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The Case of the Murderous Courier
墨書 Inktalez
"Knock, knock, knock."
It was an afternoon in the summer of 2023, in front of a high-end apartment on the West Third Ring Road of Beijing.
Dong Zhengyu stood at the door of Room 2201, holding two Delivery Boxes in his right hand and raising his left hand to knock again.
The door opened.
"Today's delivery is so few," Zhao Qingqing said with a smile as she took the packages.
She was wearing a light-colored loungewear outfit and casually slipped on a pair of fluffy slippers, looking as if she had just finished working from home.
Dong Zhengyu lowered his head and replied, "Yeah, just these two."
He noticed that there were more than a dozen unopened Delivery Boxes piled up in Zhao Qingqing's living room, with the top one still showing his signature from yesterday.
Such conversations happened almost every day.
In the past eight months, Dong Zhengyu clearly remembered that he delivered an average of 6 to 8 packages to Zhao Qingqing each day.
He even calculated in his mind that this girl spent several times his salary each month just on online shopping.
"Thank you!"
Zhao Qingqing was about to close the door when Dong Zhengyu suddenly spoke up, "Miss Zhao, um... the company is running a promotion lately. If it's convenient for you, could you help us by leaving a five-star review?"
"Sure, no problem," she replied readily.
Zhao Qingqing agreed without hesitation, pulling out her phone and skillfully navigating to the delivery review page.
Dong Zhengyu stood at the doorway, watching as Zhao Qingqing focused on her phone. He noticed her nails were painted a light pink, and she wore a watch that must have cost at least twenty thousand.
These details reminded him of his father's reprimand over the phone last night: "You're already 31 years old and still working as a courier in Beijing, earning just a few thousand a month. What kind of life is that?"
"All done," Zhao Qingqing's voice interrupted his thoughts. "I gave five stars and wrote a good review."
"Thank you, Miss Zhao," Dong Zhengyu said before turning to leave, his figure disappearing down the hallway.
Zhao Qingqing closed the door and returned to her work.
At that moment, she was still immersed in the comfort and ease that living alone brought her.
At 27 years old, working for a foreign company, her parents ran a small supermarket and had saved up a considerable fortune.
She felt that life was at its best: no mortgage to worry about (her parents had bought her an apartment), no relationship troubles (she was happily single), and the only annoyance was the overwhelming number of packages from online shopping.
A week later, Zhao Qingqing was browsing through a two-meter-tall solid wood bookshelf on her phone, her finger hovering over the "Buy Now" button as she hesitated for a moment.
"I should remind the delivery guy that this bookshelf is quite heavy," she thought, before clicking to purchase.
In this neighborhood within Beijing's West Third Ring, two worlds began each morning at 6 AM.
When Zhao Qingqing's alarm went off, Dong Zhengyu had already arrived at the package sorting center on his electric bike.
He squatted down, scanning the barcodes on the packages with his phone, sorting them into delivery boxes.
The first package to be delivered today was yet again Zhao Qingqing's.
It was a cold morning. Dong Zhengyu tucked his hands into his sleeves and rubbed them together; the white mist he exhaled was particularly clear under the dim light of the warehouse.
He rented a basement without heating, and last night he had to sleep in two coats.
At the same time, Zhao Qingqing was standing in front of the floor-to-ceiling window, doing her morning yoga.
The radiator was at just the right temperature, and she wore a thin yoga outfit, stretching her body.
Sunlight streamed through the glass outside, warm and bright.
"Another box of Perrier," Dong Zhengyu thought as he looked at the package in his hands.
This was already the third box this month, containing 24 bottles and costing nearly 300 yuan.
That amount was almost equivalent to his daily income.
Zhao Qingqing really enjoyed drinking Perrier.
She found the bubbles gentle and the taste refreshing.
More importantly, having a bottle of Perrier on her desk while working from home made her feel as if she were still working in an office.
Dong Zhengyu's office was an electric tricycle.
Every morning, he rode his bike through every corner of the community.
Sometimes, Dong Zhengyu would encounter Zhao Qingqing in the elevator.
She always wore a neat business outfit, holding a Starbucks cup, her steps graceful and composed.
In contrast, he was dressed in an orange work uniform, carrying the scent of delivery packages, instinctively shrinking into the corner.
The disparity in their identities became particularly clear during an accidental conversation.
That day, Zhao Qingqing received a package.
As she opened the door, she was on the phone, her tone light and cheerful. "Yes, let’s meet at that Michelin Restaurant. An average of two thousand should be enough."
Dong Zhengyu stood at the door, listening to that figure.
Two thousand—that was his earnings from five days of deliveries.
Back at his rented room, he opened his phone and inexplicably searched for the restaurant's menu.
The cheapest appetizer cost 388 yuan, nearly half of his living expenses for two weeks.
A wave of discontent surged within him; the world felt so unfair.
One day, while delivering packages, he discovered that Zhao Qingqing had updated her social media status: "Year-end bonus received, 300,000.
Let's keep pushing in the new year."
The accompanying image was a screenshot of her bank account balance.
That number struck Dong Zhengyu like a heavy hammer, shattering his self-esteem.
He recalled the paycheck he had received just yesterday: 4,521 yuan.
After deducting rent and living expenses, there was hardly anything left.
That night, as Dong Zhengyu lay on the bed in the basement, listening to the footsteps and laughter above him, a terrifying thought crossed his mind for the first time.
He tossed and turned all night, repeatedly asking himself:
Why? Was it because he wasn't working hard enough? He was putting in so much effort just to survive.
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