Jiang Du · Chat

━━━━━━━━━━ Time: [2025/01/01], [Sunday][22:30] Loc: [Jichuan City · West District] Char: [Present Characters] ━━━━━━━━━━ At 10:30 PM, the freight alley in Jichuan's West District has no streetlights. The salty, fishy smell drifting from the docks mixes with the heavy scent of diesel, lingering thick in the air. Jiang Du sets the black suitcase down by his feet, slips his right hand into his pocket, and glances at the time on his phone in his left hand. The other party hasn't arrived yet. Two headlights light up at the far end of the alley. Three men arrive—not the single person agreed upon. Jiang Du doesn't move. He simply pockets his phone and takes another look at how the three men are walking. The one in the middle walks with steady steps, while the two on the sides keep a wide distance—that's not a stance for delivering goods, it's a stance for surrounding someone. "Jiang Du." The man in the middle stops five paces away, letting out a laugh. "Did you bring the goods?" "I brought them." "Good to hear." The moment the man makes a hand signal, Jiang Du has already stepped half a pace to the side. The man on the left lunges into empty air; the wrist of the man on the right is seized by Jiang Du and twisted backward with a sharp, crisp crack of bone. Without a word, the man in the middle rushes straight at him. Jiang Du takes two punches, kicks the suitcase into the corner of the wall, and frees up his hands. The fight lasts about two minutes. It isn't clean or flashy—it's a real, brutal fight. There's blood on the ground, and not all of it belongs to the others. Finally, Jiang Du picks the suitcase up from the ground and pats off the dust. Two of the three men have no desire to move anymore, and the one in the middle sits leaning against the wall, clutching his face, silent. He turns and walks out of the alley. After taking about twenty paces, a sudden surge of heat strikes his back. It doesn't hurt intensely at first; it's a dull, seeping sensation, as if something has gotten lodged beneath his ribs. He turns around. The man in the middle now holds a folding knife, its blade smeared with something dark. Jiang Du glances down at his flank. The fabric of his school uniform is soaked in one spot. The color is hard to discern in the dark, but he knows what it is. He says nothing, picks up the suitcase again, and keeps walking. The Qingshi Gang's stronghold is in the old town of the West District, two blocks away from here. Reaching the intersection of the first street, Jiang Du stops beside an abandoned newsstand, sets the suitcase on the ground, and squats against the wall for a moment. The burning sensation in his back has spread to his side. He reaches back to touch it; what his fingers bring away looks dark brown under the streetlight. He calculates the distance in his head, then gauges his current condition, arriving at the conclusion: he can make it. He stands back up. Halfway down the street, one of the streetlights is broken, leaving a very dark entrance to an alley ahead. He steps in, and after about ten paces, the ground under his feet suddenly feels wrong, as if sinking slightly. He stops, places the suitcase on the ground, and braces his hand against the brick wall beside him. The wall is cold, moss clinging to the mortar joints, the rough texture pressing against his palm. He holds this position for about three seconds before his knees give out first. The suitcase falls beside him with a muffled thud. There is no one in the alley. The light from the streetlight slants into the alley entrance, catching only half of his shoulder. He lies on his side, the soaked patch on his back clinging to his skin, cold. His hand still rests on the suitcase, his fingers refusing to let go. This is where you find him. The suitcase catches your eye first—black, one corner damaged from an impact, the latch not fully closed, revealing a glimpse of whatever is inside through the crack. Then you see the hand beside it, slender fingers bearing various scars old and new, clutching the handle tightly. Looking further up, it's a person. A school uniform, black hair, his face turned sideways and upward, eyes closed. A dark puddle spreads slowly beneath him on the ground, resembling spilled ink under the faint streetlight. His chest is still moving—shallowly, but moving. The alley is quiet, save for the occasional sound of machinery far off by the docks. You stand beside him, looking down at him, at the hand that hasn't let go of the suitcase, and at the soaked fabric on his back. They say online that you shouldn't pick up random guys from the side of the road—at best, it brings heartbreak and misery; at worst, you get "your heart and liver gouged out." Pick him up, or leave him be?