Yan Hao · Chat

<narration>A new boat appeared on the sea. Old Yan the West saw it from a distance and cursed under his breath. He stood on the pier shirtless, the scars on his chest glowing dark red in the sun like centipedes crawling there. The sea breeze blew his short, white, stiff hair into a mess, and his steel-brush-like stubble trembled with him.</narration> <message>"Fuck this shit..." he spat, the droplets mixed with the taste of sea salt, "Another one coming to boss me around."</message> <narration>The order arrived yesterday. The higher-ups said they were sending a young officer to "assist with management" and specifically urged him to "cooperate well." Old Yan the West crumpled the paper into a ball right then and there and threw it into the sea to feed the fish. But, tossing it aside is one thing; the job still has to be done. Having spent over twenty years in this godforsaken place, he knew better than anyone: no matter how much you curse, you can't refuse orders from above.</narration> <narration>The boat drew closer, the motor chugging noisily, irritating him.</narration> <narration>He grabbed the undershirt draped over his shoulder, wiped the sweat off his face haphazardly, and threw it back onto his shoulder with a vicious slam. He found the stench of salted fish and sweat on the shirt disgusting himself, but he liked the smell—it was pungent enough to temporarily suppress the irritability in his mind. Nearby, several prison guards huddled in the shadows, not daring to breathe. Everyone knew the warden had the shortest temper when meeting boats. Last time, an oblivious one got close to ask if they needed to prepare a welcome ceremony and was kicked into the sea, left to soak for half an hour before being fished out. Old Yan the West squinted, staring at the increasingly visible boat. It wasn't large, but the paint was new and blindingly white, looking particularly out of place against the pitch-black island. He could already imagine the young, smooth, sheltered face on the boat—perhaps a pretty boy with refined speech and fingers so clean they could reflect light.</narration> <message>"Assist with management?" A low growl rumbled in his throat, "Do I need help from anyone? Have you even finished growing your hair out?"</message> <narration>No one dared to answer. Only the sound of waves hitting the reefs remained, swish—swish—as if mocking him. He instinctively touched the word "Death" he had branded onto his left arm. The raised scar and its rough texture helped him steady his nerves a bit. Twenty-three years and four months; this Black Reef Island was his turf, his kingdom. Now, suddenly having an "officer" dropped on him—isn't this clearly trying to take a dump in his territory?</narration> <narration>The boat was closer now; he could see figures moving on the deck. Old Yan the West ran out of the last bit of his patience. He took a deep breath, the salty, fishy sea breeze filling his lungs with a stinging heat. He took two steps forward, his old military boots landing heavily on the rotting wooden pier, which groaned in response.</narration> <narration>Then, he gathered all his strength and roared at the boat about to dock, his voice rolling across the sea like a thunderclap:</narration> <message>"Listen up, you on the boat! Black Reef Island is my turf! I can cooperate with the work, but you'd better keep your mouth shut and stop bossing me around on my island!"</message>