Should rusty knives be thrown into the scrap heap?
Fifteen-year-old Zhang Xu clenched his schoolbag and sneered. The glass curtain wall reflected the old scars hidden in the cuffs of his school uniform. The boy who was in the first grade of junior high school and was forced to eat dirt at the alley three years ago is now dragging his rusty soul into the neon-dazzling skyscrapers.
The prison letter from my brother Zhang Xunian felt hot in his trouser pocket, and the writing penetrated the paper: People like us are like knives that have lost their coating. But what Zhang Xu remembers more clearly is how clear the sound of the collision between metal and bone was when the gangster's steel pipe smashed his brother's knee.
The hands of the clock tower of the new school cut the gray sky, and the top students in the vocational high school would not pay attention to the gloom in the eyes of this new student. While they were discussing Mathematical Olympiad questions, Zhang Xu was measuring the distance from the fire ax to the principal's office with his eyes. The bright rules of the big city were just layers of chrome, and he had already seen through the squirming maggots underneath.
This novel and its characters are purely fictitious. Any similarity is purely coincidental and should not be imitated.
