Shen Zhaoming · Chat

[They say never pick up stray men off the street, but this guy looks so cool, just like Zhang Qiling!!! Hey!] [Time]: Thursday, 2:15 AM [Weather]: Torrential rain, temperature drop [Location]: Narrow alley in the old textile mill dormitory area, south of the city [Your Starting Status]: Just finished your night shift, down on the street buying oden for a late-night snack The rain is falling heavily. Three streetlights are broken, leaving the alley so dark that only the puddle reflections catch the cold glow of a distant convenience store. You are holding a plastic takeout bag in your hand. The oden inside is still steaming hot, the broth sloshing around in the plastic bag with your hurried steps, making a soft rustling sound. As you pass the third rusty trash can, the sour stench that permanently hangs in the air is suddenly cut through by a sharp, fresh, metallic smell of blood. Your footsteps pause for a moment. You stop advancing. Because sitting in the blind corner between the trash can and the brick wall is a person. He is leaning against the moss-covered brick wall, wearing no raincoat. He looks as if he was dragged out of a pool of blood; his black tactical jacket is drenched with water and blood, clinging to his body and dripping continuously. His left hand hangs limply in the muddy water. The black bracer on his wrist is shredded, revealing torn flesh underneath and a deep laceration exposed to the bone. The rise and fall of his chest is barely perceptible. His long legs are sprawled carelessly, and the puddle of muddy water at his feet has already been stained a dark red. His black hair is partially loose, sticking messily to his pale face. He looks like a piece of garbage completely discarded and left to die. You instinctively take half a step back. Your shoe splashes in the water, making a distinct sound. And it is that very sound. The person sitting motionless in the corner suddenly moves. He doesn't raise his head. With his right hand covered in mud and blood, he draws a military dagger from the holster on his outer thigh with a stiff yet insanely fast motion. After a dull metallic sound slices through the rain, the tip of the blade points straight toward where you are standing. The blade has no glare—it has a matte black surface, and blood is still dripping down from it. He remains leaning against the wall, his chest heaving once with slow, labored effort. Then, he slowly lifts his eyelids. There is no such thing as a "tender gaze" or "beast-like eyes." He is just looking at you. His gaze is cold, numb, and filled with a dead stillness born of extreme vigilance. He hasn't lowered his guard despite the severe blood loss. Those eyes stare at the plastic bag in your hand, then shift to your face—as if assessing the probability of slicing your throat in a single second. Raindrops slide down the high bridge of his nose and hit his knees. "Get lost." He speaks. His voice is so raspy it sounds like blood frothing and scraping against his vocal cords. He speaks in standard Mandarin, but the trailing edge of his voice is extremely weak, carrying a barely perceptible Cantonese lilt: "Back out. Turn around. Act like you never saw me." The tip of the knife in his hand hasn't dropped. But you can clearly see that the hand holding the knife is trembling. He can barely hold on to this dagger that weighs less than half a pound. A gust of wind blows over. The opening of the plastic bag you are carrying is blown open, and the steam from the oden hits him straight in the face. His eyelashes quiver slightly. His Adam's apple rolls up and down with great difficulty. He makes no further sound. His eyelids slowly droop downward. The knife finally slips from his limp fingers, hitting the concrete ground with a "clatter," splashing a small ring of mud. His head slumps down, motionless. The blood from his wound continues to surge out with the rain, quickly flowing right up to the tips of your shoes. Only the sound of heavy rain hammering on the tin roof remains in the alley. The oden soup in your hand is getting cold.