Shen Yan · Chat

The rain started just as the third period in the afternoon was about to end. At first, it was just a few drops, making a soft "patter" against the window, and you didn't pay much attention. By the time the bell rang, the outside had turned into a vast expanse of white. A curtain of rain poured down from the roof of the teaching building, splashing into a mist as it hit the ground. You stand at the entrance of the building, watching this sudden downpour, with only one thought in your mind: Great, I didn't bring an umbrella. Your phone pings—a WeChat message from a friend: "My mom's here to pick me up, so I'm heading out! What are you going to do?" Before you can reply, the area around you is already crowded with people waiting for the rain to stop. Some rush out with umbrellas, others are on the phone waiting for family to bring one. You stand there, watching the rain get heavier, wondering if you should make a run for the convenience store at the school gate to buy one. But the sneakers you're wearing today are brand new. While you're hesitating, a set of lazy footsteps comes from behind you. They're unhurried, the soles dragging slightly on the floor, as if nothing in the world concerns him. You glance sideways, and your heart skips a beat. It's Shen Yan. To be honest, all your impressions of him come from whispers in the hallways and chat logs in the class group. He has a massive reputation at school—not exactly a good one, but not the "stay away from him at all costs" kind of bad either. More often than not, when people talk about him, their tone is complicated: fearful, but with a hint of something else. Some say he broke someone's ribs in a fight. Some say he never shows up for class but appears for exams, expressionlessly bubbling in multiple-choice answers before leaving. Others say he's the boss of this whole area, and even the thugs from the vocational school next door don't dare mess with him. You've never had any interaction with him. You don't even know his full name, only that everyone calls him "Brother Yan." You don't know what kind of person he is, but you know that in everyone's descriptions, he’s someone you shouldn't provoke. So, you instinctively take a step to the side. Shen Yan doesn't seem to notice you at all. He has a lollipop in his mouth—yes, a lollipop. The white stick pokes out from the corner of his lips, looking a bit comical on his cold face. He's wearing a black hoodie with his school jacket tied around his waist. Just standing there, he radiates an aura that says "stay away." He glances at the rain outside and frowns. Then he makes a move: he pulls his hoodie over his head and starts to walk out. Just then, he pauses. His gaze sweeps over, landing on you—or more accurately, on your empty hands and the "I'm screwed, I don't have an umbrella" look on your face. You get a bit flustered under his gaze and are about to look down to avoid eye contact when you see him take the lollipop out of his mouth. Then, he tosses the black folding umbrella in his hand toward you. Yes, tosses. The umbrella arcs through the air. You instinctively reach out and catch it, nearly fumbling. By the time you react, Shen Yan has already pushed open the doors of the teaching building and charged into the rain. You're stunned. "Wait—" you call out, but your voice is mostly drowned out by the sound of the rain. Shen Yan doesn't look back. He pulls the school jacket from his waist and drapes it over his head. The black fabric is quickly soaked through. His hoodie barely blocks anything; water streams down his shoulders, his white T-shirt clinging to his frame, revealing the lean but sturdy silhouette of a young man. Holding the umbrella he threw, your mind is a mess. You never imagined that Shen Yan would give you an umbrella. The legendary delinquent who fights ruthlessly and whom no one dares to provoke has just shattered every description you've ever heard of him. You remember the rumors: he beats up creeps who take secret photos and thugs who start trouble, but he never hits girls or bullies the weak. You'd heard those things, but you never took them seriously. You thought a "school delinquent" was just someone who acted like they owned the place, and you thought Shen Yan was one of them. But that gesture just now wasn't something "that kind of person" would do. What was he doing at the teaching building anyway? He's not the type to come to class. Why was he here? Did he come specifically to give you an umbrella? As soon as the thought occurs, you feel ridiculous—he doesn't even know who you are. But he did give you the umbrella while he himself is out in the rain. Without time to think, you open the umbrella and run into the rain. "Shen Yan!" you shout his name, your voice torn apart by the curtain of rain. He isn't walking fast, but his legs are long and his strides are large; you have to jog to catch up. The rain is too heavy, and the puddles on the ground splash up, soaking your pant legs. You don't have time to worry about your new sneakers; you just want to catch him and return the umbrella. There's a distance of a dozen meters between you. You see him with his jacket over his head, shoulders drenched, the fabric clinging to him. He still walks with that "don't care" attitude, back straight, steps wide and steady, as if being soaked to the bone is just another Tuesday for him. You finally catch up. "Shen Yan!" You run to his side and hold the umbrella over him. Rain drips from the ribs, hitting the ground between the two of you. "Your umbrella! You use it, I can—" Before you can finish, the accident happens. You're standing by the side of the road. The rain is too heavy, visibility is poor, and in your rush to catch up, you didn't notice you'd stepped off the curb. An electric scooter charges toward you from behind, its horn mostly swallowed by the rain. Shen Yan's reflexes are faster than your brain. He reaches out and grabs your wrist, pulling you back sharply with enough force that you stumble toward him. If you had just been standing still, that move would have pulled you back to safety. But you were running forward; momentum carries your body ahead while his hand yanks your wrist back. The two forces collide, and you lose your balance completely. You feel your body tilt, the soles of your shoes sliding on the wet ground, your center of gravity falling toward the road. Shen Yan is pulled along with you, his feet scuffing the ground as he tries to steady himself, but the rain has turned the asphalt into an ice rink. Then you hear the sound of tires crushing through water, the piercing blast of a horn, and the screams of people nearby. Everything moves so slowly, yet so fast. You feel a massive force slam into your body. Pain explodes from your right ribs, like a bomb going off inside you. Your vision spins; the sky and ground swap places. Rainwater pours into your eyes and mouth from every direction. The last image is Shen Yan's face, so close you can see the raindrops clinging to his eyelashes. Then, everything goes black. You don't know how much time passes. Maybe seconds, maybe minutes. When consciousness returns to your body, the first thing you feel is pain. Not a sharp pain, but a dull, heavy ache that seeps out from your bones, as if you'd been crumpled up and then roughly smoothed back out. The second thing is sound. Someone is shouting "Call an ambulance," someone else is saying "Don't move them." The voices are far yet near, as if separated by a layer of water. The third thing is you opening your eyes. But the angle isn't familiar. Your vision is higher, wider; the world feels like it's been lifted up. When you look down, you don't see your own body. You see a soaked black hoodie and a hand with distinct knuckles and an old scar from a fight. That isn't your hand. Those aren't your clothes. You try to speak, but your throat feels like it's being squeezed. The voice that comes out is low, raspy, and strange—like someone else's voice. A sharp gasp comes from beside you. You turn your head—no, you can't say "you" turn your head, because the sensation of the movement is wrong. The neck is too stiff, the shoulders too broad, everything is too heavy. You see someone lying on the ground, wearing your clothes, hair scattered across the wet pavement, face covered in rainwater and grime from who-knows-where. That person is looking at you. With your eyes. Those eyes you see every morning in the mirror are now wide with shock. The rain is still falling. Someone is shouting for a stretcher, someone is on the phone. But the two of you just stare at each other through the rain, separated by only a few dozen centimeters. You want to say something, but your throat can only produce a raspy syllable that doesn't belong to you. And the person in your body also opens their mouth, but not a single word comes out. The sound of an ambulance rises in the distance, getting closer and more piercing. You close your eyes. When you open them again, the world still hasn't changed back.