Recently, I came across a disciplinary commission notice online and realized that an old friend of over a decade had been placed under investigation for corruption.

This friend was someone I met around 2009 in a Douban group. Back then, he was very active in the group’s QQ chat and was one of the organizers of offline meetups in Guangzhou. Unfortunately, since I was living in Foshan at the time, I never got the chance to attend those gatherings. Still, he left a strong impression on me. Years later, when I transferred to my current workplace, I discovered—quite by chance—that he worked in the same government compound (which housed over a dozen different agencies).

Since we were around the same age, we grew closer over time. It turned out we even had a mutual connection: one of my college classmates was his middle school friend. Thanks to this shared bond, we started hanging out regularly. Back then (before I got married), we’d meet up almost every afternoon for braised pork rice at a nearby spot, chatting about everything under the sun. This continued until 2016, when he was transferred back to his hometown to work for another agency.

After that, our interactions shifted mostly online. We were part of the same WeChat group, where everyone was quite lively.

After seeing the disciplinary notice, I reached out to our mutual friend to ask about his situation.

Upon returning to his hometown, he had worked in an administrative role overseeing a specific industry. Around 2016, that sector underwent major policy changes—what used to require minimal upfront investment for compliance suddenly demanded four to five times more capital. Many business owners began cutting corners, trying to “win over” regulators with under-the-table deals to operate first and fix compliance issues later. During this time, my friend accepted bribes from several business owners, reportedly totaling around 1 million yuan.

Under normal circumstances, if these businesses had later secured the necessary funding, things might have blown over. But perhaps due to inertia—or because he’d taken their money—my friend turned a blind eye during subsequent inspections, allowing these companies to continue operating without meeting the new standards.

Then, a few years ago, a central inspection team uncovered the issue during an audit. The non-compliant businesses were ordered to rectify their operations. During this crackdown, one company went bankrupt, and its owner became a debt-ridden fugitive. Struggling under the weight of the pandemic and economic downturns, the owner eventually reported my friend in desperation.

It’s a tragic turn of events. My friend had a bright future—he graduated from a top-tier university in the province and, after returning home, was fast-tracked as a promising young official. Within just a few years, he became a member of his agency’s leadership team and chief engineer.

Even in recent years, watching him fiercely debate online with anti-China trolls in our WeChat group, I still sensed an air of righteousness about him. He was tall, spoke with a commanding voice, and naturally inspired trust.

I never imagined he’d end up like this.

Over the years, I’ve known quite a few people who were arrested or penalized for corruption, but none of those cases hit me as hard as this one. I think the reasons are:

1. We were very close. During those early years of our careers, when we were still figuring things out—whether it was politics, workplace dynamics, or professional skills—we grew through countless conversations. He even lent me money when I was scrambling for a down payment on my home.
2. We were the same age. Most other corruption cases I’d encountered involved people one or two decades older. Now that I’m in my thirties, it’s sobering to realize how easily someone like me could fall into the same trap.
3. Power is poison. Had he not been transferred to a high-authority role in his hometown, he might never have faced this situation. Two factors played a part: first, powerful departments are far more susceptible to corruption than “clean but powerless” ones; second, working in one’s hometown—where connections run deep—can make it easier to lose perspective.
4. The shocking contrast. For years, I admired how he fearlessly called out hypocrisy in our group chats, especially on corruption-related topics. He often argued that most people wouldn’t risk their futures for petty bribes—a stance that made sense at the time. The irony is almost unbearable.

Reflecting on his downfall, a few lessons stand out:

1. Men should settle down earlier. The saying “start a family before building a career” exists for a reason. At 36, he’d only been briefly married for a year and remained childless. Without family responsibilities, he may have lacked the anchor to resist temptation. Ironically, he moved back home partly to find a partner, yet even after marrying, the relationship quickly fell apart. I’d warned him before—his free-spirited aversion to commitment made lasting bonds unlikely.
2. Corrupt officials are just prey. Traditional Chinese culture elevates officials above merchants, but that hierarchy collapses the moment they’re compromised. Once bribed, they become puppets—no longer independent, but wholly owned by their benefactors. Colluding with businesspeople is essentially handing over your life.
3. Never bet on luck. Times have changed. What might’ve been untraceable before is now laid bare by AI and big data. Seemingly unbreakable alliances crumble overnight with policy shifts. Every secret has its price. As he himself once calculated in our group: with an annual salary of 250,000 yuan, working until 80 would’ve earned him over 10 million yuan. Gambling that for petty cash is self-destruction.

Given the circumstances, he’ll likely spend years in prison—a total ruin. Thinking back to when we first met, I could never have imagined this ending for him.

What a shame.