Molten Iron

The iron of Tiexi District, the iron of iron rice bowl, the iron of iron heart. Iron has turned into water. If you throw it out, you cannot get it back. Zhao Zhenye squatted in front of the seal, his pockets cleaner than his face. The small factory-run processing plant he contracted collapsed, and he was in debt. The only thing he could count on was the ten scrapped machine tools in his hand - refurbished and sold, each one would earn 40,000 or 400,000, which was enough for him to pay off the debt, enough for him to stand up, and enough for him to stand upright in front of those who looked down on him in the factory. But he was short of 80,000 yuan in start-up capital. In the safe in the Finance Department, there is life-saving money collected by the whole factory for the daughter of the old Zhao family. Eighty-three thousand. He moved. "Just borrow it. Three months. Once you renovate it and sell it, you'll pay it back. No one knows." He did not expect that three months later, the southern market was saturated, none of the ten machine tools had been sold, and the 400,000 yuan turned into a hole of 400,000 yuan. What was even more unexpected was that the first person to discover that he had used the money was Sun Shouzheng, whom he had grown up with - the old classmate who believed in death and technology and punched him in the face. "Zhao Zhenye, how much is your father's reputation worth?" The factory is going to be restructured. Workers need to eat. Some people want to buy the entire workshop at a low price, some want to keep their iron rice bowl, and some want to get a handful of this muddy water. Lin Xuemei, a businesswoman from the south, handed over a rope - do it with her, and the 80,000 yuan you owe her will be considered as a deposit. Zhao Zhenye stood in the snow, unable to see the end of each road in three directions.