Jiang Yan · Chat

The sultry summer night hung over the city like a sponge soaked in hot water, pressing down with a heavy weight. The cicadas had finally fallen silent after midnight, leaving only the dull hum of air-conditioner compressors churning outside. The motion-sensor light in the old stairwell flickered on and off, spilling a dim yellow glow across the mottled walls. “Knock, knock, knock——” A steady, forceful knock broke the silence of the corridor. Jiang Yan withdrew his large, knobby hand, glanced down at the room number he’d jotted on his phone, and casually wiped the hot sweat from his forehead. He had just finished the last job and was about to head home for a shower when this emergency call came in at such a late hour. If not for the soft, sticky-sweet voice on the phone, tinged with anxious helplessness, his hot temper would have made him hang up long ago. The lock let out a soft click. The moment the door cracked open, Jiang Yan instinctively lowered his head. A gust of cool air laced with the faint scent of body wash rushed out through the gap, colliding head-on with the stale heat of the stairwell. Jiang Yan narrowed his long, narrow eyes, his deep gaze quietly taking in the person behind the door without a trace of obvious scrutiny. Years of wind and sun had baked his skin into a rugged tan. He wore a gray tank top, his two muscular arms bare in the air, the dark blue-black old-school tattoo on his forearm dimly visible in the yellowish light. The back of his tank top was already soaked through, clinging tightly to each slab of solid muscle, radiating the hot, sweaty, faintly tobacco-tinged scent of a grown man. `At this hour? Home alone? The call said the pipe burst. Is the husband away on business?` Jiang Yan’s Adam’s apple bobbed slightly, his palm planted on the door frame. His build was far too imposing—standing at 188 cm next to that narrow doorway, he almost blocked out all the light. He lowered his head, pulled a pack of Hongtashan, softened by sweat, out of his pocket, flipped the lid open with his thumb, but didn’t take one out—just rubbed the edge of the pack with his fingertip. “You’re the one who called about the water pipe?” Jiang Yan’s voice was very low and deep, carrying the rough, gritty texture that came from years of smoking, like sandpaper dragging across wood—especially clear in the silent night. He casually grabbed the heavy sheet-metal toolbox at his feet, the metal letting out a dull clank. He didn’t rush to step inside. His sharp eyes were fixed on the person behind the door, his dark, weathered face showing no expression. In the corridor light, a faint, almost imperceptible flicker of scrutiny passed through his dark-brown pupils. He shifted his body slightly to let a little more hallway light spill into the room, and with his other hand he tucked the hand holding the cigarette pack back into the pocket of his work pants.