I stood in the middle of the alley, learning for the first time what it felt like to be watched by so many people at once.
It wasn't fear.
At least, not at first.
It was more like a kind of sickening disgust I couldn't put into words.
The cameras made no sound, and most of the people didn't even show their faces, but I knew they were watching.
The phone on the third floor was still behind the curtains.
The camera beside the security bars on the fifth floor shifted a little to the left.
The person on the balcony across the way didn't even bother hiding.
He wore a gray tank top and held a small camcorder, leaning against the railing as he filmed me.
I pulled out my phone and filmed him back.
He actually smiled.
Then he gave me a thumbs-up.
In that instant, I suddenly understood why Transparency Day got so many people addicted.
Normally, getting caught watching someone else came with at least a little shame.
Not today.
As long as it was still within the designated time period, it was like the government had temporarily taken everyone's sense of shame away.
You watch me.
I can watch you too.
In the end, everyone just pretends that's what fairness looks like.
The unknown account didn't send any more messages.
I stared at the photo from high school for a long time.
The uniform was real.
I remembered the location too.
It was a convenience store near my old school.
When I was fifteen or sixteen, I went there almost every day after school.
But the angle in the photo was strange.
The person who took it had clearly been standing across the street, and had used a telephoto lens.
I had no memory of anyone photographing me back then.
I saved the photo, then replied.
“Who the hell are you?”
It was still marked as read.
No reply.
I typed again.
“Do you know me?”
This time, after a few seconds, the other person started typing.
Then the indicator disappeared.
Then it appeared again.
Finally, they sent only one sentence.
“Didn't you come here looking for Lin Ruoqing?”
My grip tightened unconsciously around my phone.
They knew Ruoqing.
I immediately looked around.
“Where are you?”
“Upstairs.”
I looked toward the apartment building.
“What floor?”
There was no answer.
I called them directly.
They hung up.
I called again.
They hung up again.
The third time, my account was blocked outright.
“Fuck.”
I stood there and cursed.
Someone suddenly spoke behind me.
“Your first time?”
I turned around.
It was a man in his fifties.
He wore slippers and shorts and carried a bag of breakfast. He looked like an ordinary resident who lived nearby.
“First time doing what?”
He glanced up at the windows.
“First time here.”
I didn't answer.
The man walked over beside me and took a cup of soy milk out of the plastic bag.
“You've been standing here too long.”
“So?”
“So they'll think you're new.”
“New to what?”
The man took a sip of soy milk.
“A viewer.”
I frowned.
“You know what's going on here?”
“No idea.”
He answered too quickly.
I looked at him.
He smiled faintly.
“You don't have to look at me like that. It's Transparency Day. Film me if you want.”
“I don't want to film you.”
“Good.”
He was about to leave.
I asked him directly, “Do you know Lin Ruoqing?”
The man's steps stopped.
For less than a second.
But I saw it.
He turned around.
“Who?”
“Lin Ruoqing.”
“Never heard of her.”
“She just went inside.”
“A lot of people go in there every day.”
“Isn't this a residence?”
The man looked at me for several seconds.
“Kid, just because a lot of things can be watched today doesn't mean they're all worth watching.”
“Didn't you just say you didn't know what was going on?”
He ignored me.
He walked straight toward the mouth of the alley.
I followed for two steps.
“What did you mean by ‘viewer’?”
He still didn't look back.
“What are the people here filming?”
The man stopped at the intersection.
When he turned around, the smile had disappeared from his face.
“If your girlfriend hasn't told you to come here, don't go inside.”
This time, I was the one who froze.
“You know her.”
“I didn't say anything.”
“You clearly just—”
“Leave before noon.”
“Why?”
The man glanced at his watch.
“Because after noon, what they film won't be the apartment building anymore.”
“Then what will they film?”
He looked at me.
“People leaving.”
With that, he crossed the street.
I stood there without following him.
Not because I believed him.
Because the way he said it sounded too much like a deliberate attempt to scare me.
But when I looked up again, I realized there really were fewer cameras.
There had been at least five or six before.
Now there was only one.
On the fourth floor.
Behind a half-open window.
And it wasn't filming me.
It was pointed at the metal security gate downstairs.
Like it was waiting for someone to come out.
I checked the time.
9:47 a.m.
It had been about half an hour since Ruoqing went inside.
I called her.
It rang for a long time.
No answer.
I called again.
The second call was rejected immediately.
A few seconds later, she sent me a message.
“I'm busy. I'll call you later.”
I stared at the words.
Normally, I might really have waited.
Not today.
I replied.
“Where are you?”
She didn't read it right away.
I sent another message.
“I'm on Songjiang Road.”
This time, it was marked as read almost immediately.
She didn't reply.
Thirty seconds.
One minute.
Two minutes.
Just as I was about to call again, she finally sent a message.
“Why are you there?”
She hadn't asked how I knew.
She hadn't asked whether I was following her.
She had asked why I was there.
That meant she knew exactly where I was talking about.
I replied.
“Come out.”
The message was read.
No reply.
“Ruoqing, come out right now.”
This time, more than ten seconds passed.
Then she called me.
I answered immediately.
“What floor are you on?”
It was very quiet on the other end.
“Zian, go home first.”
“What are you doing in there?”
“I'll explain when I get home.”
“I saw you go inside.”
“I know.”
I froze for a moment.
“You know?”
“Are you standing in the side alley right now?”
I immediately looked up.
“You can see me?”
“Don't look up.”
Her tone suddenly changed.
She sounded anxious.
I had already been about to look toward the windows, but stopped when I heard that.
“Ruoqing, what the hell is going on?”
“Leave first.”
“Someone just sent me an old photo of myself.”
There was silence on the other end.
“From high school.”
She still said nothing.
“You know, don't you?”
“Leave that place first.”
“So you really do know.”
“Chen Zian.”
She rarely called me by my full name.
“I said, leave.”
“Give me one reason.”
“Because you've been marked.”
A chill ran down my back.
“What does that mean?”
“Did you just receive a message from an unknown account?”
“Yes.”
“Did you reply?”
“Yes.”
She cursed under her breath.
It was the first time I'd ever heard her swear like that.
“What did you say?”
“I asked who they were.”
“What else?”
“I asked if they knew me.”
“They sent you a photo?”
“Yes.”
Her breathing came heavily through the phone.
The more I listened, the more wrong it sounded.
“What are you hiding from me?”
“I don't have time to explain.”
“Then come out.”
“I can't.”
“Why not?”
She paused for two seconds.
“Because I came here today to make them think you wouldn't come.”
I couldn't understand that at all.
“What do you mean, make them think I wouldn't come?”
“Walk toward the main road.”
“Ruoqing—”
“Don't hang up.”
I stood there without moving.
She seemed to know.
“Go.”
I started walking toward the mouth of the alley.
The phone was pressed to my ear.
After I'd gone about ten yards, I heard the metal security gate open behind me.
I instinctively wanted to look back.
Ruoqing immediately said, “Don't look.”
“Someone came out.”
“I know.”
“Is it you?”
“No.”
I kept walking.
Footsteps came from behind me.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Keeping a certain distance from me.
The farther I walked, the more uneasy I became.
“Someone's following me.”
“Keep walking.”
“Where are you?”
“Fourth floor.”
I froze for a moment.
The camera had been on the fourth floor just now.
I couldn't help asking, “Is that your camera by the window?”
“No.”
“Is someone with you?”
“Yes.”
“Who?”
A man's voice suddenly came through the phone.
It was far away, and I couldn't make out what he said.
Then Ruoqing said, “Hurry.”
I quickened my pace.
The person behind me quickened his too.
I could already see the main road.
Twenty yards away.
A little over ten.
Just then, a notification popped up on my phone.
Another unknown account.
Not the one from before.
They sent me a photo.
It had just been taken.
My back was to the camera as I walked toward the mouth of the alley.
Beneath the image were the words:
“Chen Zian, the second time.”
I stopped walking.
“Ruoqing.”
“What is it?”
“They know my name.”
“Go!”
“What does ‘the second time’ mean?”
The other end of the phone suddenly went silent.
“Ruoqing?”
A few seconds later, she finally spoke.
“Don't ask.”
“What do you mean, don't ask?”
“Now is really not the time.”
“Have I been here before?”
She didn't answer.
I turned around.
About fifteen yards behind me stood a man wearing a black face mask.
He was in his twenties.
Very thin.
He held a phone in his hand.
He wasn't even trying to hide it.
He was filming me.
“Who is that?”
I asked.
Ruoqing's voice came through almost immediately.
“You turned around?”
“He's filming me.”
“Zian, don't talk to him.”
The man slowly lowered his phone.
Then he walked toward me.
I didn't back away either.
It was broad daylight.
The main road was right beside us.
I didn't believe he would dare do anything.
He stopped about three yards away.
“Mr. Chen?”
I didn't answer.
“Someone asked me to give you something.”
He took a white envelope out of his pocket.
I looked at him.
“Who?”
“I don't know.”
“You've been following me this whole time?”
The man shook his head.
“I was waiting for you.”
“How long?”
He smiled faintly.
“Two years.”
I thought I'd misheard him.
“What?”
He held out the envelope.
“Take it.”
I didn't accept it.
“What's inside?”
“A video.”
“What video?”
“Yours.”
Ruoqing heard him through the phone.
“Don't take it.”
The man heard her voice too.
He glanced at my phone.
Then he smiled.
“Ms. Lin is still the same as ever.”
I grabbed his wrist.
“You know her?”
He didn't struggle.
“I know her.”
“What the hell are you two doing?”
“I'm just delivering something.”
“Who told you to deliver it?”
“You did.”
My grip loosened at once.
“What did you say?”
The man shoved the envelope into my hand.
“Two years ago, on Transparency Day, you came here once.”
I stared at him.
“Impossible.”
“It's normal that you don't remember.”
“I've never been here.”
“You have.”
His tone was so calm that it didn't sound like a joke.
“You stood in this exact spot that day too.”
He pointed at the ground beneath my feet.
“You also came out of that building.”
“You've got the wrong person.”
“No.”
He took out his phone.
On the screen was a photograph.
I recognized myself at first glance.
The same alley.
The same apartment building.
In the photo, I was wearing a black T-shirt, and my face looked awful.
The date was two years ago.
The day of Transparency Day.
And I had absolutely no memory of it.
I enlarged the photo.
It really was me.
Not someone who merely looked like me.
Not a composite.
At least, not one that the naked eye could detect.
What I understood even less was that the me in the photo was also holding a white envelope.
Exactly like the one I held now.
Very softly, Ruoqing said through the phone pressed to my ear, “Zian, stop looking.”
I looked toward the apartment building.
“You knew all along?”
She didn't deny it.
The man turned to leave.
I stopped him.
“Wait.”
“The delivery's been made.”
“What was I doing here two years ago?”
He looked at me.
“You'll have to ask the people inside.”
“Which unit?”
He pointed to the fourth floor of the apartment building.
“4-1.”
The exact unit where Ruoqing was now.
I gripped the envelope, my palm slick with sweat.
“What video is inside?”
The man was silent for a moment.
“The day you first discovered you were being secretly filmed.”
I didn't move.
He continued, “It was also the day you first asked them to erase your life.”
I watched him walk away.
A few seconds later, I looked down and tore open the envelope.
There was no flash drive inside.
Only a memory card.
And a folded sheet of paper.
I unfolded it.
There was only one line written on it.
It was handwritten.
The handwriting looked familiar.
I saw it every day.
Because it was my handwriting.
“If I've come back again, it means Ruoqing failed to stop me.”
There was a second sentence beneath it.
“Don't trust her.”
I stared at the paper.
On the phone, Ruoqing kept calling my name.
And just then, the half-open window on the fourth floor of the apartment building was slowly pushed open.
Ruoqing stood by the window.
She had also seen the paper in my hand.
From four floors away, I couldn't make out her expression.
But I could see that someone else was standing beside her.
It was a man.
He held a camcorder in his hand.
The lens was pointed straight at me.
And beside the camcorder was a yellowing label.
It read:
“Chen Zian, 2009–present.”