I'm Running a Takeaway in Dubai

My name is Wu Zhengnan, a steel bar worker from Dezhou, Shandong. A pair of hands can bend eighteen millimeters of steel bars with bare hands, but they cannot bend their own lives. There was an accident at the construction site, the boss was jailed, and he only had 1,600 dirhams in his pocket. Desperate, I put on work clothes and rode a motorcycle, becoming the lowest-level food delivery rider in Dubai. I thought that delivering food would be a matter of wind and rain, and at most I would be made difficult by customers. But the rich man on the Palm Island threw the barbecue on the ground and asked me to go through the back door. In the dark alley, the Indian gangster pinched the Vietnamese girl's neck and pressed it against the wall. My brother sent "spice" to the ICU and she was lying in the ICU with tubes inserted all over her body. I bent a steel pipe to force the gangsters away, signed a police secret informant agreement, wore a delivery suit and a camera, and rode into the field of life and death. Drug dealers, gangsters, transnational crime syndicates—these things I had only seen in the news back home in Shandong, I encountered all of them on the streets of Dubai. I turned around to save my partner in a sandstorm, I smashed three off-road vehicles with two boxes of beef cans on the desert road, and the father of the drug lord stuffed old bullet casings and old pocket watches into my hands, saying that I was exactly the same as the Chinese who died beside him twenty years ago. From the takeaway rider who was blocked in the corridor by the speedsters and blackmailed, to the "nail" who was invited to the Palm Island for coffee by Dubai's largest drug lord; from the reckless man who just wanted to make money and go home, to the cooperating witness who was written on the thank you list by the police. A Malaysian woman hung a family heirloom jade buckle around my neck, and deep in the alley there was a Vietnamese girl who would heat up a bowl of pho every night and wait for me to go back. Dubai does not believe in tears, but Dubai believes in fists. I am a steel bar worker who has been running food delivery in the desert for two years. With these hands that broke through the steel bars, I bent the track of fate...