Hormones That Can't Be Hidden - Chapter 9

Dong Junhao practically fled the second floor.

It was only when he stepped back into the main bath area a territory filled with the familiar scents of sweat, steam, and cheap soap that his racing heart began to find its rhythm. The tension in his spine slowly uncoiled as he was enveloped by the rough, straightforward clamor of the public pools.

He leaned against the cool tile wall, taking deep breaths of the humid, sulfurous air, trying to purge the lingering, oppressive chill of the VIP room from his lungs. There were already regular customers waiting for him. He steadied himself, slid the semi-worn scrubbing mitt back onto his hand, and returned to his post for another round of labor.

Yet, as his large-knuckled hands repeated the mechanical scraping motions on a customer’s back, his mind felt like a suspended weight. A heavy sliver of his attention drifted uncontrollably toward the thick, dark-blue curtain that separated the two worlds. He kept his ears perked, trying to distinguish the sounds from upstairs through the splashing water and chatter.

Finally, he heard Xu Jun’s voice, unnaturally high and brimming with fawning politeness, seeing someone off. Then came the sound of steady footsteps departing, fading into the distance.

He was gone. That man was finally gone.

The invisible string in Junhao’s heart snapped loose. A wave of post-adrenaline exhaustion washed over his limbs. Yet, in that relief, a stubborn, inexplicable sliver of strange loss seeped in—light as a feather, scratching at his heart.

What a peculiar, troublesome man!

He shook his head, trying to toss away that hazy feeling along with the image of ivory skin and eyes like deep pools. It was only after his current customer left satisfied that Junhao felt truly released from his invisible trance.

He moved stiffly, slowly putting down the water ladle. His fingers hesitated before reaching toward the back of his waistband. He felt a hard, sharp-edged object. After a few seconds of silence, he took a deep breath and yanked out the stiff card.

It was a pure white business card made of a unique material, cool to the touch and unaffected by the humidity. On it was a minimalist black-and-gold font that reflected the pale light of the old fluorescent tubes with a cold, detached luster:

Fang Mingxing

Below was a series of clean, crisp numbers, a phone number that seemed to radiate wealth. Further down was a line of smaller text, a technology group’s logo and name, followed by a dizzying string of high-level titles.

He stared at the card. His dark, rough fingers gripping the pristine white edge created a jarring contrast. It felt as though he were holding not a piece of paper, but a hot coal or a ticking bomb. The sharp corner of the card pressed into the thick calluses of his palm with a faint sting.

His lips thinned into a hard line. A spark of indignant irritation flashed in his eyes, followed by a deeper, unacknowledged sense of trepidation. With a sudden flick of his wrist, the card, carrying its cold fragrance and representing a world in the clouds, cut a white arc through the air and landed with a wet thwack in the trash can full of discarded mitts, cigarette butts, and grime.

Just another game for those high-and-mighty people, he thought. A bored pastime to mock those of us rolling in the mud.

He had seen plenty of verbal teasing lately. The fact that this man was influential didn’t change the nature of the game. Though Junhao lacked a formal education, he possessed self-awareness; he knew he wasn’t built for “high-end” work. They were two parallel lines; any intersection was merely a temporary glitch in reality.

Whether he was sweating at a construction site or scrubbing in a bathhouse, he relied on his own strength. His money was earned honestly, and there was no shame in that.

The following days were peaceful. Fang Mingxing was like a stone dropped into a deep pond; after the initial ripples, he vanished completely. The absurd bathtub incident felt like a bizarre dream. Junhao nearly pushed it from his mind, returning to his daily routine of scrubbing, rinsing, and dealing with various customers. He maintained a numb balance between his “Iron Diamond” fame and the subtle, ulterior motives of those who approached him.

Only on occasional rainy nights, when the bathhouse was quiet and he was rinsing his tools, would the scene flash back: him holding a tiny brush, standing like a fool before a man who seemed to glow in the steam. He would quickly shake his head and use the loud sound of running water to drown out the memory.

Scrubbing was a game of strength. While it didn’t break his bones like hauling cement, the ache in his back and arms at the end of the day was real. He also had to endure the intentional touches and lewd remarks of certain customers. He comforted himself with a numb logic: We’re all men. Being touched or hearing some filth won’t take a piece out of me.

Just as he thought life would continue in this stable, if stifling, manner, trouble arrived uninvited.

It was a weekend evening, and the bathhouse was busier than usual. A group of young hoodlums with dyed hair and smelling of booze and cigarettes barged in. They were half-drunk and rowdy, splashing water and shouting, turning the quiet environment into a chaotic mess.

Even worse, a skinny guy with yellow hair vomited directly onto the pool deck. The sour stench immediately filled the area. Old Yang, the cleaner, walked over with a mop and bucket, politely reminding him: “Young man, if you’re not feeling well, please use the toilet. Everyone else is trying to soak here.”

“Old man! Mind your own damn business!” The yellow-haired youth turned and pointed a finger at Old Yang’s nose, his drunken rage boiling over. “I’ll puke wherever the hell I want! You’re just a floor-sweeper, why are you yapping? Want me to smack you?!”

Old Yang recoiled, his face pale, stammering in fear. The other punks laughed, jeering at the old man: “Hear that, you old fossil? Get lost!” “Keep talking and we’ll shove that mop down your throat!”

Old Yang’s hands trembled with rage and helplessness. The punks grew bolder, splashing pool water onto the vomit to “clean it,” intentionally soaking the old man in the process. The elderly man stumbled, nearly falling.

Dong Junhao, who had been scrubbing a regular nearby, saw it all. He didn’t want to cause trouble, he knew drunken punks were the most difficult to deal with—but seeing the elderly Old Yang bullied sparked a primitive sense of justice. Combined with the pent-up frustration of the past few weeks, a fire rose in his chest.

He stopped his work, straightened up, and walked over with a dark expression. His massive frame acted like a wall, instantly separating Old Yang from the hoodlums. He didn’t speak; he simply used his eyes filled with anger and a heavy sense of pressure to scan the drunken, aggressive faces.

“Brothers, if you’ve had too much, just wash up and rest. Don’t make things hard for the elderly.”

Junhao’s voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight of righteousness that cut through the noise. The lead yellow-haired punk was momentarily intimidated by Junhao’s size and aura. He sobered up slightly, a flicker of wariness in his eyes. But with his friends watching, he couldn’t back down.

His insults grew viler: “Who the hell are you? Think you’re a big shot? Stinking of bathhouse sweat and you dare interfere? What, is this old fossil your daddy?”

The foul insults poured over him like sewage. Junhao’s jaw tightened, his fists clenching at his sides until his knuckles cracked. The veins in his bronze arms began to bulge. He held his temper, stepping forward half a pace until his wide chest nearly touched the punk’s nose. “Please speak with some respect.”

The punk was forced back by the sheer difference in size, drawing snickers from his companions. Feeling humiliated, his eyes turned vicious. He leaped out of the pool and ran toward the lockers.

Just as everyone thought he was fleeing, he returned naked, clutching a folding knife. The blade wasn’t long, but it reflected a cold, piercing light under the bathhouse lamps. His companions climbed out of the water to stand behind him, emboldened.

“Dammit, I gave you a chance! You think I’m afraid of your dead muscles?” The punk brandished the knife, fueled by alcohol and peer pressure. He gestured at Junhao with the blade. “Interfere again and I’ll bleed you! I’ll show you what happens to busybodies!”

The atmosphere turned to ice. Surrounding customers cried out and backed away; Old Yang’s legs went weak. Junhao’s pupils contracted as his muscles entered a defensive state, his brain rapidly calculating the distance and the angle for a strike.

Empty hands against a blade, he had the strength, but he couldn’t afford to be careless. A bloody conflict was seconds away.

At that exact moment—

“My, quite the lively scene.”

A clear, calm, and slightly amused voice rang out abruptly from the bathhouse entrance.