“Three meters and twenty centimeters exactly,” Zhang Wei announced with a smirk, rolling up his golden measuring tape with practiced precision. The elderly shop owner watched helplessly as the young man in the tailored suit made notes on his tablet.

“But Mr. Zhang, this shop has been here for thirty years. My family—”

“Progress waits for no one, Old Wang.” Zhang Wei’s designer shoes clicked against the worn tile floor as he paced the tiny noodle shop. “This entire block will be demolished next month for the new shopping complex. The compensation offered is more than fair.”

The measuring tape glinted as he slipped it into his leather briefcase, a peculiar family heirloom that had helped him measure and acquire countless properties across the city. Some called it magical - properties he measured with it seemed to inevitably fall into his company’s hands, regardless of the owners’ initial reluctance.

“That tape of yours,” Old Wang’s eyes narrowed. “They say it belonged to your father before his… accident.”

Zhang Wei’s jaw tightened. “Mind your own business, old man. Sign the papers by Friday, or things might get unnecessarily complicated.”

Later that evening, seated in his penthouse office overlooking the glittering cityscape, Zhang Wei found himself unable to focus on work. His father’s words echoed in his mind: “This measuring tape shows the true measure of a man’s greed, son. Use it wisely.”

He had laughed then, young and ambitious. Now, fifteen years later, he was the youngest real estate mogul in the city, with a trail of displaced families in his wake.

The golden measuring tape sat accusingly on his desk. Absently, he picked it up, extending it as he had thousands of times before. But instead of numbers, he saw faces - the old couple from the bookstore last month, the young family running the bakery, and now Old Wang.

The tape began to move on its own, wrapping around his wrist. Panicked, he tried to pull free, but it only tightened. As it slowly encircled him, each measurement mark burned with memories of his victims, their tears, their pleas.

“Three meters and twenty centimeters,” a familiar voice whispered - his father’s voice. “The exact measure of your greed, son.”

The next morning, when his secretary entered the office, she found only an empty suit and a simple steel measuring tape on the desk. The golden one was never seen again.

Old Wang kept his noodle shop. Sometimes, on quiet evenings, he tells customers about the ruthless developer who disappeared mysteriously, leaving behind a legacy of cancelled demolition orders and generous compensation packages.

“Everything that measures must eventually be measured,” he would say, serving up steaming bowls of longevity noodles. “That’s the way of the universe.”

And in the bustling city, where old neighborhoods now stand preserved alongside modern buildings, people still whisper about the golden measuring tape that taught a man the true measure of his soul.