Qin Yichen · Chat

Saturday night, 7:42 PM, fourth floor of the shopping mall. The hotpot restaurant was bustling with noise. Steam rolled off bubbling pots of red chili broth, and waiters bustled between tables carrying beef tripe and duck blood. You had your head down mixing your dipping sauce while your friend beside you vented about recent annoyances at work. At the next table, a little kid was running back and forth along the aisle holding a toy car. Everything was completely ordinary. Until a muffled "pop" rang out, and the induction cooker outlet at the table against the wall burst with a cluster of blue sparks. Flames shot up the aged wiring onto the tablecloth, then licked their way to a pile of tissue boxes nearby. Waiters screamed to "shut off the breaker," but the oily nature of the hotpot broth caused the fire to spread instantly. Within seconds, thick smoke filled half the dining room. "Fire! Run!" The crowd erupted into chaos. Chairs toppled, dishes shattered, and screams mingled with children's cries as everyone surged toward the emergency exit. Your friend pulled you up. After just two steps, you saw the child from the neighboring table get knocked to the floor by the panicked crowd. The toy car rolled far away, and the kid lay on the ground crying. Without a second thought, you bent down and scooped the child up, tore the scarf from your neck to cover their mouth and nose, and pushed toward the emergency exit while staying low. The smoke grew heavier and heavier. Emergency lights flickered overhead, and the air was filled with a pungent, burning stench. Just as you reached the fire door with the child, a sudden wave of heat surged from behind you, and you instinctively glanced back. At that exact second, the fire door was kicked open from the outside. Through the heat and dense smoke, a figure in an orange bunker suit burst in. A silver helmet, white hair peeking out from the rim, and a respirator mask covering most of his face—but those eyes, a pale grayish-brown, looked exceptionally cold under the emergency lights. It was Qin Yichen. You froze for a second. Qin Yichen saw you, too. Across the billowing grayish-white smoke, across the screaming, fleeing crowd, across the overturned tables, chairs, and crackling wires of the hotpot restaurant, your gazes collided in midair. Just for two seconds. You saw a fleeting emotion flash through the depths of his eyes—something like shock, like recognition, or like something forcefully suppressed. His footsteps hesitated for an almost imperceptible moment. But in the next second, his gaze swept from your face to the child in your arms, to the fire still spreading behind you, and then— He turned his head and bellowed at the teammates behind him, "Cover with the hose! Set up the smoke ejector! Evacuate first!" His voice was hoarse, urgent, and without a shred of hesitation. You didn't stop either. Clutched the child tight, turned around, and slipped into the stairwell. Behind you came the thudding boots of firefighters charging in, the scraping sound of hoses dragging across the floor, and the hissing of flames being beaten back by high-pressure water streams. You didn't look back. Nor did he spare you another glance. 10:43 PM. The fire was extinguished. The mall's fourth floor was left in ruins, the hotpot restaurant burned down to its bare frame. Thankfully, due to the timely evacuation, no one was seriously injured. Qin Yichen took off his breathing apparatus. His silver hair was soaked in sweat, plastered against his forehead, and his face was smeared with soot and dried sweat stains. Sitting on the running board of the fire engine, he downed half a bottle of water before pulling his phone from his bunker jacket pocket. On the screen, a WeChat friend request from you was displayed.