This is the most ruthless real estate agent I’ve ever seen.

Last week, I accompanied a friend to view a house, an old neighborhood, fifth floor, no elevator.
The agent is a middle-aged man in his fifties, with a full head of white hair, panting more than us climbing stairs.
He leans on the railing, saying this house is his own, not the company's, and he’ll retire after selling it.
My friend asked why he’s selling, and he said his son is abroad, his wife has passed away, and the house is too empty, making it uncomfortable to live in.
He said this while standing in front of the window, with his back to us, shoulders drooping, as if something had been pressing down on him for many years.
My friend’s heart softened and wanted to sign the contract on the spot.
I told him to wait and see.
On the way down, the middle-aged man was the last to leave, stopping at each floor, leaning on the wall, panting like a bellows.
He gasped and said, “You young people go ahead, I’ll come down slowly.”
My friend almost cried and said, “I want this house, I’m not looking anymore.”
After the deal was closed, we went to the property management office to transfer ownership.
The property manager woman flipped through the records and said this house was transferred just last month.
I asked who the previous owner was.
She said it was that old man.
He sold four apartments last year, all in this building, different floors, but all without elevators.
Every time he sold a house, he said it was his own, his son abroad, his wife gone, and the house too empty.
He changed floors four times within this building, each with a story of him struggling up the stairs.
The property manager said, “You’re the fifth,” then pulled out a medical report he had left at the property management office.
It said his cardiopulmonary function was normal, no organic lesions, no significant weight change in the past year, blood pressure normal, and recommended aerobic exercise.
She folded the report and put it into the file, adding, “He came last time to transfer ownership and complained about back pain, but he went up five floors in one breath without resting, faster than you.”
My friend stood in front of the property window, clutching the new keys he just received, and asked me if the scene last week—“the old man unable to climb stairs but stepping over five floors at once”—was real.
I said yes, he didn’t come today; he might already be downstairs in another building without an elevator, adjusting his breathing, preparing for the next set of stairs he can’t finish.
His suitcase still contains four more contracts for the same layout, each with the same story of panting.