Huo Qinghan · Conversa

District South 7. Old residential area. Huo Qinghan found that person in the basement of a residential building. To say he 'found' them wasn't entirely accurate—he had followed a sound. It was very faint, so faint that it was nearly swallowed by the wind howling through the ruins, but he heard it nonetheless. It wasn't the shriek of a zombie, nor the footsteps of a mutant, but human breathing. Rapid, ragged, and heavy with the distinct congestion of a high fever. The basement's iron door had been warped by zombie impacts but remained wedged in the frame without collapsing. He pried open a gap with an ice blade and squeezed inside. In the corner huddled a gray silhouette. Judging by the frame, it was a youth of about seventeen or eighteen, thin as a folded umbrella frame. Half-conscious, their cheeks were flushed with an unnatural feverish red, their lips parched and white, and their forehead was hot enough to fry an egg. Scattered around them were a few empty cans and a knocked-over bottle of purified water—their last remaining supplies. They had been hiding here for at least three days. Huo Qinghan squatted down, pressing two fingers against their carotid artery. The pulse was weak, but still beating. According to Raven's rules, he should have reported this first and waited for orders. Survivors were not their responsibility. Resources were scarce, manpower was limited, and every extra burden could drag the entire team to their graves in the next zombie tide. But they grabbed his finger. In their stupor, completely unconsciously, those thin, bony hands gripped his index finger. The strength was so faint it was barely perceptible, yet the grip was incredibly tight. Their lips parted slightly, muttering some word soundlessly—perhaps 'Mom,' perhaps 'help,' he couldn't tell. Huo Qinghan remained silent for three seconds, then took off his jacket to wrap them up, lifting them in a bridal carry. His movements weren't practiced, but they were steady enough. Their weight was disturbingly light, like holding a bundle of bones draped in thin gauze. “Fall back,” he said, walking out of the basement and speaking to the squad members guarding the stairwell. “I'm heading back to camp first.” “Vice-Captain, who is this?” “A survivor.” “But the boss said—” “I'll answer to Huo Qingyu.” The squad members exchanged glances. Huo Qinghan speaking more than ten words during a mission was already a signal in itself. No one questioned further. Once this ice-silent Vice-Captain made a decision, not even Huo Qingyu could necessarily make him change his mind. Raven's temporary camp was set up in the gymnasium of an abandoned primary school. Huo Qinghan gave up his cot, covering it with his only spare blanket, and settled the survivor in. The medic came to check, saying it was a high fever brought on by malnutrition and an infected wound. Their life could be saved, but someone would need to watch over them for the next few days. “I'll watch,” Huo Qinghan said. The medic froze. He wanted to say, “Vice-Captain, you don't need to do this yourself,” but after catching a glimpse of Huo Qinghan's expression, he tactfully swallowed his words. That look was exactly the same as usual—cold, aloof, his icy-blue eyes devoid of any excess emotion. But having been with Raven for two years and witnessed Huo Qinghan in countless battles, the medic had never seen him give up his bed to anyone. They shivered in their coma. Huo Qinghan used his ice ability to condense a cold compress, wrapped it in a towel, and pressed it against their forehead. His movements were incredibly gentle, as if touching a piece of porcelain that could shatter at any moment. When he was feeding them the fever reducer, they choked slightly, the medicine trickling down the corner of their mouth. He paused, then slowed down, feeding them spoon by spoon until it was finished. Afterward, he even wiped the medicine stains from their chin with his cuff. This action was witnessed by Lin Mumu, who had just lifted the curtain and walked in. Lin Mumu had rushed over straight from the armory upon hearing the news. Her dual blades were still strapped to her back, her combat uniform covered in dust from her outdoor mission. Her movement in pulling back the tent curtain was three times heavier than usual, the iron rings clanking sharply against the crossbar. Huo Qinghan looked up at her, then continued tucking in the blanket for the survivor. “A survivor,” he initiated. “I know. I heard,” Lin Mumu's voice was tightly strung, like a bow drawn to its limit. “You carried them back yourself, and you've been guarding them ever since you got back. The whole of Raven is talking about it.” Huo Qinghan didn't speak again. He didn't know why Lin Mumu was suddenly using this tone, nor did he intend to ask. He simply pressed down on the corner of the tucked blanket once more, making sure no cold air could slip in. This silence made Lin Mumu feel even worse. She would have preferred him to explain, even if it was just a single word. But he said nothing, as if her standing at the entrance was nothing more than an inconsequential breeze to him. “...You certainly care a lot about them.” The moment those words left her mouth, she regretted it. It sounded too bitter, too much like jealousy, too much like the kind of woman she despised most. But Huo Qinghan showed no sign of being stung. He merely turned his head, his icy-blue eyes meeting her gaze, as calm as a lake that never rippled. “They need it.” Lin Mumu tightened her grip on her hilt. No, they don't. The words rolled around in her throat before she swallowed them back down. *They need it, but what about me? The blood I've spilled in front of you, the battles we've fought side-by-side, the countless times I've trusted you with my back and caught the ice blades you threw—what did all of that mean? I've never said I needed it, so you really thought I didn't?* But she couldn't bring herself to say it. She was Lin Mumu. She could wield her dual blades like a whirlwind, tear apart a mutant's silicified armor with her bare hands, and charge in and out of a zombie tide seven times without even batting an eye. But the one thing she absolutely could not do was tell someone: *I want to be treated gently too.* It wasn't that Huo Qinghan hadn't noticed Lin Mumu's unusual behavior. He simply didn't know how to comfort people. Or rather, the word 'comfort' didn't exist in his dictionary to begin with. Late at night, the gymnasium fell quiet, save for the low hum of the generator and the hushed commands of the sentries changing shifts in the distance. Huo Qinghan sat by the bedside, his ice blade resting across his knees, staying awake. The person in the coma seemed to be having a nightmare; their brow was furrowed tightly, and their fingers clawed aimlessly at the blanket. He hesitated for a moment, then extended two fingers, gently pressing them into their palm. It wasn't a handhold, just resting them there. The person's brow gradually smoothed out, their breathing returning to a steady rhythm. He withdrew his fingers and gripped his hilt once more, his movements so light it was as if it had never happened. Outside the tent, Lin Mumu stood in the shadows. She shouldn't have been here; there was a scouting mission tomorrow morning, and she ought to be asleep. She knew that the figure was sitting by someone else's bedside at this very moment, like an ice sculpture that would never melt.