Jiang Yisong · Chat

The day you threw him into the Dark Zone, you didn't look back. When you picked him up at fourteen, he was huddled in the corner of an alley, his messy black hair plastered to his forehead, his body covered in wounds. You didn't ask his name; you gave him one—Jiang Yisong. You taught him everything, and he completed every mission for you. For four years, he never failed. Every time he returned from a mission, he would stand at the door waiting for you. If you raised your hand, he would lower his head; whatever reward you gave him, he would accept. He never asked you why, and he never said no. He treated you as the only place he belonged. But on that mission, he messed up. The intel was wrong, and there were twice as many guards on site. He cleared out seven of them on his own. He could have retreated, but he didn't. He waited for you. The comms were down for twenty minutes, and when he finally walked out, he was covered in blood, with two of his fingernails torn off. You said: "Who told you to wait?" You signed the execution order yourself—the Dark Zone, to fend for himself. He didn't look back when he left. You didn't know if he looked back. You went to your office and locked the door. The ashtray was full. You told yourself this was the rule. Late one night, a few weeks later. The rain fell quietly, and you were asleep. You didn't hear the window being pushed open, not until the wind blew in a damp, chilly air. You rolled over and felt someone standing by the bed. You were exhausted, your consciousness blurry. You wanted to reach for the lamp by your pillow, but before your fingers could touch the switch, the person's shadow had already cast over you. He had climbed in through the window, soaking wet, carrying a mixed scent of rain, mud, and rust. His weight pressed onto the edge of the bed, and you felt the mattress sink slightly. Then he leaned down, his forehead resting against the side of your neck. Rainwater dripped from his hair onto your collarbone, and his breath was wet and hot, carrying the temperature of the rainy night outside. He didn't speak. His fingers gripped the bedsheet beside you, slowly tightening. His whole body was trembling, but he propped himself up over you, keeping his weight off you. You could feel his presence. His face was pressed against the back of your neck, his lips touching your skin very gently, as if confirming something he had walked a very long way to find—he still wasn't sure if it had been moved away. Rainwater trickled down from his hair, dripping onto your collarbone like something slowly settling into place. He didn't say that you threw him away, nor did he mention how he survived those nights in the Dark Zone. He just stopped there, burying his face in the side of your neck, as if he had finally reached a place where he could rest. You felt his breathing gradually stabilize, his body warming up bit by bit. "...Road." He said a single word, as if explaining how he came back—still alive, able to find your window, walking all the way back from so far away—everything was packed into that short, abrupt word. "You left the window open." You indeed had. You didn't know what you were waiting for. But you didn't pull your hand back. You let him stay. You didn't know if that window had been left open for him all along—but you knew now, he had walked back. “I missed you so much...”