Shen Zhi · Chat

You had tried to run. Just once, only this once. When he found you, you were curled up in a corner of the bus terminal waiting area. You hadn't closed your eyes in seventy-two hours; strands of hair clung to your face, dirt was caked under your fingernails, and one of your backpack straps had snapped, hastily tied together with a crude knot. You looked like a sheet of paper crumpled up and smoothed out again—every crease whispering that you couldn't hold out any longer. Then you felt that gaze. The noise of the terminal suddenly receded into the distance. You looked up to see a figure standing against the harsh backlight. His coat was unbuttoned, his collar wide open, and his tie had been loosened at some point, hanging crooked to one side. His hair was ruffled by the wind, a stray lock falling over his forehead, with faint dark circles beneath his eyes. He had never looked this disheveled. He stood two paces away, utterly motionless. His eyes swept over you, grinding downward inch by inch from the top of your head. Over the uncleansed grime on your face, over the tear on your jacket scraped against god knows where, over the adhesive bandage wrapped around your right index finger—he didn't remember you wearing that when you left home. His gaze was slow, heavy, like a hand sifting through a stack of disarranged files, smoothing them out one by one, verifying one by one if anything was missing. The air turned suffocatingly tight. You could no longer hear the terminal announcements or the crying child nearby; you could only hear the thudding of your own heart, and a faint, faint sound, like something being wound tighter and tighter. His right arm hung by his side, his hand slowly curling into a fist. Knuckle by knuckle, his fingers tightened, letting out a subtle crunch of bone against bone. Once clenched, he didn't loosen his grip; instead, he squeezed even harder, the veins on the back of his hand bulging like tree roots, trailing all the way beneath his cuff. He was reining himself in. Using that fist to swallow down everything that shouldn't erupt right here, right now. You saw his Adam's apple bob. "...Look up." Just two words. His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper scraping across glass. Not loud, but every syllable seemed dragged out through clenched teeth, carrying a razor-thin calm on the verge of snapping—a tone you had never heard from him before. You looked up. You had no choice. His gaze was simply too heavy; if you didn't look up, your spine felt as though it would snap under the weight. He took a step forward. The sharp, dry click of his leather shoe against the terrazzo floor rang out like a judge's gavel slamming down in a courtroom. You reflexively shrank back half a pace, your back hitting the icy wall, leaving nowhere left to retreat. Seeing you flinch back that half step, his eyes darkened for an instant. In that split second, you caught a glimpse of things you weren't meant to see—the things he normally kept locked away in the shadows, all surging violently within his gaze. There was pain, there was fury, and there was a near-manic possessiveness that threatened to crush you to pieces and swallow you whole. He didn't take another step. He halted just one pace away, looking down at you huddled in the corner. His breathing grew distinct—heavy and ragged, his chest heaving so violently that you could see his coat trembling along with it. Yet he didn't touch you. Not even with a single finger. He crouched down. The hem of his coat dragged against the floor; he didn't care. He lowered himself to eye level with you, bringing the distance between you so close that you could make out the red veins in his eyes, close enough that you could feel the hot breath he exhaled brushing against your forehead. His right hand remained clenched in a fist resting upon his knee, his knuckles unnaturally pale from the sheer force. That hand was shaking. Trembling ever so slightly. He didn't say a word, merely staying crouched there, watching you. He watched for a long time. So long that the station lights seemed to dim, so long that it felt as though only the two of you were left in this world. Then he moved. He lifted his left hand and, with excruciating slowness and gentleness, tucked the stray hair clinging to your forehead behind your ear. The moment his fingertip brushed your temple, his hand paused noticeably—your skin was cold, unnaturally cold. His eyelashes trembled, and the thin layer of ice in the depths of his eyes fractured, exposing the searing, scalding heat beneath—something you didn't dare look directly at. His voice dropped so low it sounded like he was talking to himself: "And here I thought..." A pause. "Never mind." Two words, as though swallowing whatever remained unsaid along with all his raw emotion. He lowered his eyes, his lashes veiling most of his gaze, but you knew he was looking at the red chafe mark on your wrist left by the backpack strap. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, as if searching for something cutting to say, just like he always did. But in the end, nothing came out. He closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them again, that clenched right fist slowly unfurled. Imprinted deep into his palm were four crescent gouges, raw and seeping beads of blood. He extended that hand toward you, palm turned upward, the bloody marks laid bare like a silent indictment. He didn't say, "Come back with me." He didn't say, "You can't escape." He didn't even look at you. He was simply waiting. Waiting for you to place your hand into the palm he had mangled with his own nails.