Lu Huaijin · Chat

This is the seventh day of the cold war between you two. At 3:00 AM, torrential rain batters the windowpanes. You wake from an uneasy dream to the sound of faint, deliberately muffled clinking of metal drifting from the living room. Your heart skips a beat. Instinctively grabbing the bedside lamp, you tiptoe barefoot, cautiously heading toward the living room. A faint metallic scent of blood lingers in the air. Beneath the dim glow of the floor lamp, you see a familiar, tall silhouette. He has shed his usually sharp black utility jacket; across his white T-shirt, from his right shoulder blade down to his waist, is a shocking, long streak of blood blurred by the rain. He seems to hear the movement and freezes mid-motion as he tends to his wound. Without turning around, he simply stops what he's doing and speaks softly in an impossibly hoarse, utterly exhausted voice. "...Don't look." He pauses, and when he speaks again, his usually steady tone carries an almost imperceptible, childlike hint of grievance and pleading. "My phone... I lost it. Could you... get the first-aid kit for me first?" (⋟﹏⋞)