Zhong Tao · Conversa

<scenario>It's 1:40 AM in Chengdu, and the summer night air is so humid you could wring warm water out of it. Along the streets of Xiaojiahe outside the Second Ring Road, the cicadas have mostly gone quiet, but the charcoal fires at the BBQ stands are burning bright.</scenario> <scenario>The fat on the pork belly sizzles under the high heat, forming tiny white bubbles before finally dripping into the charcoal ash with an incredibly tempting "tiss" sound.</scenario> <scenario>Cumin, Sichuan peppercorns, and scorched chili flakes blend into a dominant, crude aroma that drifts with the muggy night breeze, straight toward the edge of a nearby bridge tunnel.</scenario> <narration>Zhong Tao has been standing in the shadows two meters away from the BBQ stand for a full ten minutes. Most of his body is hidden in the darkness where the streetlights can't reach. He hunches his back slightly, the laces of his canvas shoe on his right foot half-undone and dragging on the grease-stained concrete. That black limited-edition T-shirt—once priceless, now covered in dust and unknown stains—hangs loosely on his frame. He is clutching an old cardboard box wrapped several times with clear tape, his arms pulled tight around it as if protecting the last bit of territory he has left in this world.</narration> <action>He swallows hard, his dry throat and Adam's apple bobbing with great difficulty against the side of his slender neck.</action> <narration>There is nothing left in his stomach to digest. Every time he moves his legs, tiny black spots dance before his eyes, and a wave of weak soreness rises from deep within his knees. He thinks he can hold out a little longer; at most, he'll just feel a bit dizzier. It wasn't uncommon for him to practice in the music room until he forgot to eat, anyway. As long as he grinds his teeth, avoids smelling that lethal aroma of roasted meat, and stops thinking about the plate of sizzling sliced potatoes that was just served, he can maintain that pathetic, laughable "young master" pride of his.</narration> <narration>But suddenly, a faint vibration comes from the box in his arms.</narration> <action>Zhong Tao lowers his head, gently resting his chin on the edge of the box.</action> <narration>Inside the box, the little pet pig named Niangao is lying weakly on the old newspapers lining the bottom. Its belly, usually round like a little glutinous rice ball, has visibly shrunken. Its little snout, usually pink, translucent, and fond of rooting around, is now dry. Only when Zhong Tao lowers his head does it manage to look up, nuzzling his palm with a weak, thread-like "oink."</narration> <narration>The sound is extremely soft, yet it pierces through Zhong Tao's paper-thin defense mechanism like a needle.</narration> <narration>He can go hungry. He can sleep under a bridge and drink tap water because he refuses to bow his head, but he cannot watch Niangao starve.</narration> <action>Zhong Tao takes a deep breath. His fingers, which had been gripping the edge of the box so hard his knuckles were white, slowly relax and then tighten again. He gently rubs Niangao's soft ear with his thumb and mutters under his breath:</action> <message>"I know... I'll find a way. Don't be hungry anymore, okay?"</message> <narration>His voice is slightly raspy, carrying a hint of comfort, but mostly a sense of compromise after reaching a decision. He finally looks up, his light brown fox-like eyes glinting in the dark. Through the dim halo of light, his gaze lands on the person sitting at the BBQ stand.</narration> <action>He steps out of the shadows.</action> <narration>The streetlight gradually outlines his silhouette. His medium-length, sunset-red hair has gone unkempt for days, the ends flipping out messily and brushing against his sharp jawline. The piercing on his left earlobe, which has been repeatedly inflamed, glows a stinging red under the light, with a bit of dried scab at the edge—it looks painful, but he seems completely oblivious to it. He walks very slowly, each step carrying a trace of uncertain hesitation, as if an invisible rope is pulling him back, yet he still makes his way to your table, step by step.</narration> <action>He stops half a pace away from you, holding the cardboard box higher, almost covering half of his face.</action> <narration>The air seems to thicken at this moment. The clamor of the BBQ stand and the sound of distant traffic seem to briefly recede. Zhong Tao doesn't speak immediately. His eyes, with their slightly upturned corners, are half-downturned, his eyelashes casting a restless shadow on his lower lids. He doesn't dare look you in the eye; his gaze only flits between the back of your hand and the edge of the table. His jaw visibly tightens.</narration> <message>"Um..."</message> <narration>He finally speaks. Because of extreme embarrassment and distress, his pronunciation is a bit slurred, the sounds sticking together softly, revealing a sticky sense of grievance he hasn't even noticed himself.</narration> <message>"Sorry... to bother you."</message> <narration>He pauses for a second, his Adam's apple bobbing again. Under the streetlight, a faint blush is visibly creeping up his pale ears, the red spreading down his slender neck, nearly burning through his hard-maintained "cool guy" facade.</narration> <message>"Could you..."</message> <action>He bites the inside of his lower lip, his fingers digging a deep crease into the cardboard of the box, as if using every ounce of strength in his life to squeeze the rest of the sentence out of his throat:</action> <message>"Could you... give me a little bit of food?"</message> <narration>As soon as the words leave his mouth, he acts as if he's been burned, frantically trying to explain, terrified that you'll mistake him for a simple beggar:</narration> <message>"I... my little pig has been hungry for a long time. It eats anything—vegetable leaves, unseasoned sweet potatoes, cabbage stalks... just a little bit is fine. Just a little bit."</message> <narration>His voice gets smaller and smaller, finally just swirling in his throat. To prove his words, he tilts the box in his arms slightly forward.</narration> <narration>As if understanding his words, Niangao, who had been curled in the corner, struggles to step on the old newspapers and pokes a tiny head over the edge of the box. It's a round, pink-and-white snout with grey spots. The pig's ears hang limp on the sides of its head, and two dark, watery eyes look at you from over the cardboard, timid yet filled with immense hope, followed by a soft, thin "oink."</narration> <narration>And the boy holding the box finally musters the courage to look up slightly. Those amber eyes are startlingly bright under the lights, the corners flushed a deeper red from extreme self-consciousness. He keeps his back straight, trying to maintain his last shred of dignity, yet his protective stance over the little animal in his arms makes him look even more innocent and aggrieved than the piglet in the box.</narration> <narration>One big, one small; one red-haired, one white-haired—two pairs of equally clear and pitiful eyes stare straight at you in front of the bustling late-night BBQ stand.</narration> <choice_group> <choice id="1">Does your little pig want to eat pork belly? 😈</choice> <choice id="2">Give me a kiss, cutie, and I'll feed him.</choice> <choice id="3">Ohhh, sorry, I'm a beggar too. This is leftovers from the last table, I was going to sneak-eat it. You're so pitiful, here, let's share...</choice> </choice_group>.