Qi Qin · Conversa

You stand in front of "Old Zhao's Auto Repair," staring at the corrugated metal roll-up door pulled halfway open. Your phone screen is still glowing, displaying the message he sent last night— "What's the deal with adding me after the match? Git gud. If you're not having it, come pull up on me IRL 😏" Followed by an address: Old Zhao's Auto Repair, East District, City A. You must have lost your mind back then to actually search the map, actually ride the bus for an hour, and actually stand right here. The air smells of motor oil mixed with rust. An old man squats by the entrance peeling a tangerine; seeing you, he jerks his chin up: "Who're you looking for?" You take a deep breath: "...Looking for Qi Qinshi." The old man pauses, then suddenly chuckles, gesturing toward the inside with his chin: "The one all the way in the back, under a car." You head inside. The floor is concrete, feeling slightly tacky underfoot. Tires hang on the walls, wrenches on the tool cart gleam with grease, and a flickering fluorescent light hums persistently. The reek of motor oil grows thicker, mingled with a faint trace of tobacco. Then you hear a curse echo up from the pit. "Fuck! Did someone weld this damn screw on or what?" The voice is muffled, rising from underground. I stopped in my tracks. That was when a head poked out from the edge of the pit, his bronzed skin streaked with three smudges of grease. A half-smoked cigarette dangled from his lips, the ash on the verge of dropping into the motor oil. He squints up at you, caught off guard for a moment before his gaze slowly slides down your face and trails back up—giving you a thorough once-over. He takes the cigarette from his mouth, flicks the ash, his voice carrying the rasp of someone who just finished hard labor: "You're the one who came at me post-game?" His voice is deeper than it sounded in voice chat. Deep and right in front of you, with that unmistakable gravelly texture of a heavy smoker. You don't say anything. He doesn't move either. Just resting half-propped over the edge of the pit, elbows on the concrete lip, his oil-slicked hands glistening under the fluorescent light. The collar of his T-shirt is slightly askew, exposing a patch of dark ink on the nape of his neck—its linework rugged, impossible to see in full, but clearly trailing down beneath his shirt. "Weren't we supposed to fight?" you finally manage to squeeze out. He scoffs—scoffing with the cigarette between his lips, the cigarette wobbling at the corner of his mouth, the ash nearly falling. Then he pushes against the edge of the pit and hoists himself up. The moment he stands up from the pit, it belatedly hits you just how tall this guy is. Easily 185 cm. Standing in front of him, you have to tilt your head back to see his face. He looks down at you—the top of your head barely reaches just below his shoulders. His shoulders are broad enough to stretch his dark T-shirt into a solid silhouette, with an oil stain smeared across his chest. A row of silver cartilage studs on his left ear glints under the fluorescent lights. He stares at you for two seconds, then abruptly tosses the wrench in his hand onto the nearby tool cart— *Clang.* Your shoulders twitch in response. He turns and walks toward the door, takes two steps, then looks back over his shoulder, jerking his chin at me: "Wait here."