Chapter 39: Playing House Part 1

He had fallen asleep in the meat shop, with several aunties nearby enthusiastically shuffling mahjong tiles.

Zhao Meiyou stretched lazily, eyeing the kid who had dashed in all flustered. “No need to panic—watch your step, or you’ll trip.” He ruffled the boy’s head. “What’s up? Another fight breaking out somewhere?”

“It’s people from Jade Face Hall and the Wedlan Family,” the kid replied, naming two notorious organizations in the Lower District. “Lantern Street is drenched in blood—it’s practically flooding the clinic door. You heading back?”

“Of course I am. Turning down easy money makes you a damn fool. The medical fees will be just enough to get us a new blood analyzer for the clinic.” Zhao Meiyou stood up and called out to the mahjong-playing aunties. “Auntie, I’m heading out. Swing by the house for dinner tonight if you’re free.”

“Got it!” one of the women waved him off as she shuffled the tiles. “Stay safe. Come back when you can and help mind the shop!”

Zhao Meiyou took the kid back to Lantern Street. He was clopping along in wooden clogs when he stepped right into a puddle of blood before even reaching the door, splattering his pant leg. “These were brand-new pants, freshly tailored.” He eyed the people standing in front of the clinic, his tone lazy and tinged with amusement. “So, gentlemen, how do we settle this?”

Two men stood before the clinic door: one with a knife, the other with a gun. Both were poised for a fight.

“The medical fee’s no issue,” said the young man with the knife, who wore a fox-face mask. His voice was tight with tension. “Please, sir, you must save him.”

“Jade Face Hall doesn’t hold back,” Zhao Meiyou nodded, then turned to the green-eyed man in black beside him. “And what’s the Wedlan Family’s stance?”

“Please save him, Doctor Zhao,” the black-clad man said politely. Seeing Zhao Meiyou engage, he holstered his gun. “We both have wounded here. You treat whoever needs it—we won’t fight inside the clinic.”

The masked youth watched him holster the gun and relaxed his grip on his knife hilt. “We’re in your hands, sir.”

“No problem,” Zhao Meiyou said with a grin. “Don’t worry—this dump of mine only cares about the cash. Even the Grim Reaper has to shut up if the price is right.”

A white paper screen partitioned the clinic interior, serving as a dividing line between the two factions. Both sides crammed in their wounded. The nurse spotted him returning and hurried over. “Doctor Zhao.”

Zhao Meiyou slipped on a mask and sterile gloves. “How’s it looking?”

“We’ve handled the minor injuries. Some have bone damage—they’re next door getting X-rays.” The nurse was a clinic veteran, well-versed in patching up gang brawls. She’d arranged everything efficiently. She gave a quick rundown, then lowered her voice. “One’s in critical condition. You’ll need to see him yourself.”

“Where is he?”

“In the operating room.” She followed him inside. On the bed lay a man hooked up to a transfusion. Zhao Meiyou took one look and whistled. “Injured like that? What, did you go blow up a bunker?”

With no one else around, the nurse leaned in and whispered, “Word is, Jade Face Hall and the Wedlans started this fight over him. He’s supposedly a Jade Face Hall spy embedded in the Wedlan Family. He got his hands on something big, and they went to hell and back to protect him.”

Zhao Meiyou was scanning the patient’s vitals and grunted. “And then?”

“Both sides made offers,” the nurse said, her eyes lighting up with gossip. She whispered, “One wants him alive. The other wants him dead.”

Zhao Meiyou chuckled. “This is a clinic, not a betting house. You trying to place wagers here?”

“What do you think?”

“Same old rule: whoever pays more.”

The nurse pulled two large suitcases from under the bed, kicked them open, and bills spilled out. “No time to count, but the Wedlans seem to have put up more.”

“Then what are we waiting for? Book the full funeral package next door—cremation included.” Zhao Meiyou began disinfecting as he spoke. “I’ll give him just enough to last till they cart him off… Hold on.”

The nurse was already heading out but stopped at his changed tone. “What?”

Zhao Meiyou had just removed the patient’s oxygen mask. The blood on his forehead had crusted over like white jade.

Zhao Meiyou paused for a moment, then said, “I’ve changed my mind.”

The nurse blinked. “What?”

“Return the Wedlans’ money.” Zhao Meiyou replaced the mask, declaring righteously, “Tell them a healer’s heart is merciful. We don’t do business that murders for profit.”

The nurse knew his tricks all too well. She rolled her eyes dramatically and walked out.

It was deep into the night. The clinic’s smart housekeeper chimed the hour. The hallway overflowed with wounded, the air thick with lingering gunpowder, blood, antiseptic, and assorted tobacco scents. One Wedlan wounded was gesturing wildly. The nurse, who only spoke Mandarin, summoned the smart housekeeper for translation. Its display showed an archaic Dutch dialect: he had a drug allergy history, and the clinic’s injection was giving him a headache.

The nurse explained it was plain glucose, but his checkup showed mild encephalitis—likely from Brainwave Instrument addiction. Cut back on that LinkDreams app.

Impossible, the wounded man glared. I get annual physicals at the hospital. Can’t have encephalitis.

The hospital you went to must be the 33rd Layer Mental Hospital, the nurse pointed out calmly. Their gear’s so outdated, only the mercury thermometers work right. They’d tell you a gut tumor means you’re pregnant.

The 33rd Layer Mental Hospital was one of the few public options in the Lower District. Citizens’ healthcare benefits were redeemable only there. Anyone with connections went to the 330th Layer for private docs; worse cases headed to the 20th.

The 20th Layer bordered the Metropolis’s absolute underbelly, but boasted two exceptional spots: the Joyful Red Courtyard brothel and Zhao Meiyou’s clinic.

Zhao Meiyou, a Metropolis Lower District native, ran a notorious black-market clinic on the 20th Layer—sky-high prices. But his patients were rarely saints. Rumor had it he’d been raised by the Joyful Red Courtyard, honing slick networking skills. Amid the Lower District’s chaotic factions, his clinic maintained a delicate balance. Everyone knew: no fighting in Mr. Zhao’s place. Some even came specifically to hide out.

Zhao Meiyou welcomed all comers—cash upfront.

Jade Face Hall and Wedlan Family members lingered through the night, departing at dawn. Fox Face stayed till the end, until the operating room door swung open. “Hey, Fox Face, you still here?”

“Mr. Zhao.” Fox Face bowed to him. “The Hall Master asked me to relay: the man’s in your hands.”

“No problem.” Zhao Meiyou, sporting dark circles, still grinned lazily. He fished out a pipe from behind the counter, lit it, and took a slow drag. “Business is about trust. You’ve got my word.”

“The Hall Master also said, if Mr. Zhao needs anything…”

“You all know the rules here—no outsiders.” Zhao Meiyou cut him off, his gaze roaming boldly yet sharply. “But Mr. Baoyu next door at the Joyful Red Courtyard is hiring. Fancy going pro?”

Fox Face stiffened. Even masked, his sour expression was obvious.

“Alright, let’s meet halfway—spare a man when you can.” Zhao Meiyou grinned. “Grab me some breakfast. Then tell your Hall Master thanks, but we’re fully staffed.”

He tapped his pipe. “Though more money’s always welcome.”

When the man on the bed finally stirred awake, the rich aroma of spicy soup hit him first.

Zhao Meiyou sat bedside, bowl in hand, paired with brown-sugar pancakes, tiger-skin eggs, and a stack of fried meat pies. “Hey, you’re up.”

The man tried to sit but was pressed down. “Your wounds are too severe. I just patched them with microporous dressings. Don’t move if you want to live.”

The man on the pillow froze, then asked after a moment, “You saved me?”

“Jade Face Hall Master paid top dollar for your life. Had to do my best.” Zhao Meiyou crunched through a pie, straightforward as ever. “You’ll need about two weeks to recover. I cleared it with your Hall Master—you’ll stay here. The clinic’s safe.”

The man fell silent. The room filled only with Zhao Meiyou’s eating sounds.

After breakfast, Zhao Meiyou wiped his mouth and stood. “I’m around all day. Your voice print’s in the system—call the smart housekeeper if you need me.”

As he reached the door, a quiet voice came from the bed. “…Thanks.”

“No sweat. Healer’s heart and all.” Zhao Meiyou leaned on the frame, smiling. “You know who I am. Zhao Meiyou. What’s your name?”

The man thought it over. “Qian.”

Zhao Meiyou knew their type hid identities, so he didn’t press. “Alright, Brother Qian it is.”

Business was slow that day—last night’s bloodbath had cleared the streets. Zhao Meiyou tallied the cash from both sides in his office, feeling invigorated. “Time to head home for some fun.”

Raised in the Joyful Red Courtyard, “home” meant the brothel next door. The nurse skipped the outing, letting him go alone. He packed a case of gynecological meds and items some ladies had requested via back channels. Street cleaners were mopping up the battlefield, marked with Jade Face Hall and Wedlan insignias. Dog Meat Shop folks trailed in a truck, likely corpse-collecting.

Zhao Meiyou skipped the brothel’s front gate, hopping the back wall into the yard. A woman in a qipao was simmering soup and jumped at his arrival. “You trying to get yourself killed?”

“Just checking in.” Zhao Meiyou took her swat on the back without dodging, grinning. “Smells great. What’s the soup?”

“You sure know how to time it.” She spat. “Fresh herbs from the apothecary this morning. Yesterday, a Middle Layer District guest brought a whole fresh pork leg—raised a full year on a farm… Hey, what are you doing? I didn’t say you could have any!”

“It’s real pork, alright.” Zhao Meiyou, pals with the meat shop boss, knew synth meat’s taste well. “But why’s a Middle Layer guest coming here?”

“You tell me. Don’t you know what’s lying in your clinic?” She ladled him a bowl. “We’ve had all sorts of shady customers lately. Stay sharp.”

Zhao Meiyou sipped and hummed. “Sis, I’ve saved plenty. Enough for a Middle Layer apartment. Why not move up?”

“Easy for me.” She eyed him. “What about everyone in this house?”

Zhao Meiyou muttered, “That’s the Metropolis Government’s job, not yours to worry about.”

“Say that again?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Zhao Meiyou immediately backpedaled. “Man, this soup is delicious. Oh yeah, Sis, that chicken soup you made for that girl in your courtyard before—how’d you do it? Teach me?”

“What do you want to learn that for?” The woman eyed him suspiciously. “Who’ve you set your sights on this time, you disaster?”

“How can you call her a disaster?” Zhao Meiyou protested. “It’s all consensual.”

“Did you scam her out of less money, or get beat up less often?” The woman glared at him. “Zhao Meiyou, I’m warning you—run your clinic properly and don’t poach business from our courtyard. Got it?”

Zhao Meiyou had been picked up by the courtyard as a child and raised there. He’d soaked up every trick in the book from the world of pleasure houses, growing into either a great healer and lover of the world or a seductive fox spirit straight out of a den of vice, depending on who you asked. Rumors swirled that he had something going with the bosses of every major hall. His sister knew the real story—it wasn’t quite as scandalous as the gossip made it sound—but Zhao Meiyou still played by the rules of the pleasure trade: live for today, seize the moment.

She wasn’t sure if he was serious this time or if he’d just taken the wrong meds again, but either way, she wasn’t letting it go. “Who is this soup for?”

“Ahem.” Zhao Meiyou dodged the question. “Uh, just someone at my clinic. One of the patients Jade Face Hall dropped off last night.”

The woman slammed the table in fury. “Zhao Meiyou!”

Zhao Meiyou nearly ducked under the table.

“Be a man of virtue! Be a doctor with ethics! Be a decent human being! How dare you stoop to something so shameless? Are you trying to get yourself killed?”

“It’s not that serious,” Zhao Meiyou hurriedly defended himself. “I can cure him.”

The woman kicked off her shoe and chased him down, sending everything into chaos amid squawking chickens and barking dogs. It wasn’t until late that night that Zhao Meiyou finally made it back to his clinic. He asked the nurse, “Has he eaten?”

The nurse knew he wasn’t talking about her. “The patient’s appetite isn’t great. We gave him two bags of nutrients.”

“Just nutrients won’t cut it. I stuffed so much quick-fusion agent into his wounds yesterday—it’s all breaking down into proteins. He needs real food to replenish.” Zhao Meiyou thought for a moment. “Alright, I’ll head out.”

“Where to now?” the nurse asked. “The patient was asking about you earlier today. You gonna let it cool off?”

“No rush. Good soup needs a slow simmer.” Zhao Meiyou grinned at the thought. “I’ll be right back.”

Zhao Meiyou made a quick trip to the Pork Shop on the thirty-third floor. He borrowed their stove and simmered up a pot of very thin meat porridge, cooking the meat until it fell apart. He packed it into a thermos flask and brought it back. “Brother Qian?” He knocked on the patient’s room door. “You asleep?”

There was a rustling sound from inside. “Come in.”