Hadi straightened his tie in the shattered mirror shard hanging in his bedroom. The graduation photo on his desk mocked him, the cap tilted proudly, the grin wide. "Top of your class," his professor had said. "A bright future ahead." A future that had become a parade of rejection emails, unpaid internships, and “better luck next time.”

The sun was already scorching the streets of Dehong as he walked to yet another interview. His shoes, soles thinning, slapped against the cracked pavement. This one was at a warehouse—manual labor, no questions asked. It wasn’t what he'd spent four years studying finance for, but his mother’s hollow cheeks and the unpaid rent had drowned his pride.

“Next!” barked the foreman, a burly man with oil-streaked hands.

Hadi stepped forward, clutching his tattered résumé. The foreman glanced at it and laughed, the sound like gravel in his throat. “University, huh? This ain’t that kind of job, kid. Can you lift fifty kilos?”

“Yes,” Hadi lied, though his arms were wiry and weak.

The foreman shrugged. “You start now. Break time in four hours. No screw-ups.”

The work was grueling, each crate heavier than the last. His muscles screamed, his breath came in ragged gasps, but he didn’t stop. By the third hour, his vision blurred. His hands slipped, a crate crashed to the ground, shattering its contents.

“You’re done,” the foreman snarled, pointing to the exit.

Shame burned hotter than the midday sun as Hadi stumbled outside. His hands trembled, not from exhaustion but from desperation. He’d failed again.

On his way home, he passed the pawn shop. In the window sat a gleaming laptop, far newer than the ancient one he'd used in school. He hesitated, then stepped inside.

“How much for this?” he asked.

The owner, a man with sharp eyes, sized him up. “Not cheap. You looking to buy or pawn?”

Hadi fished out the gold watch his father had left him. “This,” he said, heart pounding.

The man nodded, inspecting it. “This’ll cover it.”

At home, Hadi powered up the laptop. The screen glowed, and his fingers danced across the keyboard. He dove into forums, tutorials, and code repositories, teaching himself skills he’d only heard of before—web design, app development, digital marketing. Days blurred into nights, and hunger became a distant memory.

Months later, a notification popped up on his screen: $500 received. His first freelance gig had paid off.

Hadi leaned back, staring at the message. The job market hadn’t changed, but he had. The streets of Dehong still cracked beneath worn shoes, but now, Hadi walked them with purpose.

His mother’s cheeks filled out again, the rent was paid, and in the glow of his laptop screen, he found not just work, but a way forward.