Squeak—clank—squeak—clank!
The rusted chain of the ¥300 folding bicycle groaned one last time as its sixteen-inch wheels wobbled past the VIP tarmac barrier and skidded to a halt in front of the airstair.
Straddling the miniature frame was Young Master Qin Haoran.
Three days ago in Tianhai, Qin Haoran had set out along National Highway 104 while Lin Mo spent three days finalizing the Jiangnan Sanctuary handover before boarding this morning’s flight. Once famous for Italian velvet suits, the Second Young Master now wore grease-stained denim overalls over a yellow Taichu volunteer vest. His cheeks were windburned crimson, icicles clung to his eyebrows, and a spare truck tire was lashed across his back.
Behind his tiny bicycle rumbled ten battered highway service trucks with Hebei and Shandong plates. They parked neatly outside the VIP perimeter fence, their hazard lights blinking through the falling snow.
“Brother Mo! CEO Su! Grandma Chen!”
Qin Haoran kicked down the rusty kickstand, unclipped his dented plastic helmet, and limped forward like a bow-legged penguin. His thighs were cramping so badly from pedaling a thousand kilometers up the G2 Yanjing-Tianhai Expressway that his knees knocked together with every step.
Grandma Chen gasped, hurrying forward to press a warm cup of ginger-and-shrimp broth into his frostbitten hands. “Good heavens, Little Qin! Why didn’t you take the high-speed train? Look at your ears, they’re frozen purple!”
