Chapter 1: Late Night Subway, She Handed Me a Lemon CandyA candy, three bumbling thieves, fifteen years.
My name is Li Puru, twenty-seven years old, a product manager at an internet company. What exactly do I do? Every day, I take a casual demand from the client, break it down into three hundred task points, and then push the developers and designers to finish them overnight.
If the work is done well, the credit goes to the leader; if it's messed up, the blame is all mine.
At nine forty-seven that night, I dragged my exhausted body into the subway car. The evening rush hour was long over, and the car was empty. The pale fluorescent tubes shone on the silver seats, like a mobile operating room.
A girl sat opposite me.
She was wearing a business suit, with a black laptop bag on her lap, her head leaning against the window, fast asleep. Her lipstick had smudged onto the side of her mask, leaving a faint red stain; the strap of her high-heeled shoe was broken, wrapped around several times with transparent tape. There was a Band-Aid on her thumb—probably from opening express packages and documents all day.
I stared at her for two seconds.
Not because she was beautiful, but because she looked so much like me.
The same dark circles under the eyes, the same slouched shoulders, the same—alive, but only barely.
The subway suddenly jolted to a stop.
"Thud."
Her head hit the glass hard, and she woke up suddenly. She flusteredly tidied her hair, looked up, and our eyes met.
At that moment, I saw many emotions in her eyes: exhaustion, helplessness, and hidden vigilance. But beneath all of these, there was something else—stubbornness. The kind of stubbornness that said, "I'm going to keep going tomorrow."
She pulled the corner of her mouth awkwardly, trying to squeeze out a smile. I also moved the muscles on my face as a response. Two people who had been beaten down by life exchanged a smile that wasn't quite a smile in the late-night subway.
Then she lowered her head and fished a candy out of her bag.
The bright yellow candy wrapper glinted dazzlingly under the pale subway lights.
She held it out to me across the aisle.
"Just finished working overtime? Have a candy, it'll sweeten your mood."
I froze, my hand hanging in mid-air, not moving.
Not because I didn't want it, but because no one had spoken to me like that in so long.
Colleagues only messaged, "The demand has changed, finish it tonight"; the leader's WeChat Moments always said, "The hardworking you is the most handsome"; the landlord's WeChat was only, "Rent is due the day after tomorrow, don't be late"; even when my mom called, she only said, "Stay up less" and hung up.
No one had ever said—"It'll sweeten your mood."
"Thank you."
I took the candy, and my fingertips accidentally touched hers, which was cold.
I peeled off the wrapper and put the candy in my mouth. Lemon flavor. First sour, then sweet. Just like my unremarkable twenty-seven years.
The collapse of an adult is often not because of one big thing, but because no one has asked "Are you tired?" in too long.
And sometimes, the one who saves you isn't a hero. It's just a candy.
"Come on, see you tomorrow."
We arrived at the station. She stood up, grabbed her laptop bag, and pressed the door open button.
"See you tomorrow?" I asked subconsciously.
She turned around, her eyes curving into crescents: "Don't you work nearby too? I've been watching you for several days."
The door opened, and she squeezed into the crowd. Her high heels clicked on the ground, and the transparent tape made a faint rustling sound.
I walked out of the subway station, and the late autumn wind blew coldly. I touched my pocket—and found that she had secretly slipped another lemon candy into it without me noticing.
I held the candy and stood in the wind. I had been in this city for five years, taking this subway every day, seeing countless numb faces. Some people stared blankly at their phones, some leaned against the handrails like withered wood.
No one had ever given me a candy. No one had ever said "See you tomorrow."
At that time, I didn't know—that this candy would break down my door and turn my life upside down within seventy-two hours. I didn't know even more that someone had been waiting for this encounter for fifteen years.
I stood under the streetlight at the subway station, holding the candy, and suddenly remembered a detail—when she turned to leave, there was a faint scar on her right wrist. It was not long, like a burn, or something carved on.
Fifteen years ago, I had seen an identical scar.
No. Fifteen years ago, her wrist was clearly unharmed.
At eleven o'clock that night, I sat in my fifteen-square-meter rental room in a daze. White walls, concrete floor, two packs of instant noodles that had expired half a year ago in the refrigerator. The lemon flavor in my mouth had faded. I took out the extra candy and put it on the table. The bright yellow wrapper reflected light under the desk lamp.
Just then—
"Click."
The door lock made a faint sound. I thought it was the wind.
"Click."
Another sound. This time, it was accompanied by brute force. The metal sound of the bolt popping open was particularly clear in the quiet night.
I sat up straight in an instant, grabbed the folding chair next to the table.
The door was pushed open. Three black figures filed in.
Chapter 2: Bumbling Thieves, Code Names, and a Candy That Can't Be Eaten
I often think back to that night—three men who broke into my house, clumsy as sketch actors, but said the most serious words I had ever heard in my life.
The leader was a fat man, his belly stretching his ill-fitting black suit tight, like a meatball that might explode at any moment. Next to him was a tall, thin man, as thin as an undergrown bamboo pole. At the back was a bald man, his head shining under the light, a natural spotlight.
I moved the folding chair forward a little: "Did you get the wrong place? There's nothing valuable in my house except expired instant noodles."
The fat man looked around my rental room, his face filled with disbelief: "This place? It's so shabby."
The tall, thin man hung his head and counted on his fingers: "One, two, three, four, five, six—yes, this is the place."
The bald man whispered a correction: "You counted two extra."
The fat man glared at them, then turned to me, lowered his voice, and suddenly became solemn: "Li Puru, do you know what that candy you ate tonight is?"
"A lemon candy? The kind that costs five yuan a pack in the supermarket?"
"Wrong!" The fat man frowned severely, "That's the activation token of our 'Puru Organization'!"
Me: "...Are you filming a short video?"
"Was the woman who gave you the candy wearing a business suit? Was her high-heel strap broken and wrapped with transparent tape? Did she say 'Have a candy to sweeten your mood'? And secretly slipped you a second one?"
My fingers gripping the folding chair tightened: "Yes."
"That's our Sugar Brother! She's chosen you!"
The fat man pulled an identical lemon candy out of his pocket and slapped it into my hand: "Eat it, and you'll be a probationary member of Puru. Sugar Brother said that when you were in the third grade of primary school, you gave a transferred girl a candy and told her 'Have a candy, and you won't be afraid anymore.' That girl has remembered you for fifteen years."
The candy in my hand suddenly felt heavy.
Third grade of primary school... There really was such a thing. A girl transferred to our class, was bullied by the boys, and cried her heart out outside the toilet. I happened to have a lemon candy that my mom gave me, so I handed it to her.
She was crying so hard then, and said a strange thing—"I don't remember who I am, but I remember this taste."
"Eat it, and we'll be one of us." The fat man stared at me.
I didn't hesitate anymore, peeled off the wrapper and put the candy in my mouth. Lemon flavor, sour with a hint of sweetness. Exactly the same taste as fifteen years ago.
"Great!" The fat man shook my hand hard, "From today on, you are member No. 1147 of Puru! Code name——"
"I'll choose it myself. Call me 'Flea'."
The three men fell silent.
Fat man: "Are you serious? We all have cool names like Iron Fist Man and Light Bulb Man, and you choose Flea?"
"My name is Li Puru. 'Puru' means 'flea' in Latin. You be the heroes, I'll keep a low profile."
The bald man nodded sincerely: "It's better than my 'Light Bulb Man'."
The fat man took a deep breath and accepted the reality: "Okay! Comrade Flea, your first mission——"
He didn't finish his sentence.
Footsteps came from outside the door. Heavy, steady, accompanied by the rustling of plastic bags.
Completely different from the sneaky, stumbling movements of the three of them just now.
The door opened.
A hand holding a plastic bag stretched in first. The handle of a spatula was faintly visible in the bag.
And I noticed—that there was an old scar on the tiger's mouth of this hand.
That night, I thought this was just an absurd misunderstanding. Later, I realized that absurdity was just its shell. Inside, there were the most serious group of people in this city.
Author's Note: The MC is a PM (Product Manager). In this story, he doesn't punch people. He dismantles their systems. Stick around.