Andrew Clark took a lunchbox, inside were leftover noodles from the morning, clumped together in solid lumps. He poured in some water and set it on the stove to heat.

This was a room of only ten square meters. Besides an iron stove, there was just enough space for a bed and a set of table and chairs.

He didn’t have much luggage, only a few old clothes piled on the bed. In the corner were dozens of crushed cans and a few glass bottles.

These were all good things that could fetch a decent price—enough to cover a month’s worth of cigarette money without worry.

Andrew Clark took off his leather jacket. Underneath was a gray sweater—though it might have originally been brown or orange. The quality was good; even though the thick yarn had worn thin, it was still wearable.

“Sigh!”

Andrew Clark lay down on the bed, stretching out his long legs, feeling a wave of relaxation wash over his whole body.

If there was one thing he was most satisfied with about this house, it was this big bed. At 1.83 meters tall, he didn’t eat well, but his body was strong—a small bed really couldn’t fit him.

A long electric wire hung down from the ceiling, suspending a dim yellow bulb, which was enough to light up the whole room.

He felt today had been quite strange—not because someone had asked him to be in a movie. He really didn’t think acting in a movie was a big deal, just saw it as earning a bit of extra cash.

What felt strange was his own choice.

In his previous life, he had never actively chosen to do anything. It was as if everything just happened naturally, and ended naturally.

Didn’t do well in school, so naturally couldn’t get into college, so he had to go home and take over his dad’s shoe repair shop. Practiced his craft well, so business naturally got better, bought a house, even saved some money. In his twenties, he naturally got married—a match introduced by relatives, average looks, but a great personality. They never dated, but lived together comfortably. Later they had a daughter, a family of three, couldn’t be happier.

Everything just went with the flow, without a single ripple.

But today, he had a feeling that by choosing to act in a movie, he was about to embark on a completely different path.

“Gurgle gurgle!”

The sound of boiling water came from the lunchbox.

Andrew Clark snapped back to reality. Not afraid of getting burned, he moved the lunchbox to the table with his bare hands, then took a bowl of salty, rich fried egg sauce, scooped a spoonful onto the noodles, and started slurping them down.

He was never picky about food—as long as he was full, it was fine. Besides, he actually found this sauce quite tasty.

Andrew Clark could cook, and was pretty good at it, but this sauce wasn’t made by him—it was a gift from someone else.

“Clang!”

The courtyard gate made a sound, followed by the rattling of a bicycle being pushed. Andrew Clark glanced at the broken clock hanging on the wall—half past eight.

It should be that girl coming back.

He had a neighbor named Yvonne Wright, a year younger than him, also living alone in Beijing. She worked at a textile factory far away, riding a beat-up bike to and from work every day.

She moved into this courtyard two years ago, with lots of luggage, struggling for a long time by herself. Andrew Clark saw she looked pitiful and lent a hand. That’s how they started interacting. Yvonne Wright was kind-hearted—couldn’t help much, but seeing him, a rough guy, living so miserably, she often brought him food, and helped mend his clothes when they tore.

After Andrew Clark was reborn, he kept in touch with her. The girl was truly nice—he treated her like his own little sister.

After finishing his meal, he boiled a kettle of water and scalded the lunchbox.

No matter the era, entertainment for the poor was always scarce. Andrew Clark had a full belly and nothing to do, so he was already getting ready to undress and go to bed.

At that moment, he heard a “pa pa pa” knocking at the door.

Andrew Clark saw the shadow outside and knew it was Yvonne Wright. He opened the door, and sure enough, the girl was standing outside.

“Andrew Clark ge.”

“What’s wrong?”

Yvonne Wright looked flustered and said, “Mr. Bolton just came to my place, didn’t say what for, just sat down and wouldn’t leave, making small talk. I couldn’t really ask him to go. What should I do?”

Mr. Bolton’s name was Brian Bolton, the landlord, living in the best room in the courtyard. Everyone else was his tenant. In his thirties, married, usually very timid, but always putting on airs in front of others.

Didn’t expect that not only was he a poser, but also a creep.

Late at night, a grown man goes into a young girl’s room and refuses to leave—what else could he be up to?

“I’ll go take a look,” said Andrew Clark.

“Ge, please talk to him nicely!” Yvonne Wright followed behind, worried—not that she was afraid he’d get beaten, but that he’d KO the landlord.

The girl was pretty and often came home late alone, so it was inevitable she’d run into a few scumbags. If Andrew Clark happened to be around, he’d deal with them in no time, which gave Yvonne Wright a very direct impression of his fighting skills.

“It’s fine.”

Andrew Clark reassured her, lifted the cotton curtain, and entered the room.

Yvonne Wright’s room was a bit bigger than his, with a small outer room and a bedroom inside.

The light was on. A fat man was sitting on the girl’s bed, picking his teeth.

“Oh! Mr. Bolton is here too! You’ve eaten, I see!”

As soon as Andrew Clark entered, he smelled alcohol. Brian Bolton lifted his flushed face, saw him, and greeted, “Little Clark, it’s so late, what brings you here?”

“Nothing much, just too full after eating, came to see if anyone’s even fuller than me.”

Andrew Clark didn’t bother to sit, just stood and said, “Your wife’s not home, is she?”