This article is dedicated to every brother and sister who, even amid the pandemic, continues to fight and struggle against fate.
As someone who has always been deeply in love with the vibrancy of city life, I bought my current property for one reason: the moment I saw that expansive semi-open terrace, I knew it was mine.
Standing out there as night falls.
All around you: brilliance and luxury — a living canvas of metropolitan splendor, dazzling and intoxicating.
But because every unit’s terrace is generously sized, the gap between neighboring balconies is less than three meters, leaving privacy just slightly wanting.
Or perhaps the residents here share my same affection for this view — because after eight or nine in the evening, you can often hear fragments of voice messages and phone calls drifting across from the neighboring terraces.
After all, with Lujiazui’s modern skyline on one side and the classic Bund on the other, even the heaviest work stress dissolves into this scenery, and a person’s ambitions can’t help but stir and rise.
Sometimes I treat these sounds as the soft whispers of the city itself — a kind of pleasant counterpoint to the view.
And it is from these whispers that today’s story begins.
The first portrait in this collection of human faces belongs to a neighbor — a brother a few years older than me.
Honestly, we’re not that close. Beyond occasionally spotting each other on our balconies late at night, our only real encounters have been chance meetings in the underground parking garage.
It was a year and a half ago. He’d just taken delivery of a custom two-door Bentley. I’d just parked, watched him step out, and couldn’t resist teasing him: “Boss, that’s one beautiful car!”
He gave me back a brilliant smile and a playful wink.
After that, when we crossed paths on the balcony, neither of us would awkwardly avoid the other just because one of us was on a call. Men are simple creatures.
But just two days ago, this brother — the one I’d always known for that radiant smile — had a furrowed brow.
I knew the mood. I whistled and tossed him one of my short Cohiba Torpedos. “What’s up? Things not going well?”
“If things keep going like this, both my positions are going to blow up. It’s maddening.”
“Any chance of a reversal? A comeback?”
“There’s a chance, but it’s slim. You know what the broader market’s like — and now with the pandemic, if it dips just a little further, not even the gods can save it. And honestly, I’m not even worried about that anymore. I’m worried about the house and my family.”
“I see. Look, we don’t know each other that well, but if you need to bridge some short-term cash — nothing too big — just say the word.”
“You’re a good friend, man. But borrowing to survive an emergency is one thing — borrowing money I’ll never be able to pay back is another. I won’t do that to you. But I appreciate it. Genuinely.”
“That awkward, huh?”
“Yeah. Twelve thousand a month just in mortgage payments. Add car loans and living expenses, and it’s probably twenty-something thousand a month. My wife hasn’t worked in years — I’ve been carrying all of it. But if this goes sideways now, I honestly don’t know how to explain it to the family.”
Then, as if remembering something, he told me in a tone that was half self-deprecating, half casual:
“But honestly, I’m still in better shape than some. Worst case, I start over. Just carry some debt.
I have a classmate from my year — now that’s a real tragedy. He was doing well in finance, then moved into restaurants and entertainment. Things were booming for a while — he raised a big round, built up three restaurant brands, forty-something locations, seven-hundred-plus employees. Now he’s bleeding cash every single day. Everything he’d saved over the past few years was gone in three months. He’s been frantically borrowing from everyone he knows. The man is barely coherent.”
I understood completely what he was describing.
When you run a business or manage investments at a certain scale, you have no choice but to face the cold reality of fixed costs. Some big bosses look like they’re sitting on empires — but the moment they open the doors, they’re responsible for feeding hundreds of people. And in times like these, you can’t make layoffs during a pandemic. Do that, and you’ll be publicly crucified.
Glory when the glory comes. Ruin when it comes — and there’s no time to catch yourself.
I didn’t offer any comfort. We’re both adults who’ve weathered storms. No words needed. Just two men standing on their respective heights in life, sharing a helpless smile.
Look around at the people I know — even just the residents in this complex. Aren’t most of them the best in their respective fields? They seem like they’ve already made it. But how many of them can truly withstand the waves without being thrown back to where they started?
If even this group finds it this difficult, what about everyone else?
In this pandemic, all of humanity stands equal. No one is exempt.
You, me, them — everyone is carrying their own enormous weight.
The second portrait belongs to a celebrity in our complex — also a single mother.
Since I moved in after she did, I didn’t witness those days when she was triumphantly renovating after buying the crown unit, radiating that imperious energy. But according to neighbors who knew her better, it was genuinely overbearing.
To earn that description from the residents of this building — especially from my neighbors — this celebrity mother must have been, as they say, quite something.
Celebrities in their prime earn fast, especially in those years before the industry crackdowns. They may not rank among the truly wealthy elite, but their income could easily match the top earners in any profession.
It was said that when she first moved in, a big brother who couldn’t appear in newspapers or on camera was seen walking in and out of her place, cap pulled low, arm in arm with her.
It was said that when she renovated, the construction crew inflated materials and labor costs threefold — and she signed the contract without batting an eye.
It was said that her young daughter had inherited not only her mother’s beauty, but the arrogance and imperious bearing of her powerful father.
It was said that even her housekeeper was the most haughty figure in the building’s domestic staff circle — always descending in custom luxury pieces that the lady of the house had worn once or twice before discarding, however questionable the styling.
But all of these stories began to go quiet two years ago.
Some said she had moved out. Some said she had become the formal wife of the big brother. Others said she was still here, just rarely seen.
And then darker rumors began to spread. Some said she had been spending recklessly, that the big brother had found someone new, and that life had grown increasingly difficult. Others said her wealth had been defrauded away — no more roles, no more endorsements — and that her daughter’s private school fees had fallen into arrears. Even the housekeeper had disappeared from view; without a glamorous mistress to provide talking points, she simply stayed inside and did the housework.
You know how it is with gossip — you can’t believe all of it. Three men make a tiger.
But you also know: where there’s smoke, there’s often fire.
Then one day, my doorbell rang. A woman stood there, mask on, sunglasses in place, and came straight to the point: “Excuse me — is this Master Chi’s residence?”
The celebrity had come to my door.
She was remarkably direct. She sat down and stated her purpose immediately: “Master, I’ve heard your name mentioned many times by a few close friends in the industry. I’ve come specifically to ask your guidance about my future fortune (yunshi) and path forward.”
And with that, a thick stack of red envelopes — tightly packed, neatly organized.
A person’s destiny is shaped not only by their own efforts, but by the currents of the era they inhabit.
The currents of the era naturally include predictable developments — and unpredictable disasters.
Sometimes the era’s current carries far more weight than any individual’s personal striving.
Even the most blazing celebrity is no exception.
And all of her misfortunes over these past two years were not isolated, unrelated incidents.
Hengdian and the major film studios — shut down for production because of the pandemic.
The free flow of celebrity income — no longer tolerated or permitted because of the pandemic.
Live-stream commerce — regulated and taxed because of the pandemic.
Behind every overturned chapter of her life, there was an invisible undercurrent running through it all.
At its core, it all came back to the same thing: the need to stabilize public sentiment, to soothe the masses. No one could be seen living lavishly while everyone else was making sacrifices together.
So celebrity excess became a liability. Virtue mismatched to status became an original sin.
When I was writing this section, I actually sent her a message: “XXX, is it alright if I include this?”
She replied with a smile: “I’ve already let it all unfold. If you need to write it, go ahead — I’m actually curious to see myself through an objective third party’s eyes.”
Of course, part of why she allowed me to mention her — even unafraid of being recognized — is that she herself has gradually moved from the spotlight to behind the scenes, from a piece on the board to the hand that moves the pieces.
Some of that shift was forced by a larger environment that required her to bow her head. But much of it was simply the shared reality of the pandemic — the countless ways it has compelled people to change how they live, whether they wanted to or not.
The third portrait belongs to Xiao Zhang — the man who had been delivering fresh vegetables to our complex for years.
Xiao Zhang was one of many produce vendors operating around our building. Among a neighborhood full of competitors with their angles and schemes, he was the only one you could genuinely call honest.
For most residents in our area, grocery shopping is delegated to their housekeepers. So prices typically pass through a markup layer — the housekeeper and the vendor sharing the arrangement. If the market price for vegetables was five yuan a jin, the vendors nearby had long since inflated it to around ten, deliberately pricing things with odd numbers to look more legitimate.
Xiao Zhang didn’t do any of that. He simply marked up from his cost price by what he felt was his fair margin, nothing more. His prices were still higher than the wet market, but at least they were transparent.
His customers were a smaller group — mostly households in the area with elderly family members, who tended to comparison-shop. Over time, through accumulated trust, his business grew steadily.
For my part — partly because of the nature of my work and partly because, like many Shanghai men, I genuinely enjoy doing my own grocery runs — I became a regular. Every visit, he’d throw in a bunch of scallions, or a few tomatoes and cucumbers on the side. Eventually we became familiar faces to each other.
He’d even step up when I was too busy to go out: I’d send him a WeChat message, and he’d put together everything I needed — vegetables, fruit, fish, meat — and bring it all to my door.
Once, chatting in his shop, he told me that while business had its share of local competitors badmouthing him, he worked hard and earned decently. With occasional help from his wife, the two of them could bring in enough to maintain a comfortable small life.
Then two days ago, I received a voice message from him:
“Brother! They’re about to lock down your area. You need anything? Tell me now — once I make this delivery, I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
I assumed at the time he meant he’d return after the pandemic passed.
But when I got to the building entrance and received bag after bag from him, something felt off. He’d brought far too much. I asked him what was going on.
He was breathing hard from hauling everything, but still smiling as he told me: “Brother, this time when I go back, I might not come back at all. Because once this lockdown starts, nobody knows how long it’ll last, or whether it’ll keep stopping and starting in between. One month of closure wipes out a whole year of work. And rent has been going up lately. Ha.”
I said: “You could charge more for your vegetables right now. With the current situation, a price increase would be totally reasonable.”
He smiled again: “Brother, you don’t know the half of it. Everyone thinks we vegetable sellers are making a killing right now. But you know what? My procurement costs have gone up too. When all is said and done, I’m still only making that same one mao (about 10%) on everything. It’s just how it is.
And even if I got greedy and made two or three mao, I’m still selling vegetables. I’m not running one of your big operations. The total volume is what it is — and that total volume doesn’t come close to covering the losses from being shut down.
Right now I can hold on a few days with this last push. But after a week, I’d just be burning through savings. Can’t afford to do that.
So I’ve thought it through. This time I’ll go back to my hometown with my wife, find some work there. Life goes on. If we’re fated to meet again — that would be wonderful.
This little extra produce — just take it as your little brother looking out for you. In case the lockdown runs even longer.”
Throughout our entire conversation, Xiao Zhang spoke with a smile in his voice. But in his eyes, in the way he carried himself, I could feel his attachment to that little shop of his — “Zhang’s Fresh Produce.”
Yet when the tide of history rises, no amount of attachment is stronger than circumstances you cannot withstand.
I remember years ago, chatting lightly, he’d laughed and said he wanted to become the Vegetable King of Shanghai through that little shop — and eventually become my neighbor. I’d happily encouraged him and offered a few small Feng Shui suggestions.
Who could have imagined that, years later, one pandemic would reduce everything to zero.
Writing this, I realize I’ve rambled on at length, and in the rambling, my intended points have drifted and scattered. Many of the things I meant to say have slipped away unwritten. I truly apologize to you for reading through all of this.
But if I had to force myself to distill a conclusion from today’s piece, I think I’d say it this way:
In this pandemic, every person will be affected — to some degree or another. Whether you’re in Shanghai, Shenzhen, or anywhere else, it will ultimately change your life in ways seen and unseen, in ways both subtle and profound.
For some, the losses will be shrugged off with a smile. For others, this may reduce them to nothing.
But no matter what — Master Chi doesn’t want you to give up hope on the future. The pandemic will pass. And those of us fortunate enough to be alive in this era of peace and development will still have more, and better, opportunities waiting for us ahead.
If you’ve been hurt to the bone by it, Master Chi is willing to slowly help you rebuild your strength through these writings, until you are whole again.
Only one thing: don’t give up hope. And don’t let yourself sink into despair and stagnation.
Because I, too, once held on by a single thread of breath — and survived my own great storms.
So you — you can get through this too.
I am certain of it.