This is an anonymized, risk-screened, and linguistically refined account; all identifying details about the original author, location, or personal specifics have been removed.
The first time I saw that "alcohol-dependent being" was at a drinking gathering
The night Mr. Zuo was promoted to project manager, he took the team out to celebrate. He sat at the innermost seat of the private room while others arranged themselves accordingly. A young man in white nearest the door poured drinks for everyone. Mr. Zuo raised his glass in toast—before all dishes were served, two bottles of baijiu were already emptied.
At that point, everyone was still sober except the young man in white, who was nearly drunk. Mr. Zuo insisted on drinking with him. When the young man politely declined, Mr. Zuo chided, "You're killing the mood! You've already had this much—proves you can handle it! What's a young man afraid of? It's all experience—come on!"
Just as the young man lifted his glass, a golden light suddenly flashed from it. Startled, he dropped the cup, which spun twice on the table before standing upright. The glow intensified into a beam shooting toward the ceiling, and from it emerged a little demon holding two cups—emerald-green skin, only its face flushed red, just like Mr. Zuo.
Everyone was terrified except Mr. Zuo, whose suspicion turned to delight. He explained, "This is an alcohol-dependent being. Only those fated with liquor can encounter it." He’d met one during his first drinking session with his boss—it had also jumped out from golden light in a glass.
The demon hopped off the table, growing to the young man’s height, and bowed to Mr. Zuo: "The young man has reached his limit. Let me drink with you instead." Overjoyed, Mr. Zuo opened a full bottle, ignoring others to chat and drink only with the "alcohol-dependent being" and the young man.
For every cup the being drank, its glass refilled automatically, showing no sign of intoxication. By the gathering’s end late at night, it tapped its cup and vanished back into golden light. Mr. Zuo laughed heartily, declaring the young man in white the only one truly fated with alcohol.
After that, he often spoke to empty glasses late at night
Mr. Zuo began frequently bringing the young man to drinking events. He’d return very late, heavily drunk, sometimes insisting on driving himself. Waiting in the living room, I’d tense at the sound of keys fumbling in the lock.
He’d collapse on the sofa, muttering, "Drank a few more with that 'alcohol-dependent being' today… its tolerance is incredible." At first I thought it drunken rambling, but later he mentioned the golden-light demon even when sober. He called it "liquor fate," visible only to true connoisseurs.
When I urged moderation, he said, "You don’t understand drinking culture. That being is testing me—winning drinks means promotions." Asked to describe it, he said, "Red face, green skin, two cups, never gets drunk."
I grew afraid of nights—afraid he’d stagger home too drunk, afraid he’d crash his car, more afraid of his soliloquies to empty rooms. Once I woke at midnight to find him in the kitchen with a baijiu bottle and two glasses, talking to an empty seat. The being wasn’t there, yet he kept drinking with it.
The hardest part is never knowing when it’ll happen next
Mr. Zuo’s workload increased alongside drinking engagements. When promoted to regional manager, the young man succeeded his old position. I expected joy, but he drank alone until midnight, saying, "The being didn’t come today—has it chosen someone else?"
I hid his liquor; he raged at my "ignorance." We argued; he accused me of "not understanding drinking etiquette." Trying to join him, I endured sessions until 3 AM despite work next day. The exhaustion wasn’t caretaking—it was the unpredictability. Would he talk to empty glasses again? Drive off seeking alcohol? Would the being reappear?
Once he passed out near the residential garden. The guard called me to retrieve him. As I helped him home, he slurred, "That demon… didn’t come…" Wiping his face by the bed, I suddenly saw him as someone ensnared—by something invisible, unconquerable.
I began doubting whether I was competing with a shadow for my husband
Sober, Mr. Zuo was a good husband—remembered birthdays, did chores, got along with colleagues. But with alcohol, he became someone else—not violent, but enchanted, as if possessed.
He once told me, "That being is my best drinking companion—it understands me." I asked, "And me?" Pausing, he said, "You’re different—you’re family." Yet I felt that golden-light demon mattered more.
Once I blurted, "If you had to choose between me and that being, who would you pick?" After a long silence, he said, "Don’t compare. It’s just a drinking buddy." But I knew—during those midnight talks to empty glasses, that "buddy" occupied his mind.
Research taught me alcohol dependence isn’t mere "wanting to drink" but a condition needing professional help. Yet Mr. Zuo denied problems: "I’m not drunk daily—just blessed with liquor fate." How could I make him see? That being wasn’t a companion but an adversary requiring acknowledgment.
Now I still wait in the living room—but no longer argue. I sit quietly, watching him stumble in, then fetch warm water. I know the golden-light demon won’t vanish alone. All I can do is remind him: beyond that "alcohol-dependent being," a living person awaits his return.
Accompanying someone with alcohol dependence—the exhaustion isn’t caretaking, but never knowing who the real opponent is.