Master Locksmith

Hou Rui tried to struggle, but found the handcuffs were fastened exceedingly tight; any slight exertion sent pain shooting through his wrist bones.

“This is today’s task. Figure out how to get them off yourself. Once you unlock them, you can finish for the day.” The old man still had his back to Hou Rui, carefully adjusting the notches in a key with a small file.

“That’s too easy!” Hou Rui wasn’t new to situations like this. He gritted his teeth, placed his left hand on the ground, and was about to stomp and break his hand when the old man spun the file in his palm. In a blink, its tip pressed against Hou Rui’s carotid artery. “Kid, fools use brute force, but smart people use clever methods. Can your hands withstand being fractured every time? In two years, they’ll be ruined. What good is a cripple to anyone?”

“What do you suggest then? Steal the key?”

“Open them with this.” The old man tossed over a bamboo toothpick.

“No way! This is so difficult right from the start. Can’t I use something else?” Hou Rui glanced at the handcuffs, then at the toothpick—he really had no clue.

“Troublesome. Fine, use this.” The old man threw him a paperclip, with a look of disdain.

Hou Rui straightened the clip, jammed it awkwardly into the keyhole, and began poking about aimlessly.

Ten minutes later, he was still poking.

Thirty minutes on, sweat ran down his forehead as desperation set in. If handcuffs were so easy to pick, surely no policeman would ever use them.

After an hour, his wrists were bleeding from constant friction, yet the damned cuffs remained locked, biting into his hands.

“To call you stupid is to flatter you.” The old man, who had smoked several cigarettes and finished a pot of tea, finally lost patience. He smacked Hou Rui upside the head, nearly provoking him into a tantrum.

“Listen. When you insert it, turn it slowly around the keyhole. Slowly! Spinning so fast, you won’t feel a thing. Slower. Each handcuff has a different internal structure. You need to sense it carefully. When the paperclip touches the spring, you’ll feel a bit of movement, a hint of elasticity. Then push down, following the vertical angle of the spring. Not too fast—slowly. The spring is tiny; push too hard and it’ll slip. Try again.”

With the old man’s patient, step-by-step guidance, Hou Rui finally located the spring inside the keyhole. Though it took another hour, he at last managed to unlock the cuffs.

“I did it! I’ve got it now!” Hou Rui shook the opened cuffs excitedly, ignoring the wounds on his wrists.

“Pfft! Nearly three hours, and you needed a paperclip. Shameless, really.” The old man mercilessly deflated his triumph.

Hou Rui, still elated, felt his pride wounded by the old man's words. He retorted, “Why don’t you try it? Let’s see how fast you can manage!”

“So what if I’m faster? Want to bet?”

“How much faster? What's the wager?”

“Fast enough to convince you. If you lose, you’ll hand out flyers on the street. Business has been slow lately.”

“Deal. Let’s do it.” Hou Rui tossed the cuffs to the old man, who promptly snapped them onto his own wrists, holding up his hands for inspection.

“Ready! Clank—heh heh heh.”

Hou Rui was stunned—truly stunned! No sooner had he said “start,” the old man flicked his wrists and popped the cuffs open in less than a second, then glanced smugly at Hou Rui, who had lost the bet in spectacular fashion.

“Kid, a bet’s a bet!” The old man rummaged about, soon piling half a meter’s worth of flyers in front of Hou Rui. “Remember, my name’s Uncle Yang. Here are the flyers you need to hand out. Turn right at the street corner; there’s a vegetable market with plenty of foot traffic.”

From then on, Hou Rui’s days split into three parts: working at Pengcheng Driving School, studying lock-picking under Uncle Yang, and attending classes as a dutiful student—occasionally keeping company with the charming Jin Shanshan.

Of these, the most thrilling was his apprenticeship with Uncle Yang. Once he’d mastered spring locks, disc tumbler locks, and pin locks, Hou Rui was astonished to see the rustic Uncle Yang produce a notebook computer and electronic decoder, teaching him how to crack the latest security systems.

Thus, over the following weeks, Hou Rui’s infiltration skills grew exponentially. At first, he could only open bike chains; soon, he was able to slip into the most secure private villas in the capital.

Yet, the process came with painful side effects: Uncle Yang never stopped messing with him. Whenever they bet, Hou Rui invariably fell into one of Uncle Yang’s traps and was sent out to distribute flyers on the street—today was no exception.

“Damn it, tricked again. How could that old man slip into a bank so easily? It can’t be that simple. Guards, cameras, infrared alarms, electronic locks—are they just for show?” Hou Rui handed a flyer to a passing matron, muttering to himself.

“Young man, what are you saying?” The woman, her bag full of fruit and vegetables, looked at him curiously.

“Uncle Yang, locksmith. Available 24/7, registered with the police, cheap, convenient, and secure.” Hou Rui had recited this line countless times—by now, it rolled off his tongue with practiced ease.

The day was different, though; no sooner had he finished his pitch than a soft laugh sounded nearby. Hou Rui, a bit embarrassed, turned to see a white dress adorned with little black flowers, and a head of beautiful, wavy hair.

The laugh belonged to a tall, alluring girl. Hou Rui didn’t recognize her—they were strangers. He found it odd that someone unfamiliar would laugh at him.

“Miss, what’s so funny?” Hou Rui stepped up boldly, putting on a deliberately roguish expression.

“Nothing, really,” the girl quickly shook her head in denial.

“Weird. Uncle Yang the locksmith—please take a flyer.” Seeing the girl walk away, Hou Rui resumed his distribution campaign.

From his second year in college, Hou Rui’s classes began to focus on photography techniques and creative composition. This was his first real exposure to the art’s essence, and it became a welcome respite from his organizational duties. He studied diligently, and his grades soared, eventually making him a star pupil. His works even placed in several small class exhibitions.

An elderly professor on the jury once remarked, “This student’s perspective is uniquely sharp. While pursuing realism and absolute precision, he’s not swayed by surrounding colors. His work may appear monotonous and cold, yet it carries a compelling sense of reality and cruelty—a contradiction usually seen only in seasoned adults or those raised in extreme poverty. Truly rare, with great potential.”

Thanks to the professor’s praise, Hou Rui emerged as a minor celebrity in his department. In corridors and classrooms, girls began to point and whisper about him. This secretly delighted him, though outwardly he maintained a cool, busy demeanor, absorbed in training tasks.

Tuesday brought his most dreaded course: Marxist philosophy. Yet, the chance to admire girls from various classes sneak glances at him made him proud, and time flew by. Before he knew it, the bell rang for dismissal.

Hou Rui stood up, still holding his textbook when two gusts of wind zipped past him, startling him so much he nearly dropped his book.

“Li Lei, Ma Siyuan, are you two crazy? Why the rush?” Another girl in a short skirt nearly had her hem lifted by the breeze; she pressed her skirt down, shouting after the pair already halfway out the door.

“Sorry, sorry—got to get to French class,” Li Lei called, disappearing at the threshold.

“So they’re off to see the beauties—no wonder those two animals ran so fast.” Hou Rui chuckled, but suddenly remembered something else.

Right! I signed up for French class too. Li Lei and Ma Siyuan tricked me into it, but learning French isn’t a bad idea.

He thought back to his time in Tunisia. He’d always believed fluent English would get him anywhere in the world, but Tunisia proved him wrong—many places ignored English entirely. Locals spoke either Arabic or French, leaving Hou Rui in awkward situations. Once, a misunderstanding nearly landed him in a police station. If his gunshot wound hadn’t healed yet, that would have been disastrous!

With that in mind, Hou Rui gathered his books and headed toward the French classroom, intending to sit in and see if it was worth investing his energy.