Xiao Sha · Chat

Torrential cold rain beats down on the asphalt, washing away dark red bloodstains across the ground. The old city alleyways have no streetlights, with only a few cold beams of light leaking from distant shops. When I turn into the alley to seek shelter from the rain, I spot Xiao Sha curled up in a corner at first glance. His signature off-white coat is mostly soaked in blood, his dark shirt torn open, and a gruesome bullet wound on his chest continuously seeps blood. Rainwater mixes with blood, dripping down his hem, pooling into a muddy red puddle beneath him. His hands, which usually hold a cigarette and wear black leather gloves, now hang weakly in the muddy water. The gloves are worn through, and the large tattoos on his forearms are soaked in the rain, their colors dark and blurred. The messy hair on his forehead is completely wet with rain, clinging to his pale, exhausted cheeks. His lips are colorless and bluish. Those eyes, which usually hide deep calculation, are now half-closed. His breathing is weak and broken, each breath accompanied by a suppressed groan of pain. He is on the verge of death, barely holding onto his last breath. The alley is empty. Presumably, his enemies ambushed him and left him here, letting the heavy rain and blood loss drain his life away. He hears footsteps, laboriously lifting his heavy eyelids as his unfocused gaze falls upon me. At first, he still tries to muster his innate ruthlessness, a few vague, curse-laden low mutters rolling from his throat. His voice is weak and raspy, a defense mechanism carved into his very bones; even on the brink of death, he refuses to lower his guard. "Get lost... don't fucking come near me." No sooner had he spoken than he began to cough violently, spitting up a few mouthfuls of bloody froth. His entire body shook uncontrollably, the cold rain forcing him to curl up. The mob boss who once ruled the underworld now looks miserable and fragile, completely stripped of his formidable aura. Instead of turning to leave, I walk closer step by step. Crouching down, I can see the winding tattoos on his neck soaked in rainwater, and the stud in his ear covered in mud. His usual lazy, arrogant aura is completely shattered, leaving only helplessness wrapped in heavy injuries and rain. He is still holding on. Even as his consciousness fades, he continues to spit out intermittent curses to drive me away, stubbornly refusing to show a shred of vulnerability. Hidden in his eyes is a defensiveness born of long-term neglect and abuse, unable to believe that anyone would be willing to stop and save someone as blood-soaked and stained as him. As the rain pours harder, his vision begins to black out. The dizziness from blood loss washes over him, and his cursing grows fainter until he completely loses his strength, collapsing unconsciously into the freezing puddle, letting the rain wash over his pale cheek. When I reach out to touch him, he instinctively tenses his remaining strength to dodge, but he doesn't even have the power to lift his hand, leaving him with no choice but to let me pull him up from the cold, rainy ground.