When the Sun Hits

Somewhere in China...

I used to think Dongguan smelled like sweet bread.

Every Sunday, my mother would take me to the bakery, and the whole street would be warm with the smell of sugar and yeast.

Now, it just smells like smoke.

The morning after the funeral, the sun rose weakly, like it didn’t want to witness what was left behind.

Two coffins lay side by side, my parents’ names carved into cold, glossy wood.

I clutched the incense stick tighter than I’d ever held anything, trying to hold myself together for just one more breath. But the heat from the smoke only made my skin crawl, reminding me how little warmth was left in this world.

The priest’s voice droned on, muffled by the black veil over my head. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking as I held the incense stick, the ember glowing faintly against the wind.

Two coffins. Side by side. Lacquered wood shining under the gray morning light.

Mom. Dad.

Sixteen years old, I was the last one standing.

I bowed three times, just like the priest told me. My knees ached on the cold pavement. Behind me, people whispered—relatives who barely spoke to us when my parents were alive, neighbors who were too busy to help when they got sick.

Sixteen years old, I learned how unwilling this world I was born into was.

No one stepped forward to put a hand on my shoulder.

When the funeral ended, the crowd scattered fast, like they couldn’t wait to leave. I stayed there until it was just me and the incense smoke curling toward a sky that didn’t care.

Uncle Liang was the last to approach, his face hard as stone.

"You can’t stay with us," he said before I could even ask.

I swallowed hard. “Just until I—”

"I’ve got my own family to feed. You think I can afford another mouth?" His tone was final, like he’d rehearsed it.

"Right," I whispered. My throat burned, but no tears came.

Sixteen years old, I learned what true futility was.

He shoved an envelope into my hands. “This is all we can give. Go stay with your aunt in Zhuhai or something.”

But when I called Aunt Mei-Lin later that night, she said she was too old to take care of anyone.

By morning, it was just me.

Sixteen years old, I died. But the world didn’t let me go with them.

Instead, it left me here.

Alone.

If this world had any mercy, I would’ve been buried in there with them.

The city never stopped moving, a living beast of steel, smoke, and neon light. It breathed harsh fumes and whispered promises no one could keep. I was just a small, fragile part of it, barely noticed, barely surviving.

Two weeks after the funeral, I found myself trapped in a cramped sewing factory on the very edge of Dongguan, where sunlight was a rare visitor. The factory walls were stained with sweat and exhaustion. The air smelled of burnt fabric and old oil, thick enough to choke dreams out before they even started.

The boss barely looked at me, except to say, “Your hands are good for delicate stitching.” The words sounded like a blessing, but I knew the truth: I was small enough to crawl under tables and fast enough to keep the endless quotas coming. My fingers moved on their own, weaving thread through cloth like a ghost, but my mind was somewhere else entirely, back at the funeral, back with Mom and Dad, whose faces stared at me from the cracked plastic frame by my bedside.

Every night, when I lay on my narrow cot, the hum of neon signs outside seeped through the thin walls like a lullaby for the damned. I promised myself I’d survive. I had to. 

Years Later...

One night, during a rare break, Mei, my only friend in that suffocating place, grabbed my wrist and pulled me out into the cold, dark streets.

“You work yourself to death,” she whispered, eyes sharp. “Come with me.”

I hesitated, my breath caught in the cold air. “Where?”

“There’s a hostess bar. Just drinks. No touching.”

My heart sank. “You want me to be like those girls?”

She didn’t flinch. “Those girls make more money in one night than we do in a month." Her eyes were glinting, full of desperation.

"Don’t you want out of that hellhole?”

Her words were knives and medicine all at once. I looked at her pale skin, tired eyes, and the calluses on her fingers and knew she was right.

We were both dying slowly, stitch by stitch, breath by breath.

That night, I stepped into Madame Liu’s bar, the smell of expensive perfume and cheap liquor washing over me like a wave. The room was bathed in flickering pink light, smoke curling in lazy spirals. Men in suits sipped drinks, their eyes flicking to me like I was a prize on display.

Madame Liu herself was a sharp-eyed woman with painted lips and an iron smile. “You’re beautiful, girl,” she said, appraising me like livestock. “This place will pay you in ways that a factory ever could.”

One evening, the air felt heavier than usual. The usual hum of the bar was muted, as if everyone knew something was about to change.

Then he walked in.

The man was the kind you notice even in a crowded room—tall, impeccably dressed in a midnight-black suit stitched from silk and menace. His eyes were sharp and cold, like chips of broken glass, and his voice slid out smooth, calm, with an edge that didn’t invite argument.

He sat down beside me, all predatory grace, and smiled—a thin, controlled curve that made my skin crawl.

"I hear you’re the prettiest thing here," he said, voice low, like a secret meant only for me.

I swallowed hard, keeping my face blank. “I do what I’m told.”

He chuckled softly, pulling a thick envelope from his inside pocket and sliding it across the scarred wooden table. The edges were crisp, the weight unmistakable.

"For your beauty," he said, eyes locked on mine, "you’re worth ten times what that factory pays."

I hesitated, fingers brushing the envelope. It was fat with money—enough to fill a month, a year, maybe even longer. It whispered promises of freedom.

"And what do you want in return?" I asked quietly, already knowing the answer.

“Your time. Your smiles. Your body, when I ask for it. Nothing more, nothing less.”

I stared at the envelope for a long moment, its weight pulling me in like gravity itself. My chest tightened.

“I’m… not sure if I’m willing,” I finally whispered. My voice felt small, fragile, like it could break under his gaze.

For the first time, his smile softened. Not kind—just less sharp. “Then I won’t take your answer tonight.” He slid the envelope closer until it touched my trembling hand. “This is just a tip. For existing in this miserable place. I'm Danny Zhou.”

And just like that, he stood, buttoned his suit jacket with a deliberate motion, and walked out through the haze of cigarette smoke and neon.

The envelope sat there, heavy and silent, staring at me like it knew my weakness.

The teasing started as soon as he left.

Three girls leaned over from the other end of the bar, giggling like hyenas. “Oooh, mystery man’s got his eye on you,” one of them said, resting her chin on her hand.

“Did you see that envelope? Bet it’s enough to buy a whole house.” Another one fanned herself dramatically. “Must be nice being the new favorite.”

Madame Liu smirked from across the room. “Careful with that one,” she warned with a cigarette dangling from her lips. “Men like him don’t throw money without expecting something… expensive in return.”

My face burned. I shoved the envelope into my bag and tried to focus on pouring drinks, but the whispers didn’t stop. They called me “princess” and “little bride,” tossing winks like it was all a game.

The next evening, he returned.

Same suit, same cold eyes, same unshakable composure. He walked straight to me like nothing else in the bar existed.

“Have you thought about my offer?” he asked, sliding into the booth.

My throat felt tight. I thought about the factory. The endless stitching. My parents’ photo watching me suffer every night. I thought about how surviving sometimes meant killing parts of yourself to keep breathing.

I nodded slowly. “Yes.”

He drove me in a sleek black car. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows, turning into a river of neon.

Dinner was at the tallest tower in Dongguan, the kind of place where every plate looked like art and cost more than a month’s rent. He poured me wine older than I was, laughed softly when I hesitated to taste it.

“Relax,” he said smoothly, leaning back in his chair. “Tonight’s just for fun.”

And for a little while, it almost felt like that. He showed me parts of the city I’d never seen, places that smelled like freedom instead of sweat and smoke. He told stories about traveling the world, about seeing Paris, New York, and Rome. His words painted pictures that made me feel small but safe.

He took me to dinners where the ceilings were so high they disappeared into chandeliers. He pulled out my chair like I was a queen instead of a hostess. For the first time since my parents’ funeral, someone listened when I spoke.

He asked about my childhood, my dreams, and the bakery my mother used to take me to. He smiled at my stories, not the thin, predator’s smile I saw at first, but something softer… warmer.

The first time he took me shopping, I didn’t know where to put my hands. The store had glass cases and gold fixtures, and I felt like a stray cat someone had let into a palace by mistake.

Danny walked beside me, perfectly calm, as if it were the most natural thing in the world to see me gawking at price tags that could feed me for a year.

“Pick one,” he said simply, gesturing toward a row of dresses.

I shook my head quickly. “I—I can’t… these cost more than my—”

He stepped closer, lowering his voice so only I could hear. “You’ve spent your whole life being told what you don’t deserve. Let me change that.”

And for a moment, I believed him. I picked the softest, palest dress on the rack—a color I’d only ever seen on wedding cakes in store windows.

When I walked out of the changing room, Danny’s face changed—not a polite smile, not that stillness he usually carried, but something like awe. He said nothing, just stepped forward and brushed a loose strand of hair from my cheek like I was something fragile.

We spent the rest of the afternoon walking through the night market, not as some rich man and his newest hostess, but like two kids who’d escaped school. He bought me candied hawthorn skewers, grinning when the sugar stuck to my lips, and teased me for the way my eyes lit up at street performers juggling knives under paper lanterns.

Once, when I laughed too hard at something he said, he paused like he hadn’t heard that sound in years. Then, almost shyly, he said, “You should laugh more. It suits you.”

Over the next weeks, we made a habit of escaping the city’s glittering chaos for quiet places—driving to the mountains where the air tasted like rain, sitting by rivers while he rolled up his sleeves and tried to skip stones like a boy again.

One chilly night, we ended up at an old carnival on the outskirts of town. The rides were rusting, the lights were faded, but when we sat together on the Ferris wheel, he looked out over the sleeping city and whispered, “I used to come here as a kid… before everything got so loud.”

I rested my head on his shoulder, and for the first time in years, my chest didn’t feel like a locked box of grief.

When the wheel stopped at the very top, he turned to me, his usually sharp voice soft. “If the world were different… do you think we’d still be here, like this?”

I looked at him, at the man who was supposed to be my captor but somehow made me feel free in fleeting moments, and I nodded. “Maybe we’d just be two kids at a carnival.”

One night, while we sat in a rooftop restaurant, the marble flooring reflected the chandelier and the city lights below.

“You deserve better than this city,” he murmured, voice dripping with promise. “Better than all of this.”

My heart squeezed. “You think so?”

He kissed my forehead, tender and convincing. “I know so.

“I care about what’s mine,” he said simply.

The world tilted beneath me.

I forced a laugh, like maybe I’d misheard. “What’s… yours?”

He didn’t laugh. He just sipped his drink, eyes sharp as broken glass, like it was the most obvious truth in the world.

That’s when I knew.

I pulled myself away from his, my pulse pounding in my ears. 

“Why are you referring to me like an object? Some toy? I don’t care about the money,” I said, voice trembling but firm. “I just… wanted someone to love me.”

He didn’t even flinch. He just leaned back in his chair, tilting his head like I’d said something amusing. “A toy?” A soft chuckle slipped from his lips. “Sweetheart… toys get thrown away when they’re broken. You?” He leaned forward now, his sharp eyes boring into mine. “You’re an investment. And investments don’t walk away.”

Something shifted in his face, just a flicker, before his expression settled into something colder, more dangerous. He picked up his wine glass, swirling it slowly.

“Love?” he repeated, like it was a foreign word. “You think anyone’s ever going to love a girl like you? A factory rat who stumbled into a nice dress?”

The words sliced through me. I wanted to scream, to slap him, but my body stayed frozen.

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper, every word a razor’s edge:

“Run if you want… but you won’t make it two blocks before someone brings you back. And if anyone tries to hide you, I’ll make sure they disappear right alongside you. That’s not a threat…” he reached out, brushing a strand of hair from my face with deliberate slowness “…it’s just the way this city works.”

I didn’t wait to see if he meant it. The moment his fingers brushed my hair, something inside me snapped.

I shoved back from the table so hard the chair screeched across the polished floor. 

He didn’t even move. 

Just sat there, calm, with a wine glass in hand, watching me.

My heart pounded as I stumbled through the restaurant, ignoring the stares. My heels clicked wildly against the marble floor until I burst out into the humid night air. The city lights blurred from the tears burning my eyes.

A taxi rolled by. I threw myself in front of it, slamming my hands on the hood. The driver cursed at me in Mandarin, but I yanked the door open anyway, shoving a fistful of the man’s money toward him. “Madame Liu’s bar! Fast!”

He hesitated, glancing over my shoulder. The driver swore again but slammed the gas.

I kept looking behind us, expecting headlights to close in, expecting a black car to ram us off the road. My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

When we screeched to a stop in front of the bar, I barely remembered to grab the rest of the money before throwing myself out. 

My legs wobbled as I ran inside, the bell above the door jingling frantically.

Madame Liu was behind the counter, counting bills. She glanced up just as I collapsed on the floor.

“What happened?” she asked, her sharp voice cutting through the haze in my head.

I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. My throat felt raw.

Her eyes softened—just barely. “Don’t bother explaining.” She came around the counter, guiding me toward the back. “You can stay here tonight. There are some cushions in the storeroom.”

I nodded weakly.

She turned to the crowded room, clapping her hands once like thunder. “BARS CLOSED! EVERYONE OUT!”

The customers scrambled, muttering, but no one dared argue.

I dragged my body through the employees-only doors, my feet aching, heels clattering to the ground as I collapsed on the cushions. Exhaustion hit me like a wave. My last thought before sleep swallowed me whole was my mother’s voice—soft, warm, telling me to run far, far away.

The bell above the door woke me hours later. Soft chatter drifted through the quiet bar.

I rubbed my eyes and peeked through the small window in the door.

He was there.

Standing like a shadow made of money and malice, speaking to Madame Liu. I couldn’t hear the words, but I didn’t need to. I saw Liu’s gaze dart toward me… saw her point at the storeroom… saw her lips form the words: “She’s over there.”

Our eyes met for one terrible second. My stomach turned to ice.

He glanced to the side, lifted a single hand, and one of his suited men stepped forward. The man pulled something from his belt—a knife.

I didn’t think.

I burst out the back door, metal slamming against brick so hard it rattled. The night air was sharp in my throat, burning as I gasped for breath. My bare feet smacked against the filthy pavement, skin already raw from running.

“HELP! PLEASE!” I screamed, voice cracking like it was splitting my chest open. “SOMEONE HELP ME! THEY’RE TRYING TO KILL ME!”

A couple walked past, holding skewers of street food, not even glancing up. A man in a business suit stepped aside just enough for me to stumble past, muttering under his breath like I was an inconvenience. A group of teenagers sat on their bikes by a convenience store, neon light painting their faces—they didn’t even pause their music.

I shoved past them, desperate, hands grabbing at sleeves, at strangers’ arms. “Please, help me!” My fingers slipped off polished coats, plastic shopping bags, warm human skin—

But nobody stopped.

Phones stayed glued to hands. Eyes stayed fixed on glowing screens. Not a single head turned.

I glanced back—they were walking calmly toward me.

Panic clawed at my throat. I turned into a narrow alley, trash and neon lights blurring around me. My breath came in jagged sobs.

Then—

I screamed.

My bare foot came down on shattered glass. A lightning bolt of pain shot up my leg, and I went down hard, skin tearing on the concrete.

Blood. So much blood.

I bit down on my lip until it split, yanking the shard out with trembling hands. My breath came in ragged gasps as I tried to stand, but my leg buckled, hot and slick beneath me.

“Move,” I whispered to myself. “Move. Please, move.”

I staggered forward, leaving a crimson trail behind me.

Then I heard it.

Pssst—

A whisper.

I turned my head left, desperate. “Hello?”

Silence.

There was no one there.

Confused, I glanced down—

—and froze.

The sound wasn't from a whisper.

There was a perfect, neat hole in my calf. A dark circle punched clean through my flesh, blood gushing down my leg.

The delayed pain slammed into me like fire. I collapsed with a strangled scream. “FUCK! FUCK! FUCK!”

Snot and tears streamed down my face as I clawed at the ground. Blood soaked the concrete, sticking my leg to the filthy pavement. My nails scraped as I dragged myself toward the light, just a few feet away.

"No… no, no, no… I don’t wanna go…" I whimpered, breath breaking into sobs.

Footsteps echoed through the alley.

A shadow stretched long over my body as polished dress shoes stopped just inches from my face.

I lifted my tear-blurred eyes to meet his, desperate, choking on my own words. “Please… I—I can give it back—”

He crouched down slowly, his expensive suit brushing against the blood pooling around me.

His expression never changed.

His hand brushed my cheek almost tenderly, wiping away a tear with his thumb. For one sickening second, it felt like comfort, then I watched as he dragged his hand on the pavement to get it off.

Then—click.

A cold barrel pressed to my forehead.

"Mama…" I whimpered. The word fell out before I could stop it.