After getting the CD player, Zhao Meiyou mulled over the matter for a moment.
It was the 25th century now. What were the odds that a three-hundred-year-old antique was preserved in such pristine condition?
He knew his sister was a bit unusual in some ways, but that didn’t matter. Places like the Lower District were crawling with oddballs anyway. Otherwise, the government wouldn’t have shelled out to build a mental hospital. As long as the symptoms weren’t too extreme, the hospital usually wouldn’t admit patients. Some were too normal, clashing with the bizarre vibe of the entire layer, so the locals branded them heretics—or even committed themselves.
It was all about survival, scraping by without losing face.
In the end, what was normal and what was crazy? Normal was just the only madness that got a pass.
Business at the mental hospital and the Pork Shop was booming as usual. Zhao Meiyou was run off his feet and soon forgot all about it. He knew his sister was a little off—frankly, kids always looked that way through adult eyes.
Puberty, after all.
Maybe one day she’d pull a flying buttercat out of the closet.
With so much going on lately, Zhao Meiyou finally got an evening off without overtime. He had time to drop by the Playhouse. The Playhouse in Layer 33 was the best spot in the Lower District—and pretty famous across the whole Metropolis too. Unlike the middle and upper layers, where playhouses, cinemas, and theaters were neatly separated, every venue here was a chaotic mash-up. Acts tumbled one after another in a wild jumble, all crammed into an abandoned parking lot. No fancy name either—just “the Playhouse.”
Before going in, he checked the evening’s lineup. Bright neon characters flashed on the water sign: a full night of back-to-back plays, featuring the lead actor from a familiar troupe. He was doubling as the old man role and the clown, dressed as Ji Gong.
Zhao Meiyou arrived late and couldn’t snag a ticket. Instead, he headed straight backstage like an old pro.
He was well-liked and a regular, so folks greeted him all along the way. The backstage area was a makeshift tent of colorful tarps, thick with the scent of face powder and cigarette smoke. Long strings of skirts hung in loops, hiding the dressing rooms. A dancer rushing between shows poked her head out from a cluster of fringed costumes. She had golden hair and green eyes, her broken Mandarin thick with an accent as she grinned at him. “Xi Shi! Perfect timing—my back zipper’s caught. Give us a hand?”
In the end, the lead actor—who was about to go on—rescued him. His face was rouged but already flushed from booze, even before hitting the stage. He let out a boozy belch. “No sweat. No seat tonight? If you wanna sneak in, park yourself behind the screen.”
Behind the screen was the musicians’ spot. Zhao Meiyou got it right away. “Won’t I throw off your rhythm?”
“Not my guys you’re messing with.” The lead actor waved a palm leaf fan and strode off.
Zhao Meiyou did know his way around strings, but he’d gotten rusty. He kept it subtle. Backstage, he lounged through the opening gongs and drums for half the show. By the fourth act, he ducked out to pour tea for the erhu master and subbed in for a four-scene melody.
The Lead Actor was the one playing Ji Gong. He took the stage in a patchwork monk’s robe. Before he even sang, cheers erupted. He started with a series of wild howls, then belted out, “Mad and wild, that’s me, mad and wild.” Zhao Meiyou couldn’t help chuckling from behind the screen. The Lead Actor had a soft, plump look—hardly monk-like, more like he’d overdosed on temple feasts. His cheeks were rouged red, giving him the vibe of a drunken seductive ghost. But his singing voice was rich and powerful, the contrast perfect for capturing the roguish, boozing fake-mad monk.
When the big show wrapped, Zhao Meiyou and The Lead Actor slipped out the back door for late-night grub. They rented a whole barbecue cart, piled high with skewers slathered in chili cumin, pepper honey, sesame, and plum sauce. Zhao Meiyou just drank, leaving the food alone—he couldn’t out-eat the guy across from him. “Noble Consort, how many pounds this month?”
The Lead Actor’s makeup was still on, now smudged red by the grill smoke. He was starving, grease dripping from his mouth as he mumbled, “Lost three and a half!”
“Wow, impressive.” Zhao Meiyou laughed. “Gotta toast that.”
They clinked cups. The Lead Actor drained his in one go, exhaled sharply, and shouted over the sizzle, “You bring the meds?”
“Brought ’em. Blood pressure and diabetes stuff.” Zhao Meiyou pulled out a foil blister pack. “This is three months’ worth…”
Before he could finish, The Lead Actor snatched it, dumped a fistful into his mouth without looking, crunched them up, and swallowed hard. He hacked violently, spraying the table.
Zhao Meiyou finished his thought. “…Ration ’em. Meds are scarce on the market. Diao Chan’s still trying to score more.”
The Lead Actor wiped his mouth; his makeup was a total mess. “Those are minor. I need sleeping pills.”
“Forget sleeping pills—they’re all out everywhere. Even Diao Chan can’t get any.” Zhao Meiyou raised his plastic cup. “If worst comes to worst, sing more. Last time you conked out onstage.”
The Lead Actor slapped his arm. “That’s ’cause you got me hammered, you bastard!”
Zhao Meiyou burst out laughing.
Truth was, the guy didn’t need pouring—he’d earned that gut full of ailments one bite at a time.
Like most Lower District folks, The Lead Actor’s background was a mystery. He’d checked into the hospital, played nutcase for a few days to jump through hoops, then walked out good as new. The only difference? When he first arrived, he’d been strikingly handsome—delicate and radiant—which earned him the fancy nickname “Noble Consort.” But not long after hitting the stage post-discharge, the only thing he shared with Lady Yang was the fat.
The cart’s spread didn’t last long. The Lead Actor demolished it, then wiped his mouth and got straight to it. “Alright, spill. What’s this really about tonight?”
They went way back. If Zhao Meiyou was just there for the show, no need to spring for barbecue.
Zhao Meiyou pulled out the CD player. “Wanna hear something.”
The Lead Actor took the player, frowned at it for a bit, then waved. “Too noisy here. Let’s move.”
They wandered to a patch of ruins—or more like a giant trash heap. Still within the parking lot bounds. The Lead Actor knew the spot: an open-topped shell with just the frame left, comfy foam cushions intact. He sprawled out, hit play.
Zhao Meiyou leaned against the car door and lit a cigarette.
It was indeed a fresh machine—great sound quality. After the opening strings, a woman’s voice filled the air.
“Fly me to the moon
And let me play among the stars
Let me see what spring is like
On Jupiter and Mars
In other words, hold my hand
In other words, darling, kiss me…”
When the full song ended, The Lead Actor popped open the player, eyed the CD, and said, “This a song?”
Zhao Meiyou: “No shit.”
The disc looked spotless, mirror-silver like the player. Zhao Meiyou said, “I wanna know where this song’s from.”
“Why not check the Holographic Library? You could probably swing an Upper District pass.”
“I did. Nothing.” Zhao Meiyou exhaled smoke, the mist glowing faint blue in the night. “Even that kid Diao Chan says he’s never heard it.”
“No surprise. Look at those lyrics.” The Lead Actor held the CD overhead, peering through the hole at the sky. “Who gives a damn about the moon these days?”
They were in the abandoned parking lot of Layer 33, one of the oldest foundations in the whole city. Before it became a lot, this ruin had housed something even more ancient: a grand, opulent opera house.
The Lead Actor gazed upward. The shattered dome still held faded murals—lapis and silver paint swirling into an endless starry sky.
Roman columns around the ruins bore reliefs where the men’s and women’s heads were lopped off, but you could make out their astronaut suits.
“Metropolis bans, top two: no space exploration, no artificial humans.” The Lead Actor belched drunkenly. “This tune’s straight-up contraband. You nuts, Zhao Meiyou?”
“Save the crazy talk for after you skip a meal or two.” Zhao Meiyou said, “So, you know its origins or not?”
The Lead Actor slid the CD back and hit play, settling in as the song swelled. He looked half-asleep already.
“A little.” He spoke up. “Oldie from centuries back. Its record even rode the Apollo spacecraft to the moon—the first song played up there. Tons of covers. This one’s Julie London.”
Zhao Meiyou: “Song name?”
“First line of the lyrics.” The Lead Actor said.
“‘Fly Me to the Moon.'”
Zhao Meiyou smoked a whole pack before leaving. When he hit pause, snores were rumbling from the seat.
Home by 2 a.m., Zhao Meiyou gathered the row of empty bowls from the doorstep, hauled them to the kitchen, and refilled them from the sack of mixed grains. The twenty-pound bag was nearly empty now. He stacked the bowls like steamer baskets, a towering pile, and set them back outside.
Strays were everywhere around here. This was his free-range feeding setup—mixed kibble worked for cats and dogs alike. Twenty bowls by the door: come and get it. He wasn’t diligent, though. Overtime kept him out, and even home, he often forgot. At best, he’d top them up once a week.
He was beat. Zhao Meiyou shut the door and face-planted into the bedding. No real bed in his place—just a mattress on the floor. Forgot to close the window sometimes, and cats hopped in to get stepped on—”Shit!”
Zhao Meiyou felt his belly squash something fuzzy. A scratch raked his gut. He sat up, flicked on the light. “Zhao Bujiao?”
The calico cat stared blankly at him and licked its paw.
Zhao Meiyou fed but never adopted, so no names for strays—except this one. This calico was leagues smarter than the rest. It knew indoor life beat the streets—even if Zhao Meiyou pretended not to notice and never fed it inside. It insisted on squatting in his under-twenty-square-meter dump. Anytime he came home, there it was, claiming turf rent-free.
One day it hit him: this cat never meowed. On a whim, he named it Zhao Bujiao.
Diao Chan had visited once and given it a nickname—long forgotten. Wouldn’t matter anyway; it never answered.
“Food’s outside. Go eat.” Zhao Meiyou grabbed it by the scruff and chucked it out the window. Exhausted, he killed the light and crashed.
Not two seconds later, suffocation hit. Zhao Bujiao plopped right on his face.
“…I’m warning you,” Zhao Meiyou said, hauling the cat outside once more and jabbing a finger at its nose. “Use your eyes for once.”
The next second, claws raked across his hand. “Fuck!”
Zhao Meiyou lost it. He scrambled to his feet and lunged for the window, but the damn thing had rusted solid at the frame long ago. He yanked hard twice, and with a sharp crack, the glass shattered.
The cluster of cats heads-down at their meal under the window flinched back at first, then all lifted their gazes in unison, locking eyes with Zhao Meiyou in a collective stare-down.
Zhao Meiyou: “…Great. Now we’re screwed.”
There was a pecking order for the cats and dogs that gathered to eat beneath his window: cats first, dogs scavenging the scraps. He couldn’t explain why the dogs always lost the fights despite their size advantage, but it kept the deterrence in place. Stray cats had no interest in his rundown shack so far—only Zhao Bujiao showed any curiosity—but dogs were another story. Once, when he’d left the window wide open during a work shift, he’d returned a week later to find the place turned into a stray dog shelter, complete with a fresh litter of puppies.
From then on, Zhao Meiyou only cracked the window a sliver. Cats were like liquid; Zhao Bujiao slipped in and out with no trouble, successfully keeping the dogs at bay.
Right now, a row of green cat eyes glared up at him from below, while the humming roar of the snack shop’s refrigeration unit droned in the distance.
He couldn’t exactly count on stray cats to have a conscience. Sure enough, the next moment they scattered with a boom. Zhao Meiyou instinctively recoiled—and was promptly slobbered head to toe by a lunging tongue.
It was a big dog. Zhao Meiyou nearly went down under its weight, and where there was one trailblazer, others followed in a pack too numerous to count. By the time he finally pried the last one off him, there wasn’t a square foot of floor space left in the room.
“What the hell kind of life is this?” Zhao Meiyou muttered.
Zhao Bujiao, perched on the windowsill, shot him a glance before turning around and presenting its rear, as if to say, You’re on your own.
“You useless mutt!” Zhao Meiyou snapped in frustration.
It looked like peace and quiet were off the table for the night. The dogs especially loved jumping on his bed and disco-dancing across his pillow. Clutching his quilt, Zhao Meiyou leaned against the wall and stared vacantly at the snack shop nearby. “The owner’s a real saint. Never even considered opening a dog-meat stall.”
Neon lights flickered along the street—blues and greens, reds and whites, fluorescent pinks—casting their glow inside. He didn’t even need to turn on the lights; the wall opposite the window turned into a kaleidoscope, swirling blocks of vibrant color gathering and spinning. Zhao Meiyou took in the room at a glance and suddenly noticed the auto-cleaning unit in the corner was gone—stolen sometime when he wasn’t looking. It had been the only valuable thing in the place, a gift from Diao Chan.
Unfortunately, Zhao Meiyou never cooked at home.
He gave the head of a dog sprawled on the bed a gentle pat. “You sorry beast. Can’t even guard the damn house.”
After a moment’s thought, he pulled the CD player from the inner pocket of his clothes, closed his eyes, and pressed play once more.
A woman’s voice filled the room, like a can of silvery oil at tepid temperature, slowly tipping over to spill across the floor drains, the cigarette packs and beer cans, the foam mattress and dirty dish basin, the dogs, the cat, the man.
In that instant, moonlight seemed to flood the room.
“Fly me to the moon…”
Zhao Bujiao whipped around suddenly. It arched its back and bared its teeth in a silent hiss.
Its slit-pupiled eyes reflected the room: bedsheets wadded into a lump, a big dog shredding the pillow with stuffing already flying, a blanket piled against the wall, its shape not yet collapsed as if it had just been draped over someone.
The mattress lay empty.
When Zhao Meiyou opened his eyes again, harsh sunlight nearly brought tears to them.
It took him a moment to piece together his situation. His last memory was of the room—dogs barging in, him unable to sleep, deciding to listen to music—
So where was this? Zhao Meiyou scanned his surroundings. An open lot ringed by half-built high-rises with exposed rebar and concrete slabs, like a construction site abandoned midway. No sign of workers.
Had he been kidnapped? He glanced at the restraints binding him to a chair—professional job. He’d made plenty of enemies; narrowing it down would take time.
Hold on.
Zhao Meiyou realized something crucial.
He could see the sun here.
Blue sky, white clouds, blazing sun.
The sky wasn’t deeply blue, more like veiled in a thin gray haze, but his gut told him this was no holographic projection. This wasn’t the Middle Layer District or Upper District either—the air carried a parched dryness, like lime mixed with construction dust, gritty in his lungs like thin secondhand smoke.
Any spot with sunlight in the Middle or Upper Districts always came with air circulation systems pumping in pleasant scents—ocean breezes or forest notes. Nothing this cheap.
What was this place? Who had brought him here? How? His senses were sharp enough to pick up even Diao Chan cursing him under his breath.
A vehicle pulled up at the edge of the lot. Several masked figures climbed out, the leader carrying a case. They were clearly there for him. Zhao Meiyou watched as the man pulled out a syringe and jabbed him with it. Sensation vanished.
Then the man produced a chainsaw.
Touch was gone, but the blood streaming down his face and the acrid char smell in the air told Zhao Meiyou the guy had sawed open his skull.
And only the cranium—no brain damage. That saw packed serious power; neat work, skilled hands.
Zhao Meiyou’s calm analysis stemmed not from his psychiatric hospital training, but sheer shock—his mind had decoupled, thoughts wandering free—
He silently cursed a million fucks at that car, the one the masked goons had arrived in.
He wasn’t a car guy, but Diao Chan mastered every playboy vice. Back in university, his desk overflowed with model cars—from cutting-edge models to antiques, flying ones, invisible, nuclear-powered, you name it. Thanks to that, Zhao Meiyou knew his way around vehicles decently.
So he recognized it: that sedan was centuries old, maybe older than Diao Chan’s most ancient collectible. The thing even ran on gasoline.
He pinpointed the odd smell too—carbon emissions thick enough for smog, heavy pollution turning the air exactly this flavor.
The half-finished buildings around him had an archaic silhouette, and the masked men’s outfits looked from some bygone era.
Zhao Meiyou suddenly recalled his sister’s words from days ago: “This isn’t real reality. We’re trapped in a massive virtual world.”
That CD player.
He’d fallen asleep to the disc inside it.
“Bro,” Zhao Meiyou said. “Mind telling me the year?”
The man paused, then replied after a beat, “1999.”
Zhao Meiyou: “…”
“You’re an interesting one,” said one of the masked lackeys. “Most hostages are bawling for mommy by now, but your first question’s the damn year?”
“Probably an idiot. Or crazy otherwise.” The leader set down the chainsaw and pulled something from the case.
A spoon.
The leader eyed Zhao Meiyou, hesitating. “Anything else you want to say?”
Zhao Meiyou’s mind raced like a stampede. When reason gets shredded, instinct often leads—and the gut reacts faster than the brain—
He’d spent the day in emergency triage, drank with The Lead Actor till the wee hours without a bite to eat, and now the savory char of roasting protein wafted from above. Zhao Meiyou couldn’t take it. His mouth opened on autopilot:
“Can I have a bite of those brains?”
