Chapter 2: One Hammer Blow, a Hollow Ring

The pry bar spun in Chen Zhuo’s grip, and he backed up two steps toward the alley mouth. He dragged the tip of the bar across the bluestone slabs, leaving a streak of white dust. The flagstones were ancient, their joints packed with black grime and their surfaces coated in a fine film of gray. As the metal scraped past, the dust billowed up, hanging suspended for a moment in the slanting morning light before settling back down. After the line was drawn, he straightened his spine, glanced at the east wall on the second floor, then looked down at his mark. He took a half-step back, erased it, and drew it again. This time, the line ran perfectly straight, cutting from the base of the alley wall all the way to the stairwell entrance, like someone had measured it out with a carpenter’s rule.

Foreman Hu shuffled over, a half-smoked cigarette still pinched between his fingers. “You drawing property lines or ward circles?”

“Cut lines.” Chen Zhuo pointed to the space just outside the mark. “Sheets, bricks, timber—all of it goes inside the line. Outside is for walking. If you smash someone’s toe out there, you’re the one footing the bill.”

Foreman Hu let out a sharp noise but didn’t argue. He spun around and barked down the alley. “Stop dawdling! Start the demolition!”

When the first sheet of metal roofing was pried up, the screech was shrill enough to split eardrums. The sound bounced off the brick facades on either side, multiplying into a layer of echoes. The rusted iron curled and fell, slamming onto the dirt and kicking up a cloud of gray dust and flakes of rust. In the apartment at the end of the alley, a window slid open with a rattle and snapped shut again.

Nine onlookers huddled beneath the utility pole at the alley mouth, craning their necks like a flock of crows waiting for the rain to stop. Some crouched, some leaned against the brickwork, and one guy sat holding a white enamel mug. He sipped from it while watching, the tea inside long since gone cold.

Fatty Wang arrived right on the tail of that noise. He was holding a rolled-up blueprint. His voice reached them before his body did. “When do we move on that section of the east wall? I’ve got a schedule to keep.” He was wearing a white dress shirt, two dark sweat patches blooming under his arms, and his leather shoes squeaked on the broken brickage as he walked.

“Which section?”

“Right there.” Fatty Wang slapped the blueprint against the wall, the paper flaring upward at the corners. “This bit looks like a partition wall. Retro-fit, probably. Smash it through. Open it up end to end. Makes it easier to haul materials.”

Chen Zhuo followed his finger. The wall in question ran from the floor to the eaves. The plaster was a patchwork of old and new, the color uneven. The bottom third was greenish-gray; the top third was a sickly yellow. There was a faint step or seam between the two sections, so subtle you’d miss it if you weren’t looking closely.

“Don’t touch it yet.”

“What did you say?”

Chen Zhuo leaned the pry bar against the wall, walked over, and pressed his palm flat against the surface. The plaster was cold. Beneath his skin, there was a dampness. “Let me tap it twice.”

Fatty Wang let out a short, dry chuckle. “You’re on your third day of probation.”

“Even on day three, I tap it twice.”

“Tap it?” Fatty Wang rolled up the blueprint and clapped it against his palm. “I’ve got twenty guys standing around me. Two hundred and twenty a day per head. How much are two taps worth? You dragging your feet already?”

Chen Zhuo didn’t turn around. His knuckles tapped the base of the wall once.

The sound was wrong.

That single tap didn’t return the hollow ping of empty space. It was a dull thud, with a heavy undertow, like hitting a clay pot full of sand. He moved his fingers up a foot and tapped again. Still dull. He shifted left by the width of his hand and struck a third time. The dullness carried a fine, sharp vibration, as if something inside had bitten into the sound and refused to let it go.

Chen Zhuo stood up straight. He couldn’t find the words to explain the physics of it, but his hands knew exactly where to strike, what to listen for, and how a solid thud differed from one that masked an object. It was an instinct he couldn’t justify, so he stopped trying to. He just pressed his hand back against the wall and held it there for a long moment, as if he could rub the vibration into his palm lines until it sank in.

Two workers on the east side had already lifted a sledgehammer. The first strike was a probe; the hammer head cracked the plaster open with a sharp crack. The second swing was going to be a full force blow.

Chen Zhuo closed the distance in two strides and thrust the pry bar horizontally, blocking the path.

“Stop swinging.”

The sledgehammer froze in mid-air. The worker holding it turned to look at Fatty Wang, his arm still raised, the handle spinning slowly in his grip.

“You can’t smash this wall.” Chen Zhuo’s voice wasn’t loud, but he enunciated every syllable, pushing them out one by one. “If you hit it, the building collapses.”

The construction site went dead silent for a heartbeat. The nine spectators at the alley mouth held their breath; the enamel mug stopped halfway to its owner’s lips. Somewhere in the distance, a three-wheeled cargo tricycle rolled over a manhole cover with a clang, making the quiet in the alley feel even heavier.

The smirk vanished from Fatty Wang’s face. He stepped forward, pressing the issue. “Say that again.”

“It’s a load-bearing wall.” Chen Zhuo said. “There’s something wrapped inside. Rebar. A concrete core. This layer of plaster was skimmed on later. It’s fresh. It’s meant to look like a partition. The core is the real thing.”

“On what grounds?”

“Because that’s what I heard.”

“Heard it?” Fatty Wang burst into laughter, louder this time, his shoulders shaking. “You can hear rebar with one tap? Are you a doctor using a stethoscope? I’ve been staring at this site for two weeks. That wall isn’t marked on the plans.”

“If it’s not on the plans, the wall told me itself.”

“Fine.” Fatty Wang stuffed the blueprint under his armpit. His face went dark. “If you want to obstruct, you can. Sign the delay order. In black and white. Every day of lost schedule, you pay out of pocket. Sign it, and keep your little army standing around to wait with me. Don’t sign it, and you’re getting off this site right now.”

Foreman Hu was rubbing his hands together, moving a half-step forward. “Wang Laoban, maybe we could...”

“Shut up.”

Chen Zhuo looked at the wall, then at the workers holding their hammers, afraid to bring them down. They were all waiting for him. The handles were wrapped tight in white knuckles. No one was willing to let go first.

“Paper.”

Fatty Wang blinked, then pulled a crumpled notebook from his pocket. He tore out a page and fished out a stub of pencil. The edge of the paper was rough, and the pencil was so short it was barely the size of a fingernail, requiring two fingers to grip.

Chen Zhuo held the paper against the wall and wrote. The plaster was coarse; the pencil slipped easily, creating splatters. He stopped, smoothed the broken ink lines with his fingernail, and continued. He wrote slowly. When he finished, he read it back aloud: “One day of delay. Losses borne by the individual. Unrelated to Party A. Site workers to stand by. No forced demolition.”

“Sign it.”

Fatty Wang snatched the paper, scanned it twice, and slammed his signature on it. He shoved the notebook back into Chen Zhuo’s chest. “You sign too. Press your thumbprint.”

Chen Zhuo signed. He pressed his index finger into the corner of the paper. The skin was thick with grime; the impression came out as a smudged gray circle, the fingerprints nearly invisible.

Fatty Wang folded the paper, tucked it away, and stepped back, crossing his arms. “Let’s see what kind of sound you think you’re hearing.”

Chen Zhuo ignored him. He jammed the pry bar into a crack in the plaster, gave it a sharp twist, and pried out a slab the size of a palm. It dropped onto his foot, shattering into three pieces. What lay beneath wasn’t brick. It was gray-white concrete, weeping rust-stained water that trailed down the face of the wall, soaking the base into yellow stains.

Second chunk. Third chunk. The plaster peeled away in sheets, exposing the entire core of the wall. Vertical rebar bars were embedded in the concrete, rusted bright orange. They were arranged in a perfect grid, spaced at identical intervals.

The nine onlookers at the alley mouth surged forward a few steps, then more. Someone whipped out a phone; another leaned his neck back and shouted, “There’s rebar!”

Foreman Hu crouched down. He ran his hand over the rebar, smearing a layer of rust on his fingers. He looked up, but said nothing.

A line of numbers flickered across Chen Zhuo’s vision. The witness count jumped from nine to fourteen. He didn’t have time to look at it. He just wiped his face with his hand, but his palms were coated in dust, so his face just got messier.

“Make room! Here comes the water!”

Wang Tiezhu emerged from the stairs, carrying two plastic buckets of mineral water. The buckets clattered as he climbed, the plastic sweating with condensation. He took one look at the exposed wall core and his stride stopped. He slammed the buckets on the ground, spilling a puddle of water.

“Shit.” Wang Tiezhu crouched down to stare at it. He stayed there for a good while. “Chen Zhuo, how the hell do you got hands like that?”

“Save it.”

“No, I’m serious.” Wang Tiezhu stood up and leaned in, lowering his voice. “Last week, you were carrying cement bags for me. Today, you’re picking up rebar by ear?”

“I couldn’t explain it myself if I tried.”

“Exactly.” Wang Tiezhu grinned. “If you can explain it, it’s not worth much. Hey, did you count? The crowd inside and outside. It’s swelling.”

“How much bigger?”

“When I came up, there were seven or eight in the alley. Now...” Wang Tiezhu craned his neck to look down. The street below was packed, head to head, people standing even under the clotheslines. “About twenty. You brought half the block to our doorstep with one tap.”

Chen Zhuo didn’t respond. He was calculating a different ledger in his head: the bigger the crowd, the harsher the final settlement. But he couldn’t run that math with anyone else. If he told them, they wouldn’t believe him, and it wouldn’t matter if they did.

A head popped over the stairwell railing. It was Qian Shouren. He was wearing a crisp white shirt, the top button done up neatly. He was smiling so hard his eyes were curved into slits.

“Ah, Boss Wang.” He greeted Fatty Wang first, his voice smooth and oily. “I heard there was a little hiccup over here?”

Fatty Wang snorted and ignored him.

Qian Shouren’s gaze lingered on the exposed wall core for a second before sliding to Chen Zhuo. He scanned him from head to toe, shoes to hands, hands to face. Chen Zhuo had seen that look before. It was the look of a man weighing scales.

“Little Chen.” Qian Shouren stepped closer, still smiling. “I’ve got a job for you. Let’s discuss it another day. Talent like yours is wasted on a daily-rate crew.”

“I’m still on probation.”

“Only three days in.” Qian Shouren patted his arm, his palm warm. “Three days is enough for me to spot a diamond.”

With that, he fell back to the edge of the stairs. He didn’t leave; he just leaned against the wall, dialing his phone, his voice kept low, but his eyes never stopped darting toward the construction site.

At 3:20 PM, the sharp *clack* of a bicycle kickstand hitting the pavement echoed up from the street below.

A man in a gray jacket came up. He carried a tape measure and a manila folder. His hair was combed back, his face a blank mask. The first thing he did wasn’t ask a question. It was pull out the tape measure, crouch in front of the wall cross-section, and measure. Inch by inch. The steel tape snicked back, retracted, extended. He measured the thickness, the spacing, and at the third spot, he stopped. He scribbled the numbers in the corner of his folder.

No one spoke on the site. Fatty Wang shifted half a step. “Engineer Zhou, what do you make of...”

“Shut up.”

Engineer Zhou retracted the tape measure. He stood up, tapped the rebar with his knuckle, and tilted his head to listen. Then he crouched again to check the wall’s thickness. His brow furrowed, deeper and deeper, and his complexion turned stormy.

He stood up, turned, and swept his gaze across the crowd.

It passed over Foreman Hu, the men with the hammers, Qian Shouren, and Fatty Wang. It stopped on Chen Zhuo.

The cross-section of the wall remained open. The rusted rebar and rough concrete hung there like an unhealed wound. A draft rushed in from the alley mouth, swirling the dust at the base of the wall.

The supervisor walked over, step by step, until he stood before Chen Zhuo. He raised a hand and pointed at the wall.

“Who identified this wall?”