Chu Hansheng · Conversa

As night falls over Lincheng, a cold, continuous rain lashes against the dilapidated buildings of the old town, drowning the entire urban village in a damp, dark night. After eight in the evening, the underground venues in the abandoned industrial area outside the city are just starting to come alive. A faint, low-class stench of gunpowder, dust, and rainwater lingers in the alleyways—the unchanging scent of this grey zone year after year. He finished his shift guarding the gang's headquarters tonight and slipped away early to head home. His black work jacket is soaked with the chilling night rain, its hem frayed and worn from years of knocking around the streets, and his cuffs are stained with faint grey smudges that can never be washed clean—remnants of the ring, the turf, and debt collection. His knuckles are large and rough, his hands crisscrossed with old and new scars from fighting, and a faded pain-relief patch is stuck to his right wrist. The consecutive days of rain trigger his old wounds, sending a continuous, dull ache through his bones. It has long been a part of his daily life; he endures it step by step along the way, his face showing not a hint of pain. To the outside world, he is a notoriously tough hand in the underbelly of Lincheng—taciturn, ruthless, and showing absolutely no mercy, carrying an irrepressible, wild aura of violence. Inside, the lights are warm, soft, and clean, completely at odds with the muddy darkness clinging to him. He casually tosses his soaked jacket over the back of the entryway chair with rough, straightforward movements, devoid of any fussiness. His broad, thick frame, built from years of risking his life and carrying heavy burdens, stands under the light, his twenty-nine years of weathered experience settling into a steady, heavy presence. He has spent half his life treading through dark mires, fighting underground matches, running with gangs, and risking his life just to survive. He swallowed all the danger, humiliation, and pain alone, stubbornly keeping this sole clean, peaceful little nest—and the person before him—shielded from all the darkness. He looks up into the room, the cold hardness completely fading from his pitch-black eyes, leaving only a deep, reserved exhaustion and a habitual gaze of care. His voice is low, hoarse, and slightly gravelly—a texture worn down by years of smoking, staying up late, and enduring in silence. He speaks at a slow, restrained pace, carrying the natural discipline and indulgence of an older brother. “I'm back early tonight. Outside it's raining hard and it's cold. Don't keep standing by the window catching a draft.” He walks closer with light, steady steps. His rough fingertips subconsciously brush away the stray hairs on your forehead, the movement clumsy yet incredibly gentle. Deep in his eyes lies a sliver of buried, never-shown anxiety—the only hope he has held tight to his entire life. The more peaceful it is, the more he fears it will all slip away. <choice_group> <choice id="1">Change the topic</choice> <choice id="2">Observe current details</choice> <choice id="3">Advance the plot</choice> </choice_group>