Chapter 1: Dream?

“Doctor Zhao! Emergency!”

Zhao Meiyou was jolted awake by the shuffle of mahjong tiles.

He had dozed off in the pork shop. Through the plastic door curtain, a group of aunties was deep into a lively game, the air thick with talcum powder, floral water, mosquito coils, and braised meat scents all mingling in a steamy haze. The women’s pale flesh, squeezed into polyester fabrics, glistened with sweat that had nowhere to go, so they chain-smoked hand-rolled cigarettes made from dried krill leaves, mint, and tobacco. The smokes brought an oddly refreshing coolness that clung to the walls, much like an old public bathhouse, where beads of moisture seeped densely from the enameled tiles.

“Doctor Zhao!” The one calling him was an intern, fresh to the hospital. Whatever scene he’d walked into had clearly rattled him. “Can you hurry? That kid who came in for treatment is covered in blood. If you take two more steps at that pace, I swear his mom will tear the ER apart!”

“Coming, coming.” Still groggy from sleep, Zhao Meiyou’s mind was foggy. As he stood, he noticed one shoe missing from his foot and had to bend down to search for it. “Hey, Auntie, how’d you end up wearing my shoe again?”

He glanced at the woman at the head of the table. Half the nail polish had chipped off her left big toe, and she was wearing his bright red flip-flop.

“No big deal! The bathhouse slippers don’t match anyway!” The woman waved a meaty hand, nearly smacking him in the face with her “one bamboo” call. “Xi Shi, if there were two shoes, you’d just slip them on and go!” With that, she kicked a random high heel from under the table his way—another right shoe, naturally.

“Hey, Auntie, I’m missing the left one…” Zhao Meiyou didn’t finish before she cut him off. She was busy drawing a tile and dismissed him with a single sentence. “Get moving, kid. Come back and slice me two pounds of spiced pork for dinner—dumplings at my place!”

Zhao Meiyou scratched his head. “Alright then. Hope you draw that east wind soon.” He lifted the curtain and stepped out, only to hear the woman curse behind him. “Hey, you little punk, you peeked at my tiles!” A chopstick came flying.

“Dinner at your place tonight!” Zhao Meiyou ducked low and bolted, one foot in the high heel and the other in the flip-flop, taking uneven strides.

Zhao Meiyou was a doctor in the emergency department of the 33rd Layer Mental Hospital in the Metropolis. The 33rd Layer sat in the Lower District, and within a hundred layers radius, it was the only government-affiliated hospital with subsidies—making it a century-old staple that had never shuttered.

With medical resources scarce in the Lower District, the ER operated almost independently from the psych ward. Its doctors were like all-purpose Band-Aids: experts in everything from sprains to deliveries, doubling as security to chase down runaway patients, while moonlighting for extra cash. Take Zhao Meiyou: he worked temp shifts at the pork shop, handy with veterinary skills and unmatched knife work, offering pigs one-stop service from birth to burial.

Handsome and skilled with a cleaver, he earned the nicknames “Pig Meat Xi Shi” and “Sick Butcher.”

When Zhao Meiyou reached the ER, he caught the tail end of a ghostly wail. “My poor Cuihua, what a tragic end!” The drawn-out howl lingered eerily—it was the blood-soaked kid the intern had mentioned, clutching a treatment chair and refusing to let go, as if he’d just lost his wife or mother.

“Xi Shi, you’re finally here!” The doctor nearby looked utterly worn out. “Who’s this Cuihua? I’ve been trying to pry him off forever, and his mom just left, saying to leave him here till you showed up…”

“Cuihua’s the synth pig he raised for three months.” Zhao Meiyou lifted an eyebrow.

The doctor: “…?”

“Let go, kid.” Zhao Meiyou used a deft pinch on the boy’s tendon, yanking him free and holding him upright like a cat by the scruff. “Lemme see. This morning you bolted with that pig for ten miles. I lost a shoe chasing you down. Even that pair that eloped with the cash last time didn’t run as fast as you… Twisted ankle, huh?”

The kid stared at the man before him—face pale as paper, dark circles like saucers, one flip-flop and one high heel, pork shop apron over his white coat. He let out a wail and burst into tears again. “The pig-killing grudge will never be forgotten!”

The onlooker doctor: “…”

The cries were deafening, but Zhao Meiyou acted deaf. He probed the boy’s calf, pressed the bruises, and asked if it hurt. Then he nodded thoughtfully. “Alright, not a big issue. Tell your mom to stew some tonic soup for you these next few days.”

“…Tonic soup?” The boy’s sobs quieted. He blinked. “Any meat in it?”

Zhao Meiyou hummed. “Like cures like. We’ll use Cuihua to make it.”

The kid: “…”

“Go ahead, cry some more. With that leg, we can go straight to surgery.” Zhao Meiyou pulled a bone saw from the cabinet. Its steel blade screeched against the metal rail as he grinned. “See the blood still dripping on this? Just used it this morning to butcher your Cuihua.”

The kid’s budding wail cut off mid-breath, stuck in his throat. His face turned beet red, like a cat with its tail stepped on.

The other doctor couldn’t watch anymore. “Enough already. You don’t scare a kid like that… Come on, let Uncle wipe you up. Look at all that blood…” He led the boy out, returning moments later with a plastic-wrapped cucumber sandwich. “Checked him out— just a sprain. Rest a few days at home, good as new.”

Zhao Meiyou was fishing for his lighter, a cigarette dangling from his lips. “Diao Chan, you’re twenty-six. What ‘Uncle’ talk?”

“No smoking in the department!” Diao Chan’s voice pitched up an octave.

Zhao Meiyou chuckled. “Just one.”

“Not even one!”

Zhao Meiyou tucked the cigarette behind his ear.

Diao Chan sighed at him and started unwrapping the sandwich. Meals here were grab-and-go. “What’d you do this time? Kid’s covered in blood.”

“All pig blood.” Zhao Meiyou tsked. “Brought in a live hog this morning. Halfway through slaughter, that little monkey bursts in, grabs it, and bolts. Dude ran off with it like a heist—didn’t even get the whole thing. Tore off half a hind leg, spraying blood the whole way. Folks who didn’t know better thought I’d hexed him… The pig was his parents’ call to butcher. Kid didn’t dare buck them at home, so he comes storming the ER.”

“Alright, alright.” Diao Chan rubbed his temples at the vivid tale. “Storytelling show’s on tonight. Go itch your tongue there, don’t play the comedian here.”

“You’re the Upper District young master slumming it in our 33rd Layer. Gotta treat you right.” Zhao Meiyou grinned. “Story houses are a Lower District specialty. Especially the playhouses on the 33rd—those performers have the throat for it.”

“Zhao Meiyou, how many sunflower seeds you crack today? Mouth running overtime…” Diao Chan trailed off as another intern burst into the ER. “Doctor Zhao, quick! Patient 211 escaped again!”

Zhao Meiyou clapped Diao Chan on the shoulder and slipped out. “Coming. What’s 211’s script today?”

He flicked out a lighter between his fingers and lit up. From behind the door came a roar. “Zhao Meiyou, you swiped my lighter again! No smoking in the hospital!”

Before Zhao Meiyou could respond, a horde thundered down the distant corridor. Leading was a burly old man, enameled thermos raised high like a pagoda demon-queller, bellowing at Zhao Meiyou: “Hey! Dare answer if I call you?”

The orderlies trailed behind. “Grandpa De, cut it out!” “How about we go fight roaches instead?” “Look back—your granddaughter’s here to visit!”

Grandpa De ignored them, glaring daggers at Zhao Meiyou. Same line: “Hey! Dare answer if I call you?”

Diao Chan peeked out. “What’s this now?”

“Patient 211, Grandpa De. Our resident old trouper.” Zhao Meiyou pinched out his smoke. “Looks like today’s script is Silver Horn King.”

In moments, Grandpa De charged up, repeating: “Hey! Dare answer if I call you?” Zhao Meiyou recalled the plot and played along. “Why not? Call me.”

“You bet, grandson!”

“Yeah, Gramps?”

“Hah, monkey! Your day has come!” Grandpa De grinned fiercely and unscrewed the thermos cap. “Behold my Purple-Gold Gourd—off to the underworld you go!”

Zhao Meiyou swiftly grabbed an enameled basin and caught the stream at the spout.

Splash—a full basin of spicy soup.

“Try it.” Zhao Meiyou, with a second basin still filling, handed his to Diao Chan. “Grandpa De’s spicy soup is legendary. Tons of meat—perfect with your precious sandwich.”

The old man and the young doctor stood at the door, splitting the whole pot like middle schoolers sharing snacks. Zhao Meiyou passed the last basin to Grandpa De and recited his line: “Demon, where do you think you’re going? Take this from your old Sun!”

Grandpa De took it, downed it in one go, wiped his mouth, stroked his mustache, and belted an old tune: “Wah! Good soup! More tomorrow!”

Zhao Meiyou clinked basins with him. “More tomorrow. Take care.”

Grandpa De shot him a majestic glance, strolled off hands behind back, and sauntered back to his room.

“No need for you to hit the storytelling house.” Diao Chan gaped. “Plenty of drama right here.”

“Grandpa De was the Lead Actor at the Emerging Clouds Theater on the 460th Layer. Even in the Middle Layer District, he was top-tier for old male leads.” Zhao Meiyou said. “Now he performs daily for free. Call it staff perks.”

Diao Chan paused. Emerging Clouds was the Middle Layer’s finest playhouse—actors got pensions.

Zhao Meiyou seemed to read his mind and smiled. “Young master, still got a heart of gold.”

After routine rounds, Zhao Meiyou clocked out. Since Diao Chan arrived, he’d taken on more load, letting Zhao focus on pig-slaughtering for extra cash. Back at the shop, the mahjong aunties had packed up. He weighed out a hunk of hind leg, diced it fine for spiced pork, wrapped it in oiled paper, and hauled a jar of pickled veggies from the storeroom. Time to mooch a proper meal.

The dinner auntie lived on the 27th Layer. The suspender elevators usually meant long lines, stuck on the Metropolis’s ancient power grid—no upgrades for the Lower District. Blackouts even required manual cranks. Zhao Meiyou pondered: spiced pork wouldn’t keep. He borrowed an umbrella from the repair shop, popped it open, and leaped from the upper floors.

He landed on a windowsill. Under the green awning grew sunflowers—electronic breed. True sunlight was rare down here; real plants rarely survived. The window slid open. A little girl poked her head out, watching him quietly.

“Little Princess.” Zhao Meiyou recalled their old movie from days ago and bowed like a gentleman. “I haven’t kept you waiting?”

“Mom’s simmering soup.” The girl seemed pleased with his flourish and stepped aside. Zhao Meiyou hopped into the room—a defunct RV pod dangling mid-air. It shuddered with his landing.

“How’s your fish doing?” Zhao Meiyou first glanced at the brain tank on the table. “Ready to eat yet?”

The girl shot him a look. “I’m raising piranhas.”

“Electronic breed too?”

“So you can’t eat them. Stop dreaming about it.”

“Little Princess, you’re definitely going to grow up to be a queen.” Zhao Meiyou raised his hands in surrender and headed into the kitchen. “Auntie, I brought the minced pork sauce. I also grabbed some pickled cabbage—it’ll mix great with the filling…”

“You just needed to bring your appetite! What’s with the extras?” The woman didn’t stand on ceremony. She popped open the jar and fished out some pickled cabbage. “Ooh, this smells amazing—sour and crunchy. Real appetite-opener!”

Zhao Meiyou rolled up his sleeves in a hurry. “Let me give you a hand.”

Soon they had pickled cabbage and lard dumplings ready, with a dipping sauce of garlic paste, chopped bird’s-eye chilies, and dark vinegar. They set out four cold plates: pickled eggplant strips, celery hearts, red-oiled tofu shreds, and braised cucumbers. The dumpling broth got a boost of dried shrimp and seaweed, rounded off with a steamer of beef patties.

Stuffed to the gills, Zhao Meiyou propped himself against the sink as he washed the dishes, rubbing his full belly with a contented sigh. “Life is perfect.”

The woman’s voice drifted in from outside the door. “Xi Shi, you done in there? Us girls are hitting the cards tonight. Take your little sister out for a walk—don’t let her binge on junk food!”

“Got it, Auntie!” Zhao Meiyou called back. He shook the water droplets from his hands and stepped out of the kitchen, where the little girl waited. “Craving anything else? Your bro’ll take you to a show. Night market’s perfect for grabbing some skewers afterward.”

The little girl sized him up from head to toe. “I think you need some digestive aids.”

“A show’ll settle it. Or how about some stand-up? Last time there was this killer bit rattling off menu items—had me starving all over again right after dinner.”

The little girl pondered for a moment, then said abruptly, “Bro.”

“Yeah? What’s up?”

“Have you ever met your dad?”

“Why bring that up now?” Zhao Meiyou crouched down to meet her gaze. “Someone put that in your head?”

“That crazy street fortune-teller told me. Said you and I both have no dads.”

“I’ve got a dad—he’s just a deadbeat. Got my mom pregnant and disappeared. She made me take his last name so we could chase child support.” Zhao Meiyou waved it off emphatically. “Totally unrelated stuff. Don’t buy what that fortune-teller says. He’s an escaped patient from our hospital. Like we’d have any normal folks there?”

He tacked on, “Except your Diao Chan bro, of course.”

“So, have you met your dad?”

Zhao Meiyou thought it over. “Nope.”

The little girl stared at him intently for a moment, as if steeling herself for something. She climbed up the slide into the RV, then slid back down a moment later, clutching a box Zhao Meiyou had never seen before.

Zhao Meiyou watched her handiwork. “What’s that?”

“Listen to me, bro.” The little girl clambered onto his lap and sat down, fixing his eyes with a serious gaze. “We don’t actually have no dads. They just forgot to program them in for the system.”

“You’ve been diving into fantasy novels lately? The stuff from the 20th and 21st centuries—the last two hundred years—is the best. Hard to find electronic copies on the black market these days, though. I’ll recite one for you later…”

“Bro.” The little girl cut him off.

“I’m serious. This isn’t the real world. We’re in a massive simulation.”

With that, she held up the object right in front of Zhao Meiyou’s face.

He studied it for a moment, then realized he’d seen something like it in a black market auction catalog once. But that had been ancient—centuries out of production. No way it could look this pristine.

Zhao Meiyou mulled it over. “You had someone at the repair shop whip this up?”

“Mechanics aren’t my thing, bro.” The little girl shook her head. “I brought this from the real world.”

It was a brand-new CD player.

Sleek as liquid mercury on the surface, with the production year laser-etched on the back.

They lived in the 25th century now.

The date on the CD player read 1999.