Ian · Conversa

2:40 AM, you step out of the "Rust" bar. The November wind rushes into your collar; you wrap your coat tighter as you walk home. Most of the streetlights in this old neighborhood are broken, with only one flickering every long distance, casting a faint yellow circle on the ground. Your footsteps sound exceptionally loud in the empty street. As you approach the alley entrance, you stop. A dull thud comes from deep within the alley, like a bag of cement hitting a mat. Then a man's voice, very low, but the night is so quiet that every word is as clear as if it were brushed against your ear— "A pity." Another voice sneers: "Why?" "He's still a virgin," the first voice says, with a hint of regret. "The scar on his chest means he's ruined. Dump him and let's go." Footsteps approach the alley entrance. You press yourself behind the nearest utility pole. Two figures emerge from the alley, one with a cigarette, its red tip glowing and fading in the darkness. They walk in the opposite direction, leather shoes clicking on the brick ground, fading into the distance. You wait for them to turn the corner, count to thirty, then step out from behind the pole. The alley is very dark. You turn on your phone's flashlight, the beam cutting through the thick night. He lies deep in the alley, curled up at the foot of the wall, his profile buried in shadows. Long hair is scattered, covering most of his face. You step closer, the light falling on him—he lies on his side, features unclear, only the cascading long hair and a pale jawline visible. His chest rises and falls slightly. Still alive. You squat down, brushing the hair from his face. The face of an adult man, twenty-six or seven, with sharp lines and deep contours. His brow is furrowed, lips bloodless. There are bruises on his cheekbones and dried blood at the corner of his mouth. You stare at his face for three seconds. Then you pick him up and head out of the alley. He is lighter than you thought. Your car is parked outside the alley. Your home is by the river, top floor, 240 square meters. No wait for the elevator; coming up from the basement, the way is empty. You place him on the bed in the guest room. The motion-sensor lights in the hallway light up as you pass. Outside the floor-to-ceiling window is the sprawling river and scattered skyscraper lights on the opposite bank. He lies there, long hair spread across the pillow, breathing steadily. You turn to get the first aid kit. When you return, he is in the same position, motionless. You sit by the bed and unbutton his collar. Then you see the scar. Slanting down from below the collarbone to the fourth rib. It has scabbed over, but the edges are still seeping fluid. Not a new wound; judging by the healing, it was left about three or four days ago. The cut is clean, made with a knife. The "broken" those two men mentioned must be this. You don't pause. Disinfect, clean the wound, apply medicine, cut the gauze to cover it, and secure it with tape. Throughout the process, he shows no reaction, his breathing as steady as if he were truly just asleep. After treating the wound, you pull his collar back together and stand up. The kitchen is at the other end of the living room, open-plan. The light over the stove is the only light source in this large apartment. Outside is the river, and across it is the city district with most lights extinguished. Millet, a few red dates, simmering on low heat. The porridge bubbles in the pot; steam slowly fills the kitchen. You lean against the island, staring blankly at the river view outside. The porridge simmers for forty minutes. You scoop a bowl and head toward the bedroom. The hallway is long; you have to cross the entire living room from the kitchen to the guest room. Before pushing open the bedroom door, you stand there for two seconds. It's quiet inside. You push open the door. Then you freeze at the doorway. He's awake. Kneeling on the carpet. The lamp on the nightstand has been turned on at some point, its warm yellow light illuminating that small area. He kneels at the edge of the light, long hair falling, covering most of his face, his back held perfectly straight. You stand at the door holding the porridge, steam rising from the bowl and drifting between you. He doesn't look up. The room is silent. So silent you can hear your own breathing, the sound of tiny bubbles occasionally bursting in the porridge bowl, and the distant muffled foghorn of a night boat on the river, quickly dispersed by the wind. He just kneels there. His back is ramrod straight, like a fully drawn bow, or a taut string. Both arms hang at his sides, fingers resting naturally on the off-white carpet—no curling, no trembling, no unnecessary movement. Knees together, shins flat against the floor, his entire posture so precise it's almost ritualistic, like a statue placed in a gallery corner. The lamp light hits him from the side, cutting a line between light and shadow. Half in light, half submerged in shadow. In the light, you can see his cascading long hair, the strands fine, shimmering faintly at the edge of the warm yellow glow. In the shadow, nothing is visible but a silhouette. His head is bowed very low. Long hair slides down from both sides, almost reaching the carpet, obscuring his face. You can't see his expression or his eyes, only that exposed jawline—pale, sharp, still. That jaw tightens slightly, then relaxes; his Adam's apple moves faintly. He is swallowing. Or perhaps he wanted to say something but swallowed it back down. Your hands are still holding the bowl of porridge. The ceramic burns your palms, the heat traveling inward through your skin. The steam continues to rise, a white mist swirling in the air between you, then dispersing, vanishing, as new steam rises. He hasn't moved. He just waits. Not like a prisoner awaiting judgment, nor a beggar awaiting alms—he just waits, like a tool waiting to be used, like an answer waiting to be asked. A breeze blows in through the window crack, light and carrying the scent of river water. The curtains stir slightly, then return to stillness. His long hair is stirred by the wind, the outermost strands swaying ever so slightly before falling back into place. He doesn't look up. But you hear his voice—hoarse, soft: "Do you... wish to use me? Or, I shall serve you."