In the summer of 1999, I came to Dongguan from a mountain village in Hunan to find relatives, but was tricked by my cousin into working as a waiter in the "Golden Age" nightclub.
For the first time, I saw the world of luxury and luxury: Hong Kong businessmen used banknotes to light cigarettes, and Northeastern ladies stepped on high heels and drank foreign wine to guests.
The head waiter, Sister Hong, whose cheongsam was slit to the top of her thighs, looked at me and sneered: "Here, tears are cheaper than toilet water."
Until that night, I found half of a yellowed photo in the warehouse - the woman in the photo was exactly the same as the photo of my mother that I treasured.
On the back of the photo, Sister Hong's real name was clearly written.
On a rainy night, I held the photo and knocked open the door of Sister Hong's office, only to see her pointing a gun at my cousin's head.
"Baby," she blew out smoke rings and suddenly turned her gun towards me, "do you know why the neon lights in Dongguan never shine to the end?"
