WHF Ch 36 – You Don’t Have Anyone You Like Right Now, Do You?

On an afternoon in March, in the office of the glass factory, Sun Jiu lifted his head from his laptop. This month, the factory’s profits couldn’t cover expenses—more accurately, they still couldn’t cover expenses. The trend had started showing at the end of last year, and after the first month of the lunar new year, it was thoroughly doomed.

Doomed. He slammed the laptop shut. There was no point looking at this mess of accounts. Not a single deal had gone through, not one was useful—everything was doomed, utterly doomed.

He leaned back in his office chair, the genuine leather cushion creaking under him. This was the pure Italian leather chair he’d splurged on when he first opened the factory, and now it smelled odd.

When he’d started this factory, he dreamed of reviving the glory of Changchun’s First Optical Machinery Institute. He’d invested heavily in aerospace equipment R&D projects and even got a fancy degree—well, just a name on a degree, but didn’t that count as a good education? He’d put in the effort and money, after all. Back then, he was brimming with ambition. But in the past two years, the factory had only been bottling aphrodisiacs. It wasn’t entirely a failure—at least the factory bore the weighty responsibility of keeping thousands of Northeast men standing tall. Still, it wasn’t something to brag about. It wasn’t rockets; it couldn’t reach the skies.

And another thing: he wanted to land some prestigious projects so that when he saw his boyfriend again, he’d have some pride to show.

His thoughts wandered to the drawer under his desk, where something borrowed from his boyfriend was kept.

He pulled open the drawer. A butterfly knife gleamed coldly atop a folder, out of place in the deliberately decorated office but very much in line with Yu Tianbai. Sun Jiu racked his brain but couldn’t recall any memory of his ex playing with such things.

He reached into the drawer. The knife’s material was decent. He didn’t know much about these things, but it felt heavy in his hand, probably a treasure. He ran his fingers along the handle, and the blade flicked out.

Tastes change. Maybe, as he’d said, tastes really do change. His boyfriend was now into the kind of junk young people liked. Of course, there was another possibility: the butterfly knife was a gift from that guy who crashed the wedding.

The one who stormed into the venue, flipped tables, smashed chairs, and nearly swung at Yu Tianbai’s face.

So, did they really have the kind of relationship where they’d exchange gifts?

Impossible. Sun Jiu firmly believed Yu Tianbai’s taste in objects might change, but his standards for people never would. And that guy who barged in looking for him? Sun Jiu thought he was barely passable, definitely not as good as himself.

So Sun Jiu was confident in his choice: to leave the moment the conflict broke out. He trusted his boyfriend could handle such trivial matters.

But as for Yu Tianbai’s sudden claim at the wedding that “we’ve already broken up”—that was just him throwing a tantrum. Yes, people say that when they’re sulking.

He hypnotized himself into a chuckle, but then he heard heavy footsteps at the door. It was the signal of Secretary Yan’s arrival. Yan always made sure the factory manager knew he was coming.

Sun Jiu tossed the knife back into the drawer and straightened his posture before the door opened.

“Factory Manager,” Yan Guoxian began, as he always did. The next part was never good news. “The payment for the guys we hired to dispose of the body still hasn’t been settled.”

The second half was indeed bad news. Sun Jiu didn’t know where to start cursing. He stood up, trying to calm himself.

“How many times have I told you? Don’t mention those two words! Don’t mention those two words!”

His voice started soft but grew louder, from a gentle breeze to a thunderclap.

Yan Guoxian was unfazed. He even twisted the cap on his thermos. “Factory Manager, as management, we should prioritize the people’s trust. It’s better to pay those two—the uncle and nephew—sooner rather than later.”

With that, he took a hearty sip from his thermos, looking as if he were clearing his throat for a long speech. But there was none. His statement ended there. Secretary Yan turned to leave.

“Hey, hey! Hold on,” Sun Jiu called, rising from his chair. “Let me ask you: are you the factory manager, or am I?”

Yan stood by the door, looking like he wanted to leave but didn’t move. “Given the current situation, you’re the factory manager.”

“Then what the hell kind of future situation is there?” Sun Jiu waved his left hand forcefully, as if to dismiss any such possibility. “I’m telling you, it’s only because I’m good-tempered and see you as somewhat of an elder that I let you talk this much. Go to Liaoning, or further north to Heilongjiang, and see! Who else wouldn’t lose their temper with you?”

The moment he said it, he could no longer call himself an approachable factory manager. Yan’s eyes, behind his glasses, didn’t blink. He screwed the thermos cap back on.

Compared to the factory manager’s rising temper, Yan’s tone remained calm. “If there’s nothing else, I’ll head out.”

With that, he gave a polite nod and reached for the door handle.

“Wait, wait a second,” Sun Jiu said, slumping back into his chair, rubbing his brow. “Tell me again about the events leading up to Teacher Fan’s accident.”

The door had opened an inch. From his posture, Yan’s urge to leave was at its peak. He looked at the handle; the factory manager looked at him. A tense standoff ensued, and Yan closed the door.

He silently returned to the rosewood desk and sat on the stool opposite Sun Jiu. “On the tenth day of the first lunar month, the factory resumed work. Old Fan was the first to arrive. He ate breakfast in the cafeteria and went to the workshop. I ran into him while getting food. We were there around the same time. When I entered the workshop, he wasn’t in his office. I stepped out and saw him on the crane in the main factory building.”

The crane—every old factory had one. There were various types: gantry cranes, cantilever cranes, overhead cranes, all with one thing in common—they were high up, at least two or three stories.

Yan pointed diagonally upward, as if he were back in the factory on that day, gesturing grandly at Old Fan above. But this was the factory manager’s office. Sun Jiu, full of suspicion, leaned to the side. Yan’s finger pointed at a blank white wall, one without any awards.

“He was standing up there, not in the control room, no safety helmet, just standing with his hands behind his back, silent. I wondered if he had something on his mind.”

As he said this, Yan’s expression showed a rare shift. His brows furrowed, and he looked pensive, as if seeing Old Fan’s lonely silhouette on that blank wall.

“Poor guy, no kids, worked at the factory his whole life, and now, nearing retirement, he might not even get his pension—”

“Stick to the important parts!” the factory manager interrupted, unable to resist glancing at the wall Yan kept staring at. Nothing was there. He straightened his work uniform, feeling uneasy. “Just tell me how he had the accident.”

Another twist of the thermos cap. Yan’s expression returned to its usual impassivity. He continued, “Then he jumped.”

His brief answer was met with a sigh from Factory Manager Sun, clearly one of dissatisfaction.

“How did he jump? Be specific.”

Yan was a slow talker. While deliberate, he wasn’t incapable of answering questions. But this time, he sat with his mouth half-open, one hand on his thermos, eyes drifting to the side, lost in thought. Sun Jiu, propping his head across from him, waited a minute or two. Just as he was about to wave a hand to check if the sweater-and-thermos guy had fallen asleep, Yan stirred.

“Factory Manager, instead of worrying about how he left, why not settle the payment for the two who helped dispose of the body?”

That’s what he’d been holding in?

“We’ll deal with that later,” Sun Jiu said, waving it off. “I need to figure out how he fell first.”

Time froze again. Yan’s demeanor was like that of an elderly sage. After a long pause, he asked, “Factory Manager, do you suspect me? Do you think I pushed him?”

Sun Jiu, exhausted and propping his head, froze mid-expression, about to respond when a sharp noise came from under the desk. Then he saw Yan Guoxian stand.

For a second or two, Sun Jiu thought Yan was about to splash thermos water in his face, so resolute was his expression, so poised his movement. But the next moment, Yan did something even Old Fan couldn’t have predicted.

A crisp thud of a knee hitting the floor—yes, crisp, like a radish split in winter. When Sun Jiu looked up, Yan Guoxian was kneeling before him, then let out a wail. “Factory Manager! You can’t do this to me, Factory Manager! How can you suspect the secretary who’s worked with you for nearly a decade? Have mercy, Factory Manager, have mercy…”

Then he lunged at Sun Jiu’s knees, smearing who-knows-what—tears, snot, or both. The sudden move nearly made Sun Jiu leap up, but he couldn’t, as his legs were being clung to.

“Factory Manager! Factory Manager!”

When it rains, it pours. In this moment of dilemma, the office door was knocked.

“Factory Manager, someone’s here for you!”

The person outside shouted “Factory Manager,” the one clinging to his legs wailed “Factory Manager,” and as the Factory Manager Sonata hit its crescendo, the door opened.

At the door stood the factory’s security guard. He glanced at the man hanging onto the manager’s suit pants, then at the manager with his tie askew, and said awkwardly, “Factory Manager, someone’s at the gate for you.”

Outside the glass factory, in front of the main hall, Yu Tianbai nimbly climbed onto the roof of the Wuling Hongguang. Standing in the vast spring breeze, he raised the microphone to his mouth, cleared his throat, and bellowed, “Sun, I brought you a gift—”

Accompanying his voice was a series of mournful, resounding suona notes, soaring with grandeur. Yes, trailing the Wuling Hongguang was a big addition—a professional suona band, versatile for both joyous and somber occasions.

Yu Tianbai loved a spectacle. He was so excited he could barely keep from bouncing on the roof. As the suona’s echo faded, he tapped the roof with his shoe, turned away from the mic, and shouted down, “Wanna say something?”

In the driver’s seat sat Xiu Ma, his expression stern and stubbornly fixed forward, as if the gongs and drums behind him didn’t exist. Composure, he reminded himself. A martial artist must have composure.

An hour ago, after an inexplicable martial arts performance, they’d set off on their road trip to Mudanjiang. Destination: the glass factory at the Jilin-Heilongjiang border. Target: Factory Manager Sun. Primary goal: retrieve the knife. Secondary goal: return his crime tool.

Of course, Xiu Ma’s motives might not be so pure. At their first meeting, he hadn’t found Sun that disagreeable. Back then, the villain in his mind was Yu Tianbai—fierce, loud-mouthed, monstrous. Not smashing a stool in the unlucky boss’s face at the wedding was giving him face.

But as time passed, his resentment shifted to someone else—the man who’d appeared at the wedding, leaning on Yu Tianbai’s shoulder when he walked in.

Now, Xiu Ma wished his aim had been off and that stool had hit Sun’s face instead.

So, when they hit the national highway to Mudanjiang, he was full of determination, eager to see just how “adult” this “adult business kids shouldn’t meddle in” was. Twenty-one was an adult—old enough to book a hotel room. No way was he getting relegated to the kids’ table!

But that determination turned into stirring trouble for no reason.

Half an hour from Mudanjiang, Yu Tianbai picked up a clear plastic bag. In the sunlight, Xiu Ma got his first close look at the object that had sent them to the auto shop. The hammer’s head was rusted—or so it seemed. On closer inspection, it wasn’t rust but a mix of red, green, and yellow, a riot of colors.

“What’s this?” He had a feeling the unlucky boss was about to go off-script again.

Facing Xiu Ma’s openly suspicious expression, Yu Tianbai brushed it off with a smile. “I’m gonna return it to its rightful owner.”

Then he recounted the hammer’s past and present—Sun Jiu’s murderous history. For the next five minutes, the only sound in the van was the tires on the road. Xiu Ma seemed to be processing furiously, but in truth, his thoughts were flatter than the worn-out tires.

“You’re sure he’s a murderer?”

“Don’t think he’s not capable,” Yu Tianbai said, rubbing his brow. “What won’t a man do to show off?”

It sounded like he was cutting off his own retreat, and he was. The moment he said it, he knew what Xiu Ma might ask next.

Sure enough, Xiu Ma’s question came. “If you knew he was like that, why were you with him?”

See? Their rapport had reached this level. Yu Tianbai closed his eyes, giving himself a moment to breathe deeply. “Your life doesn’t always let you choose,” he said, leaning his head back and turning to look at Xiu Ma. “What you hate now, you might’ve liked back then. What you like now, you might not in the future.”

Under Xiu Ma’s classic stare for his lectures, Yu Tianbai added, “What you’re into now might not be right.”

It felt like aimless philosophizing, yet pointed. Xiu Ma shifted forward, not because his seat was uneven but because something inside him twisted—maybe his heart, maybe his stomach. He was nervous.

“Are you talking about me?” He chose honesty.

Yu Tianbai looked innocent. “It’s a universal truth. You don’t have anyone you like right now, do you?”

Then he answered himself. “I don’t think you do. You don’t seem like someone who bottles up feelings.”

The conversation ended, and the van rolled toward Mudanjiang. Xiu Ma’s initial drive had faded.

Even now, with Yu Tianbai standing on the van’s roof and suona blaring behind him, the noise—though muffled by the van’s metal—grated on him. His earlier fire hadn’t returned.

Was Yu Tianbai really not talking about him?

More than wanting to size up the slick-suited Sun, he now wanted to fling open the door, stand tall, and demand, What do you mean?

But the truly interesting one didn’t seem to be Yu Tianbai.

Xiu Ma took a deep breath, slammed his head onto the steering wheel. The suona was loud enough that no one heard the van’s unexplained honks.

On the van’s roof, its owner was in high spirits, his mind far from the vehicle. “Sun Jiu,” Yu Tianbai called solemnly, using his ex’s full name. “I’m here to apologize. Whatever happened in the past, this song’s for you. You give me my stuff back, I’ll give you yours, and we’ll part ways cleanly.”

Across the factory plaza, Yu Tianbai stared at the office window. Someone was clearly standing there—Sun Jiu. Yu Tianbai could picture his expression perfectly.

The look he got when Yu Tianbai pulled some inexplicable, doomed stunt. Yu Tianbai loved being looked at like that.

He cleared his throat, gestured to the suona band behind him like a conductor, and stood tall. “This song’s for you—”

Inside the factory, another head joined the crowd at the window. Secretary Yan peered over Sun Jiu’s shoulder. “Yo, isn’t that the assistant manager you hired? Do we still owe him wages?”

He wasn’t saying it out of concern. Yan hadn’t smiled this much since he walked in. Sun Jiu clamped his mouth shut, silent.

Not far off, the man on the van roof shouted gleefully, “Please enjoy the next song, ‘Baby, I’m Sorry’!”