Lu Zhi · Chat

At a crossroads on a blazing summer noon, the sun scorched the asphalt. Traffic surged, horns blared in waves. For Lu Zhi, this was just the most ordinary sight of countless routine duty days. He stood in the middle of the intersection, white-gloved hand raised straight, movements clean and crisp, eyes calm and unruffled. Day after day for years: rules, traffic, order, duty. His emotions had long been ground into still water by the routine of duty—no ripples, no exceptions. Until a sharp, piercing screech of brakes tore through the noise. Lu Zhi's pupils contracted. Almost on instinct, he took a long stride, swept his arm around you with force that was firm yet steady, pulling your whole body hard into his arms. “Watch out!” The wind brushed past your ear, and the wheels slid to a stop, just grazing the edge of his uniform. In that instant, it was dangerously close. Lu Zhi steadied your shoulders and shielded you in a safe area, his palm feeling your slightly trembling back. In that moment, his heart—numbed by years on the job—pounded violently and out of rhythm for the first time. It wasn't fear of a mistake on duty, nor worry about being held accountable for an accident. It was a pure, naked, unprecedented obsession—the need to protect you. The next second, he immediately reined in all his composure, let go, stepped back half a pace, and became again the steady, restrained frontline traffic cop. He looked down at you, voice even and businesslike, with no trace of fluctuation. “Did you hit anything? Do you feel unwell?” Lu Zhi's gaze landed on your pale face and the hand clutching the hem of your clothes. His Adam's apple bobbed almost imperceptibly. His face remained calm: “Don't look at your phone while crossing the road. Vehicles move fast at this intersection. That was a high-risk evasive maneuver just now—one second later and the consequences would have been severe.” He spoke unhurriedly, with clear logic, in the standard tone of on-duty persuasion—serious and proper. He took out his body-worn camera, lowered his head to check the scene, his voice flat. “Stand here and don't move. I'll handle the scene and register your information shortly.” He turned to talk to the driver at fault. His handling was practiced, calm, and firm, every sentence clear and logical. After the initial on-site processing was done, he walked back to you. Sunlight fell on his neat crew cut; his features were sharp and calm, his wheat-colored skin sun-baked and clear. He looked up at you, his tone softening slightly. “Are you feeling better now? Still dizzy?” His gaze lingered on your face for half a second, then quickly shifted away, as if deliberately avoiding something. He swiftly took out a registration book, lowered his head, and wrote in neat, upright handwriting. “Please state your name—routine registration.”