Yang Yu · Chat

The call came at eight in the morning. Yang Yu was crouching in the cramped duty room of Maintenance Team Three, munching on a steamed bun. Grease was smeared on the corner of his mouth, and it took him three tissues to barely wipe it clean before the phone rang loudly. "No. 13 Yongning Lane, Old Town, Room 302. A water pipe burst, and the kitchen is flooded." The dispatcher's voice popped out of the receiver, sounding like they were reading a completely emotionless verdict. Yang Yu stuffed the last bite of the bun into his mouth, gave a muffled grunt of acknowledgment, hung up the phone, and picked up the half-worn-out toolbox at his feet as he headed out the door. The metal casing of the toolbox was dented and scarred, with two layers of black electrical tape wrapped around the handle—wrapped by himself because he found the bare handle too rough on his hands. Someone in the hallway called out, "Out on a job again today, Brother Yang?" Without even turning his head, he just let out a grunt from his nose, taking it as a reply. He hated the New District. It wasn't that there was anything wrong with the people over there; it was purely because the pipe network system there was far too advanced compared to the Old Town. The jobs were too easy, lacking any challenge. He preferred the intricate, cast-iron pipes of the Old Town—rusty, winding, and full of twists and turns, where turning a valve meant studying the blueprints for three days first. Now *that* was real plumbing. The PVC pipes in the New District, which you could fix with a simple twist, he could connect with his eyes closed. No fun. No. 13 Yongning Lane was newer than he had imagined. The exterior wall of the residential building was painted a clean off-white, and there wasn't even a single flyer pasted in the stairwell. Yang Yu carried his toolbox up to the third floor, his breathing surprisingly steady even to himself. He raised his hand and knocked on the security door, his knuckles making three dull thuds. No sound from inside. He knocked three more times, his ears twitching involuntarily as they caught a rustling sound from the crack of the door. The sound of slipper soles brushing against the floor—very light, like a cat. The door opened. The line Yang Yu had prepared—"What took you so long to open the door?"—rolled on the tip of his tongue but got stuck right in his throat. He saw someone standing behind the door, hair a bit messy, probably having just woken up, wearing a loose, old T-shirt with a crooked collar that exposed half of their collarbone. They were still clutching a damp, unwrung rag, water droplets clinging to their wrist and trickling down their forearm. And then he saw your eyes. The kind of eyes—the ones that would suddenly flash back in his mind later when he was crouching on the kitchen floor tightening screws. They held a trace of sleep-induced daze, looking a bit helpless because of the leak, yet trying hard to maintain composure. You nodded at him and said, "Sorry to trouble you, master." Yang Yu's tail froze instantly. He couldn't see his own fluffy short tail tensing straight behind the seam of his pants, nor could he see the pair of white animal ears on his head pressing backward at an extremely awkward angle, like two stones. He only felt a sudden heat at the back of his neck, a current of electricity surging up from his tailbone, shooting straight up his spine into his brain, completely frying the sarcastic remark he had prepared: "Did you blow this pipe open with your mouth or what?" "...Where's the pipe?" He heard himself speak, his voice three notches lower than usual, as if squeezed out from the depths of his throat. You stepped aside to let him in. As he crossed the threshold, he brushed past you, the scent of laundry detergent from your T-shirt mixing with a hint of damp moisture and drifting into his nose. Almost reflexively, he dodged half a step to the side. His toolbox made a dull thud against his hip. Gritting his teeth, he kept quiet and walked straight into the kitchen. The kitchen floor was indeed covered in water, the tiles reflecting the light. Yang Yu squatted down and reached under the cabinet to feel the pipes, his movements so rough it was as if he were defusing a bomb. He felt you standing two steps behind him, looking down at him. He could precisely calculate the angle at which you stood, the frequency of your breathing, and could even feel the faint, almost imperceptible touch of your gaze landing on his back. He couldn't see the tips of his ears turning red; he could only feel them burning so hot they were practically smoking, the scorching sensation spreading all the way from the base of his ears to his neck. Dammit. He gave the wrench a hard twist, the metal grating against the nut with a harsh, screeching sound. "Master, do you want to wipe up the water first—" "No need." He cut you off, his tone cold enough to freeze water. Yet his hands didn't stop; the wrench spun in his palm and precisely clamped onto another screw. He heard you take a step back, your slippers making a soft splash in the water. His tail gave an uncontrollable flick—it was a tiny movement, but enough to make him feel utterly mortified. He swallowed down a curse, keeping it unspoken. *Focus on the job,* he told himself. *Stare at the wrench, don't look at the customer. Look once and you're a dog.* And then he turned the wrong screw, nearly crushing the washer.