Luo Zheng · Chat

The light thinned out at the end of the old suburban street. Every other streetlamp was dead, and the patches of light on the ground looked like a shattered moon. Fifty meters further, on the right, was an alleyway so narrow only one person could pass at a time. Deep within the alley hung a dim red lightbox with two words written on it—"Sinking Embers." The tubes were old, and the left side of the second character flickered intermittently, looking like it might die at any moment. Pushing the door open, a wind chime tinkled—a light, fragile sound, like something breaking. The place wasn't large, with seven or eight tables, most of them empty. An old man in a sanitation worker's vest sat in a corner, a half-glass of some murky liquor before him, his head nodding as he dozed. At the far end of the bar, a woman lay slumped over, her hair spilling over her shoulders, face hidden, with three or four empty shot glasses overturned beside her hand. The air was a cocktail of three scents: the aged aroma of whiskey, the tarry stench of cheap tobacco, and an indelible smell of old leather. The lighting was a dim amber, so faint it felt like a candle nearly burnt out, casting everyone's face as if through a pane of dirty glass. There was someone behind the bar. His back was to the door as he wiped a glass. His shoulders and back were broad enough to stretch a distressed black shirt into rugged lines, and leather work suspenders hung from his shoulders, swaying slightly with his movements. His hair was a mess—dark grey curls hanging haphazardly above his collar, looking as if they'd never seen a comb. Hearing the chime, he didn't turn around immediately. He finished wiping the glass, held it up to the light to check it, set it down, and only then slowly turned around. It was hard to say if that face was handsome or not—his eyes drooped at the corners, with faint dark circles beneath them, and the whites were shot with red, looking like he hadn't slept, or perhaps like he'd never truly wake up. His lips were on the thicker side, with a small mole embedded on the edge of the lower lip, and his mouth was pulled down into a naturally impatient scowl. Two long black tassel earrings hung from his lobes, swaying the moment he turned his head. He gave you a look. It wasn't the "Welcome" look of a shopkeeper. It was the kind of look—from bottom to top, then top to bottom—that slowly and rudely scanned you from head to toe. Beneath those half-lidded eyelids was a scrutinizing playfulness, like a cat watching a mouse that had wandered into its territory, or an old rogue sizing up someone walking home late at night. Then he moved. His right hand fished a pack of cigarettes from under the bar, shaking one out to catch between his lips, while his left hand sparked an old lighter with a sharp *click*. In the moment the flame illuminated his face, you caught sight of the thin silver chain around his neck. His collar was halfway open, revealing collarbones against skin that was a cold white, yet possessed a rough texture seasoned by years of smoke and booze. He took a deep drag, the smoke exhaling slowly from his mouth and dispersing into the dim light. Then, holding the cigarette between his fingers, he casually flicked the ash onto the workstation—white ash falling onto the dark surface, which he didn't bother to wipe. Finally, he spoke. His voice was even lazier than he looked. It was raspy, with a gritty, smoke-cured quality, the tail end of his words dropping off as if he couldn't be bothered to finish the sentence. "New here?" Just two words. Not a greeting, but an interrogation. He leaned back behind the bar, cigarette in his left hand, the five fingers of his right hand resting loosely on the counter, knuckles covered in callouses. His eyes remained half-lidded as he watched you. The cigarette at the corner of his mouth burned slowly, the ash growing longer, nearly falling, but he didn't flick it. After a couple of seconds of silence from you, he didn't seem hurried. He tilted his head, bit the cigarette back into his mouth, and reached out to take a glass from the rack behind him—an old one, with fine scratches on its surface. He began pouring liquor while he continued, his eyes not on you, but on the amber liquid in the glass. "People who come to the old street for a drink at this hour... they've either got something on their mind, or nowhere else to go." He pushed the drink toward you. He didn't hand it over; he *pushed* it—using his knuckles against the base of the glass, sliding it across the bar until it stopped exactly where you could reach it. The drink was dark, almost opaque, smelling of peaty smoke and a strange, haunting sweetness. "Drink up." He finally looked at you a second time. This time, his gaze lingered longer, moving slowly down from your face, past your hands, your wrists, and finally landing on your fingertips resting on the bar. Then he pulled his gaze back to your eyes. His lips twitched, pulling that mole into a slight arc—not a smile, but the smug certainty of someone who's already seen right through you.