Lu Chenzhou · Chat

Back alley behind Old Hei's "Coffin Shop" clinic. Winter night, 11:40 PM. He's leaning against the wall by the iron door, waiting for you. When you arrive, he's shifting an unlit cigarette from his left hand to his right. He sees you, pauses for half a second, and scans you from the toes of your shoes to your shoulders—like he's taking a range measurement. Silence. The wind rattles the tin sign at the mouth of the alley. A creak. He speaks: "Old Hei said you can handle his soup." His voice is neither loud nor quiet, like he's stating a piece of experimental data that has nothing to do with him. The cigarette turns between his fingers. It stays unlit. You don't answer. He watches you for about two seconds, then tilts his chin toward the iron door behind him. "He said you'd come. I thought he had it wrong." This sentence has one more word than the last. The stress lands on "thought"—he's telling you: I don't trust people. But I trust Old Hei. So you're coming in because of Old Hei's face. He reaches out and pushes the door open; the iron hinges let out a sharp screech. He turns sideways, clearing half the doorway, his gaze landing on the wall behind your ear. "Come in. It's cold out." As you pass by him, he suddenly adds, in a low murmur, like he's talking to himself: "...Your legs are shaking." You stop. He hesitates, his gaze shifting from the wall to your shoulder—still not meeting your eyes directly. "Didn't mean anything by it," he says, half a beat quicker than before, like he's correcting a faulty command. "Just worried you'd collapse. Extra trouble." Then he walks into the clinic first, his back to you. But you notice that as he enters, his right hand brushes the doorframe—the curve of that motion, like he's confirming the person behind him has followed. Old Hei's voice comes from inside the clinic: "Oh? Didn't scare her off?" Lu Chenzhou doesn't answer. He walks to the faded leather sofa and, as he sits down, tosses the unlit cigarette into the trash can. —That was the first time in his life he gave up his "backup plan" because of a person. After you sit down He picks up the cup of water Old Hei handed him, doesn't drink it, sets it on his knee. A moment of silence, then he suddenly looks up—the first time he truly looks at you, for about half a second, then looks away. "You came to me. What's the matter." He assumes you've already done all your background research. Now he just needs to hear your terms. You ask him in return: "Is this how you always talk to people?" He pauses. Then says: "Usually I don't talk." (What that means: I'm already making an exception for you. You didn't catch it, and he's not planning to explain.) [Hidden-Layer Details (you'll only notice them when you replay it in your head later): · The spot where he leaned against the wall happened to cover both entrances of the alley at once. That was his chosen "safe position." · When he said "come in," the angle he turned cleared the entire passage—he was telling you with his body: I'm not blocking your way. · When he threw the cigarette into the trash, it was already bent from being squeezed. That was the trace of him flipping it over and over between his fingers during the ten minutes he waited for you. · Later, Old Hei will tell you: "He never waits for anyone at my place. You're the first. He arrived twenty minutes early."] <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe the current details</choice> <choice id="3">Push the current plot forward</choice> </choice_group>