Secrets of the Secondhand Shop - Chapter 1

After graduating from college, I couldn’t land a decent job. Through one of my dad’s old friends, I got into the secondhand trade. Not just any old goods, though—these were items tainted with dark energy. People in my line of work are known as “handlers.”

At first, my dad was dead set against it. But seeing that I didn’t have any real skills to make a living, he finally let a senior from Panjiayuan take me under his wing to start dealing in jade.

“You can only do this one kind of business! Got it?”

I can still hear his angry roar echoing in my ears.

This jade wasn’t mined in Myanmar or anything. Most of it came from rich families that had fallen on hard times, dug up straight from ancestral graves as burial offerings.

Because the source was clear and the descendants usually didn’t skimp on the proper rituals, I just had to follow the usual cleansing procedures. After that, I could resell them without issue—I never had a single mishap.

That’s probably why I started getting bolder.

Over the years, I forgot what my father warned me. I expanded into all sorts of things—jade, jewelry, antiques, rosewood, designer bags, luxury watches—you name it. As long as it held value, I’d buy it cheap, do the ritual work, and resell it high to make a profit.

You could say I was making a killing.

I thought my life was finally on track: stash some money away, buy a house near Beijing, find a wife, and live the dream.

I never imagined it would all fall apart—because of a woman.

It was 4:33 p.m. Beijing time. A completely ordinary moment on an otherwise uneventful day. A sudden summer rain had just passed, and the city sky was unusually clear. Rays of golden sunlight cut through the clouds like clean glass. The whole city looked like it had just recovered from a fever. And that’s when the door to my shop opened—and she walked in.

That was the woman who changed my life forever.

If I could go back in time, I should’ve kicked that unlucky woman out the second she stepped through the door. But instead, I smiled and welcomed her in.

I remember her eyes—big and beautiful, the kind of eyes that make you feel sorry for her without knowing why. But let me be clear: I didn’t take her secondhand Cartier watch because of those eyes. I’m a professional. The only thing that moves me is profit.

After asking a few questions about the watch, I asked what price she had in mind. The moment she gave her number, I didn’t even try to haggle—I just pulled out the cash from my wallet on the spot. Deal done.

She looked like she was afraid I’d change my mind, so she quickly handed over the watch, took the money, and left my shop without looking back.

Even though modern items like that don’t go up in value, luxury watches still have a decent resale market among status-conscious young people strapped for cash. Even if I sold it at a fraction of market price, I’d still make a nice profit compared to what I paid.

I had no idea that danger was already creeping in. That day passed like any other.

By the time I realized something was wrong, it was the fourth day after I’d taken the watch.

That morning, the first thing I did when I opened my eyes was check the time on my phone—11:00 a.m.

My alarm was set for 7:00. Did it really take four hours to wake me?

Even if that somehow happened once… for it to happen four days in a row?

A strange anger bubbled up inside me. I got up, washed, changed, and drove straight to the department store. I had to fix this today.

I walked out of there with an armful of alarm clocks—over a hundred of them.

The salesgirl gave me a bright smile while packing them up and joked, “Sir, what company do you work for? You must have great employee benefits, giving everyone an alarm clock!”

I forced a smile and said nothing.

I was in a foul mood all day. Anxious and frustrated, I waited until night, determined to see whether I could finally wake up on time.

It wasn’t that I suddenly heard noise around me—it was more like I suddenly became able to hear the noise. There’s a difference. The former means it was quiet until something made a sound. The latter means the noise had always been there, but I just hadn’t noticed until that moment.

A rush of chaotic sound slammed into my ears, like someone had switched me from noise-canceling mode to full transparency. I shouted and bolted upright in bed.

The bed and the floor were covered in alarm clocks of every shape and size.

Whether digital or analog, every single clock pointed to the same time: 12:00.

One hour later than yesterday.

The sight of all those clocks pressing in on me felt like being trapped alone on a packed subway during rush hour, just as the doors were about to open and a sea of people surged toward me. I scrambled out of bed, stumbling around to shut them off one by one.

By the time I turned off the last clock, the hands pointed to 12:11.

Impossible.

I gave a cold laugh, and even the sound of it made my skin crawl.

How is this even possible?

I slumped onto the bed, finally realizing this was way beyond my control.

It can’t be…

This was the fifth straight day I’d overslept.

Normally, I wake up at 7:00 sharp, wash up, eat breakfast, head out by 7:30, and open my shop at 8:00. That’s my daily routine.

The first day I woke up late, my phone showed 8:00. I didn’t think much of it—figured I’d just been extra tired the night before.

But then on the second day, I woke up at 9:00. I started getting annoyed.

Third day, it was 10:00.

Fourth day, 11:00.

Each day, my wake-up time was being pushed back exactly one hour. That pattern made me sit up and pay attention. So, on the fourth day, I bought a ton of alarm clocks and placed them all over the house. But it didn’t help. Even with that many alarms blaring, I still didn’t wake up.

On the fifth day, it happened again—woke up at 12:00.

This wasn’t just strange anymore. I was starting to panic.

And of course, trouble never comes alone.

That same day, I discovered something even more terrifying.

I decided to stay up all night to try and break the pattern. Sat in front of my computer with the webcam on to record myself, just in case I fell asleep.

I drank five cups of coffee, then launched an online game and got ready to grind till morning.

Next thing I knew, I opened my eyes—and realized I had fallen asleep. The time?

1:00 p.m.

I had a feeling thing wouldn’t be that simple. Thankfully, I had the recording. I clicked play and scrubbed through the footage. At first, it was just me playing games.

Then, right around 11:59…

Something weird happened.

I frowned and rewatched that short segment several times. On screen, I was still wide awake, eyes glued to the game. But the second the time ticked over to 00:00—I suddenly collapsed onto the desk like someone had hit a switch. It was instant. So abrupt it almost looked funny.

My palm was sweaty on the mouse. One phrase kept echoing in my head: Murphy’s Law.

If something can go wrong—no matter how small the chance—it will go wrong.

And it did.

From the video, it was obvious: no matter how tired or awake I was, I would pass out at exactly midnight. But the time I woke up kept getting later by an hour each day. In other words, my sleep had a locked start time, but an ever-expanding duration.

I lit a cigarette, took a hard drag, and half the thing burned away instantly. I stared at the glowing tip, flickering in the dark. It reminded me of my own life—twenty-four hours slowly consumed by some invisible fire, until only ash remained.

The whole thing is just insane.

But I’m not the type to get stuck in denial. No matter how weird this situation was, I accepted it pretty quickly. Not because I’m brave or anything, but because I find it easier to deal with reality than fight it.

Even if that reality is brutal: if this keeps up, I’ll run out of time to be awake—permanently.

God loves to mess with people—not too little, not too much. Just enough to wreck you. And this one’s the wrecking kind, with a built-in countdown. I’ve got twelve days left.

I wasn’t skilled enough to figure out what force could manipulate my sleep like this. So instead, I had to ask: Why me?

If I couldn’t find the cause, I wouldn’t be able to fix it.

What the hell did I do to trigger this?

The most likely culprit was whatever happened the day before this started. I grabbed my calendar and flipped back six days. It was a Thursday. I remembered it rained hard that day—rare for Beijing.

I pulled out a notebook and started listing everything I’d done.

Most people would struggle to remember every detail from six days ago, but I’ve always had a freakishly good memory. It wasn’t hard.

I woke up at 7:00 like always. Everything was normal. Got to the shop at 8:00. The weather sucked, and business wasn’t great. Some auntie came in during the morning and browsed but didn’t buy anything. In the afternoon, a big-eyed woman came in and sold me a watch. Then I went home.

Pretty normal stuff. Nothing out of the ordinary.

I took a few deep drags of my cigarette, trying to dig up some hidden detail.

First, I could rule out the routine things—eating, showering, bathroom, all that. Then, out of the remaining events, I looked for anything suspicious.

The auntie didn’t even talk to me—no way she had anything to do with this.

That only left the woman with the big eyes.

We didn’t talk much. No physical contact. She didn’t give me anything to eat or drink. The only thing we exchanged—aside from a few words—was that watch.

At that thought, I stubbed out my cigarette and got up to head to the shop.

When I looked at the watch again, it just felt… off. No matter how I looked at it, something wasn’t right. I didn’t notice anything weird at first, but now?

Before I got into this business, the friend who brought me in gave me a warning: the real risk in this trade wasn’t money—it was the secondhand goods themselves.

New stuff is like a blank sheet of paper. It hasn’t belonged to anyone yet, so it’s free of history. But old items? They carry every story, every emotion, every trace of luck from their previous owners. And when the item changes hands, all that energy transfers with it.

Good or bad. Lucky or cursed.

If you get something from a rich and fortunate person, it can bring you wealth. But if it belonged to someone with terrible luck or a tragic fate… at best, you’ll lose money. At worst? You’ll lose everything.

That friend had warned me to always investigate an item’s background. Otherwise, I might invite disaster.

But I’d had such a smooth ride these past two years that I stopped taking his advice seriously.

Looks like I finally picked up something I shouldn’t have.

It was too late for regret. All I could do now was fix this.

That friend of mine… he’s got skills. Maybe he could help.

I grabbed my phone and dialed his number.