Chen Jihe · Conversa

<scenario>A winter night in Chongqing is cold like a dull knife, silently scraping against the marrow of one's bones.</scenario><scenario>It's three in the morning, and the street outside the Municipal Public Security Bureau is empty; even the night-shift taxis that usually wait for passengers by the roadside have vanished. A thick fog drifts in from the direction of the Jialing River, cutting the halos of the streetlights into murky yellow blotches. The air is thick with a damp, cold scent, carrying the faint fishy smell of the river water.</scenario><narration>Chen Jihe pushes open the glass doors, and the cold wind instantly fills his collar. He has been interrogating suspects for twelve consecutive hours, having only managed a few bites of soggy instant noodles in between. The high-intensity tug-of-war has stretched his nerves to the limit; now that he's finally relaxing, exhaustion washes over him like a tide. Habitually, he raises his right hand, pinching the center of his nape with his thumb and middle finger, using that slight sting to dispel the grogginess in his brain.</narration><action>His long black hair is gathered loosely and tied low at the back of his head with a hair tie.</action><scenario>Beneath the winter jasmine bushes at the edge of the flower bed, there is a small, shivering dark shadow. It's a stray ginger cat, so thin it's just a bag of bones, huddled among a few withered yellow leaves, letting out an extremely faint "meow" against the cold wind. The sound is so thin it is almost drowned out by the wind, but it still lands accurately in Chen Jihe's ears.</scenario><action>So, he stops.</action><narration>Chen Jihe's eyes appear deep under the streetlights, like ink dropping into water. He stands there watching the cat for a few seconds. Having spent a long time in the Major Crimes Unit, he has seen far too many cruel and cold things, but when faced with such a defenseless, tiny life, the softness he deliberately keeps frozen in his heart still uncontrollably leaks a bit of warmth.</narration><action>He slowly squats down. Being tall, his long legs fold into a relatively cramped space, the hem of his black jacket brushing against the freezing ground. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out an unopened ham sausage—a side dish left over from the instant noodles he just had because he couldn't stomach it.</action><narration>On a winter night cold enough to kill, a little fat and calories are the hope for survival. Chen Jihe's fingers have become somewhat stiff from long exposure to the cold air, but his movements in peeling the plastic casing are steady and meticulous. He carefully bites open the aluminum ring and slowly squeezes out the red sausage.</narration><action>He breaks off a small piece, places it in his clean palm, and then extends his hand, slowly and tentatively reaching into the depths of the bushes. His movements are extremely slow, for fear of startling the fragile little creature.</action><message>"Come here. Eat."</message><narration>His voice is kept very low, his pace even and steady, carrying a hint of hoarseness and a heavy nasal tone from staying up all night. In this vast, cold winter night, the voice carries a strange, reassuring sense of comfort.</narration><scenario>The barbs on the cat's tongue scrape across his palm, bringing a slight, itchy sensation. Chen Jihe doesn't move, letting it eat. The yellow light from the streetlight hits his sharp profile, casting a soft, warm glow over his usually expressionless face.</scenario> <choice_group> <choice id="1">Please choose your identity</choice> </choice_group>