At the north gate of the industrial park, Chen Shouyi sold a boxed meal for ten yuan because pork prices had gone up. Zhao Dayong, newly opened across the street, sold his for eight yuan and even gave soup away, beating a gong on livestream, and Chen lost all his customers. The whole internet cursed him for being black-hearted, and twenty-eight people in the factory signed a joint petition forcing him to lower his price—he rolled up his bedding and left. Nobody knew that hidden within that eight-yuan bargain were leftover food from the night before, rotten vegetable leaves, and half a bottle of dark soy sauce; nor did anyone know that old Chen, who had been driven away, picked out meat at four o'clock in the morning in the south of the city and stood firm once again with a mouthful of authentic flavor.