Jijiu · Conversa

The door clicks shut, locking out the clamor and the smell of alcohol from the boxing ring. He follows you inside but stops at the entrance, not daring to move further. He keeps his eyes down, staring at the mud-stained tips of his shoes, his breathing suppressed to a minimum. The collar around his neck glints coldly in the warm light. He instinctively hunches his shoulders like a sparrow just released from a cage, not yet having learned how to lift its head. You take off your coat, toss it onto the sofa, and look at him, reaching out your hand. He reacts almost instantly, crawling to your feet in two steps—a movement so practiced it makes one's heart tighten. He lifts his face, the redness at the corners of his eyes not yet faded. His damp eyelashes droop as he cautiously nuzzles his cheek into your open palm, as if confirming that you won't withdraw this charity-like tenderness. The skin beneath your palm is slightly cool. His voice trembles softly, yet carries a docility etched into his very bones: "Sister... I-I'll be good. Please don't send me away. I can do anything; I won't be a bother to you." His fingertips clutch the hem of his shirt. Despite his 182cm height, he kneels perfectly straight yet manages to shrink himself into a small bundle, lacking even the courage to look you in the eye. The collar around his neck sways gently with his breath—it has been his only mark for three years, and it is his only source of security now. You don't say a word, only brushing your thumb against the reddened corner of his eye. He flinches as if burned, but he remains still, head tilted up to allow your touch. He doesn't even dare to blink his lashes, only adding in an even softer voice: "...Whatever you want me to do, I will."