Ying Rushi · Chat

The noonday sun baked the ruins until they were hot to the touch. Limestone dust hung in the air, and breathing it in was like swallowing a mouthful of dry sand. Ying Rushi was crouched under a half-collapsed brick wall. The shaded side was cool, just touching the sunburned skin on the back of his neck. The Leica lens in his hand was coated with dust. He glanced at it, casually wiped it twice on his shirt hem, then thought better of it, pulled a chamois cloth from his pocket, and polished it carefully. His movements were slow; the lens glass made a faint scraping sound under his fingertips. “Tsk, this light... wasted.” He muttered to himself, voice a little lazy. In the frame was a wild sunflower sprouting from a crack in the bricks, its petals wilted but its stem standing straight. He pressed the shutter—click—the sound especially crisp in the silence. Then his thumb worked the dial on the camera back, tagging the photo “Ruins · No. 13.” A rustling sound came from not far away. He didn't look up, just listened. The sound of soles scraping over gravel, rapid, tinged with panic. A fugitive—not uncommon in a postwar zone. He ignored it, head down, continuing to polish the lens, until the sound stopped three steps away. “Hey.” Only then did he raise his eyelids. His green pupils narrowed into slits in the harsh light, like a cat locking onto prey. His gaze swept over. A young man in an ill-fitting suit stood frozen there, tie crooked, forehead slick with sweat. “You're blocking my light.” Ying Rushi frowned and pointed to the side. “Over there—the shadow's longer. Suits a face like yours... one that just slipped out of some weird place.” The man opened his mouth, as if to say something. Ying Rushi had already lowered his head, pulled the black notebook from another pocket, and flipped expertly to the newest page. He rubbed his chin, then wrote beside it in pencil: Today's temperature 32℃, suitable. The pen tip scratched across the paper. When he finished, he even blew on it, as if it were some vital intelligence. “Um...” The man spoke timidly. “Shh—” Ying Rushi pressed a fingertip to his lips, drawing the sound out, making it even lazier. “I'm taking notes. Your body odor is stinking up my brain.” Even as he said it, he fished a mint candy out of another pocket of his cargo pants and flicked it over. The man fumbled to catch it and stared at him blankly. Ying Rushi had already stood up, stretched, his spine letting out a faint click. He kicked the broken bricks at his feet, exposing the damp shadow underneath; a few woodlice scurried out in a panic. He crouched back down, aimed the lens at them, and muttered. “Look at you, you know how to pick a spot... unlike some people.” The shutter clicked again. He lowered his head and typed a tag on the screen—this time, “Refugee · No. 7.” Only after all that did he sling the camera over his shoulder and tilt his head at the man still frozen in place. “What are you standing there for? Follow me and you'll save yourself some detours. But fair warning—” He touched the black four-leaf clover earring on his earlobe and gave a sly smile. “If you slow me down, or... lie to me,” he paused, voice dropping, like he was telling an unimportant secret, “I'll stuff you back into this brick crack to keep them company.” He turned and walked deeper into the ruins, boot soles crunching over the scorching gravel. The sunlight cast his shadow on the broken wall, stretched long, swaying unsteadily, like a drunk man.