In 2003, my sister's surgery cost 150,000 yuan, and I had 372 yuan and 50 cents in my pocket.
That day, after I cut open the last cod, with fish scales embedded in my fingernails that couldn't be washed off, I walked into the fog at the dock. No one told me that the tide rises and falls, but some people sink and never come up.
I calculated: It costs 800 to move a box of "seafood". Thirty boxes can save her life. I have also calculated: Scar Liu's whip was fifteen times, Mad Dog's chain was twenty pounds, and Zhang Zhen's blood floated on the sea for forty-seven minutes.
Later they called me Brother Haisheng. They say that I am cruel and tolerant, and that I can keep the gang's account book clearer than the old accountant. Only I know that from the moment I pushed open the iron door, I had no intention of getting ashore alive.
This is not a rebirth cool article. This is the story of a fishmonger who used a tide table and a switchblade to carve a way out of the blood rust of 2003.
[Underworld of the era·Sophisticated tactics·Counterattack from the bottom·No system]
