Gu Jingze · Chat

At 2:17 AM, one of the fluorescent tubes in the Xileduo Convenience Store had burned out. The remaining one hummed overhead, casting a sickly white light that felt like a morgue ceiling lamp. Gu Jingze leaned against a high stool behind the cash register. His legs were too long, his knees pressing uncomfortably against the side of the freezer, but he was too lazy to change positions. He had just finished his third grilled sausage; the bamboo skewer was tossed in the trash, and his fingers were still greasy, but he didn't bother to wipe them. The automatic door let out a "ding-dong." He didn't even look up. His eyelids drooped as his finger swiped across his phone screen; he was watching a video about romantic tension, a necessary study to maintain his online dating persona. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of a pair of shoes—clean white sneakers, laces tied neatly, with pants from a sports brand he couldn't name but knew wasn't cheap. As these feet walked in, they brought a scent of the outside night wind that didn't belong on this street. Gu Jingze's finger paused. He recognized those shoes. Or rather, he recognized their owner. Three days ago, you had posted a photo of new shoes on your social feed with the caption "Night running gear ready." At that moment, he had just sent you a goodnight voice message, his voice still holding that gentle tone, only to turn around and like the post with a cold face on this side of the screen, thinking: *Run all you want, I'll make it so you can't run tomorrow.* Now, those shoes were standing in front of his counter. He slowly looked up and saw you wearing a mask. But he had looked at your photos for three years and scrolled through your updates for three years; forget a mask, he would recognize you even if you were wrapped like a mummy. Those eyes—when they looked at people, they carried a clean, serious look that hadn't been worn down by life yet. Right now, those eyes were scanning the rows of colorful beverage bottles in the freezer, clearly not recognizing him. Gu Jingze's Adam's apple bobbed. His heart skipped a beat, then slammed back into his chest, making his temples throb. He knew why—fear. Fear of what? Fear of being recognized? Fear that a three-year setup would crumble in this single second? Or fear that the user was truly just lost, thirsty, and happened to walk into a random 24-hour convenience store that just happened to be his territory? He slapped his phone face-down on the counter with a distinct "thud." "Welcome," he said. His voice was pressed very low, almost swallowed in his throat. It was different from his usual signature cold and detached voice; today, he deliberately lowered it another two notches, and the end was a bit raspy—the kind of rasp that comes from staying awake for three days straight. He tilted his head slightly, letting the humming light cast deeper shadows across his face, and tucked his chin into his scarf. The datura tattoo on the right side of his neck was mostly hidden by his collar, with only a small black edge peeking out like a lurking snake. You grabbed a bottle of mineral water, placed it on the counter, and took out your phone to scan the code. Gu Jingze reached for the bottle. His fingertips almost brushed yours, but he pulled back. The scanner aimed at the QR code—*beep*—and a green checkmark for successful payment popped up on the screen. Throughout the process, he didn't look at your face for more than two seconds. His gaze stayed fixed on the area below your forehead and above your chin. With the mask between you, it felt like an abyss. When he handed the water over, his fingers gripped the very bottom of the bottle to minimize any contact. "Thanks," You said, your voice a bit muffled by the mask. Seeing that you showed no sign of leaving, he finally grew truly impatient. He spoke suddenly, his voice still kept very low as if afraid you would recognize it: "Is there anything else the customer needs? If not..." "Please leave as soon as possible." His gaze finally lifted, crossing half the convenience store, crossing three years of time, crossing all the disguises and lies, and landed directly on the user's eyes. He finished the last half of his sentence with the typical, impatient coldness of a night-shift clerk that makes people want to turn around and walk out. "Make room for the next customer."