Brian Carter had been independent and self-reliant since childhood. Whatever he set his mind on—regardless of right or wrong, or whether his parents agreed—he had to give it a try. If he ended up battered and bruised, it just meant he wasn’t capable enough; if he didn’t try, how would he ever know if he had what it took? Moreover, Brian Carter firmly believed he needed to become independent as soon as possible. As long as he still had to ask his parents for money, he felt he couldn’t even talk about having a real life. If you take from others, you lose your voice—even if it’s your parents, it’s still someone else’s. Once there’s a disagreement, you can’t speak with confidence, and “being the master of your own life” is just an empty phrase.

He made decisions quickly. In the first semester of his freshman year, he found something he really liked: working as a sound engineer and recording engineer. Nowadays, this might not seem all that special, but in the early 1990s, ninety-nine percent of people had never even heard of it, let alone understood what the job entailed. Brian Carter first encountered this line of work at his father’s school—not in a lab or classroom, but in the apartment building where the foreign teachers lived.

At that time, to accommodate the needs of foreign teachers, universities usually provided them with a relatively independent living area, separate from the teaching area and the Chinese teachers’ dormitories. These foreigners had a wide range of interests. Even though some things couldn’t be done in China at the time, they still brought in as many new gadgets from abroad as they could. At work, they looked proper and serious, but as soon as they returned to their dorms, their true colors showed—they could be as unruly as you could imagine, and they played with all sorts of things.

The term “sound engineer” was something Brian Carter heard for the first time here, when he was only a sophomore in high school. As for how he managed to get into the independently managed foreign teachers’ residence—there’s no need to even ask! As a local kid, and a mischievous hutong rascal since childhood, sneaking into Zhongnanhai would be bragging, but getting into the foreign teachers’ area at a school was a piece of cake. The two old gatekeepers at the entrance just watched Brian Carter walk right past them—not only did they not stop him, they even nodded and greeted him.

The method was very simple: Brian Carter just had to put on a set of foreign-brand sportswear, then find any foreign teacher exercising on campus, jog along with him, and use his middle-school-level English to explain whose son he was. That was basically all it took.

The foreign teachers didn’t care what he was up to. As soon as they heard he was a teacher’s kid, their guard was down. If they happened to know his father, they’d even chat for a while in a mix of broken English and equally broken Chinese. Before you knew it, they’d jog together into the foreign teachers’ residence. The gatekeepers didn’t dare stop the foreign teachers, so they certainly wouldn’t stop Brian Carter jogging alongside them—they’d just assume Brian Carter was a family member or guest. The phrase “borrowing the tiger’s might” isn’t just something you need to learn and understand; you have to be able to use it skillfully in real life for it to count.

The first time Brian Carter entered the foreign teachers’ residence, he didn’t have any particular plan, nor was he eyeing anyone’s belongings. Sure, he’d been mischievous since he was little, and his teenage rebellion was off the charts, but he absolutely never stole. He believed in the principle of “if you won’t give it, I’ll just take it”—stealing was too technical and complicated, and he couldn’t be bothered. This time, he snuck into the foreign teachers’ residence purely out of curiosity. At that time, foreigners were still rare in China; even seeing one on the street would make you look twice, let alone a whole group from all over the world living together. Brian Carter just wanted to see how these foreigners lived day to day, so he could go back to his own school and brag to his classmates. If he could score a few packs of imported cigarettes, that would be even better.

He didn’t get any imported cigarettes, since on his first scouting trip he didn’t know anyone, and no matter how laid-back the foreign teachers were, they wouldn’t just hand out cigarettes to a young guy. But the trip wasn’t wasted. As soon as he slipped into the second apartment building, he saw a few foreigners in the lobby on the first floor, gathered around a pile of machines. After watching for a while, Brian Carter figured out roughly what the machines were for—they could process music in all sorts of ways, and even make voices sound more expressive.

Brian Carter didn’t have much musical talent, nor was he a music enthusiast, but in the early 1990s, what middle schooler didn’t listen to music? Not listening to music meant you were out of touch, not trendy—just like not knowing how to use the internet today. You’d have nothing to talk about with your classmates.

Beyond the music, what fascinated Brian Carter most were the machines themselves. He’d always been interested in things like radios and electronics, and had even learned from his father’s colleagues how to assemble radios and TVs. He wasn’t exactly a pro, but he could manage. Now, faced with a pile of unfamiliar electronic equipment, he was rooted to the spot.

Just listening and watching wasn’t enough to satisfy his curiosity. If he didn’t understand something, he had to ask! If they wouldn’t tell him, he’d find a way—that was Brian Carter’s motto. As long as it was something he liked, he’d put aside his pride and do whatever it took. At this moment, his already thick skin grew even thicker.