’t be back until after 2 p.m., so Lin Ze and I became temporary brothers in misfortune, sitting in Starbucks in our flip-flops and shorts. Chongqing had been heating up for days, and in early summer, the streets were full of guys dressed like this, so it wasn’t a big deal.

Two coffees and a pack of Yuxi cigarettes later, we sat in the smoking area outside, ready to kill time on this boring afternoon. Lin Ze flipped through a magazine and said, “A friend introduced me to a rich, tall, handsome guy a few days ago. Want to adopt a sugar daddy or an older brother?”

“Oh?” My gossip-loving blood instantly boiled. “Not looking for sugar daddies nor older brothers, but I’m curious. Describe him? How tall, how handsome, how rich?”

Lin Ze sighed. “Actually, not that rich, tall, or handsome—just a minor version. But the guy was way too enthusiastic, hard to handle. The self-satisfied type, wanted me to be his little brother. What would you say in my place?”

I replied, “Tell him, ‘Laozi doesn’t chase rich, tall, handsome guys—Laozi is the rich, tall, handsome guy.'”

Lin Ze spat out his coffee laughing. “Good, I’ll say that. ‘This lord doesn’t marry into wealth—this lord is wealth,’ hahaha.”

“Got any juicy stories? Less rich, tall, handsome stuff—readers don’t go for that these days.”

Lin Ze thought for a moment. “Only my own story. It’s kinda complicated—can’t finish it in one day. Wanna hear it?”

“Sure. Mind if I write it down?” I asked a Starbucks barista for paper and a pen, ready to sketch out Lin Ze’s tangled web of relationships. Lin Ze watched with interest as I started writing and encouraged me, “Go ahead. I’ve been meaning to sort out my own story anyway. Too bad I can’t write fiction. Don’t worry about sharing royalties—just let me read it when you’re done. If it gets published, give me a copy.”

I said, “I’m not professionally trained either. Just doing it for fun—you learn as you go. I’ll change your name, though.”

“No need. What’s there to hide? I came out in college,” Lin Ze replied, surprisingly unfazed.

That was a weighty opening. I said, “Still, better change it so it doesn’t cause trouble at work… Where should we start? Are you single now? Any one-night stands?”

Lin Ze smiled. “Used to have the occasional one-night stand, but my childhood friend hated it when I did. The last one was last year.”

[Third person perspective: Lin Ze]

It was a Sunday morning. Lin Ze returned home at 7:30 a.m., brushing his teeth and washing his face when he heard slippers shuffling outside. He opened the bathroom door.

“Another one-night stand?” Zheng Jie, his childhood friend, stood outside asking.

“Mmm…” Lin Ze, exhausted, brushed his teeth while studying Zheng Jie in the mirror. Zheng Jie was tanned, with thick eyebrows, standing at 1.8 meters tall—very masculine in a blue dress shirt, looking ready for work.

Lin Ze, mouth full of foam, shook his head, then nodded, signaling with his eyes.

“This isn’t good for you,” Zheng Jie scolded.

Lin Ze frowned, shook his head, and waved his hand—no.

“Good if there wasn’t,” Zheng Jie replied.

Lin Ze spat out the foam, wiped his mouth with a towel, and explained, “Stayed the night, just slept together. Didn’t do anything. Not a one-night stand. Not like you think. Same guy as last time—you’ve met him.”

“Broke up?”

Lin Ze didn’t answer. He hadn’t slept well last night, dark circles under his eyes.

“That’s a one-night stand,” Zheng Jie muttered.

“No. I’m taking a shower,” Lin Ze insisted.

He started undoing his belt, and Zheng Jie closed the door and left.

Under the scalding shower, Lin Ze’s hair soaked through, clinging to his forehead. He took a deep breath, thinking about the guy he’d met online. They’d seen each other three times, talked for over two months, and only officially got together last night. The guy wasn’t super handsome but decent-looking, and he’d kept pushing to get a room. Lin Ze had been reluctant at first but eventually gave in.

Zheng Jie had called him several times last night, and Lin Ze had just said he was fine, not fooling around—it was a real relationship. But after thinking it over, he’d told the guy last minute that he didn’t want to do it yet. Just sleep together, no sex.

The guy wasn’t thrilled but agreed reluctantly, though he clearly wasn’t happy about paying for a room just to sleep. From his personality, it was obvious he wasn’t Lin Ze’s type—too eager for sex and a bit effeminate. He’d wanted Lin Ze to top him first, then switch.

First, Lin Ze didn’t like bottoming—he usually topped because it was uncomfortable otherwise.

Second, he felt two months was too soon for sex.

When Lin Ze woke up in the morning, the guy was already gone—without paying the room fee.

Lin Ze wasn’t sure if he should reach out first. He’d wait to see what the guy said.

He wanted a serious relationship but kept meeting the wrong people.

Either he wasn’t into them, or they weren’t into him. Even when there was mutual interest, deeper interactions often revealed deal-breaking flaws.

Many in the scene just wanted hookups, not thinking long-term.

Zheng Jie called from outside, “Working overtime. Leaving.”

“Bye,” Lin Ze replied.

The door closed. Zheng Jie left. Lin Ze finished showering, lay on the sofa scrolling through his phone, and saw breakfast on the table. He got up to eat. Zheng Jie had met the guy and clearly didn’t like him, calling him “too girly.”

Lin Ze sighed, thinking about Zheng Jie again. Too bad he was straight. They’d been neighbors since childhood, attending the same elementary school, then splitting for middle school, reuniting in high school when Lin Ze transferred, then parting again for college.

After graduation, to save money, Lin Ze had asked Zheng Jie to share an apartment. Zheng Jie’s family situation was complicated, so he’d been eager to move out too. Zheng Jie was great—tall, handsome, not effeminate.

Straight guys, of course, were rarely effeminate. In a city like Chongqing, where “small men” were common, Zheng Jie stood out. Lin Ze had had a crush on him in high school but lost interest after realizing he was straight. You don’t eat the grass by your own burrow—childhood friends know each other’s flaws too well, especially when one’s straight.

To outsiders, Zheng Jie seemed like a catch, but deeper interactions revealed headaches unrelated to personality. His salary was too low—just over 3,000 yuan a month, barely enough to scrape by. He spent recklessly, and after rent, utilities, and socializing, he was broke by month’s end.

Plus, Zheng Jie’s family had a messy, unresolved debt situation. Chongqing men were fiery-tempered, but many were also homebodies—women were often tougher than men…

Lin Ze ate breakfast, then dozed off on the sofa until someone knocked.

He opened the door to three men in the hallway—one in sunglasses, a tank top, and tattoos on his arms leading the pack.

“Does Zheng Jie live here?” Shades asked.

Lin Ze’s heart sank. “No.”

“He does,” one of the lackeys told Shades.

Lin Ze insisted, “No. He’s my friend—comes over sometimes to watch games, spend the night. Doesn’t live here.”

Shades peered inside suspiciously. Lin Ze knew better than to mess with gangsters and kept his tone polite. “I rent this place. Zheng Jie really doesn’t live here. We haven’t talked in half a year.”

Shades said, “Alright. Sorry to bother you.”

Lin Ze nodded. “No problem, brothers.”

He closed the door, checked the clock—5 p.m.—and called Zheng Jie. “Debt collectors are here.”

Zheng Jie replied immediately, “Don’t open the door.”

Lin Ze asked, “How’d they find this place?”

He pressed his phone to his ear, peeking through the peephole. The three were still loitering in the hallway. Zheng Jie guessed, “Probably my mom told them. They gone?”

Lin Ze lit a cigarette on the balcony. “Nope. Camped outside.”

Zheng Jie stood in a crowded square, adjusting the strap of his messenger bag. His white dress shirt was soaked through with sweat, translucent against his skin. Passersby glanced at him. The heat was unbearable—July in Chongqing was like a giant oven.

“Eaten yet?” Zheng Jie asked. “You got any cash? Boss is holding back pay this month. I’ve only got 1,300 left.”

Lin Ze offered, “I’ve got 2,000 this month. Want me to lend you 1,000?”

Zheng Jie warned, “Don’t go out too early. Come down at six. Watch your back—don’t let them tail you.”

Lin Ze: “Where to?”

Zheng Jie: “Bei Cheng Tian Street. Dinner. I’ll wait.”

• 1
  A Chinese term that generally refers to the social environment in which many Chinese wuxia and xianxia stories are set. Here it means “a world of its own.”
• 2
  The author namedropped his own abandoned PWP novel here, The Hegemon of Western Chu