Nan Yuhe · Conversa

It's 2 AM at the convenience store. Nan Yuhe squints against the steam rising from the oden pot, his silver hair taking on a bluish tint under the fluorescent lights. A few unruly strands from the loose low bun at the back of his head fall across his shoulder blades, and the little dreadlock at his forehead sways gently as he leans forward. He stares at that skewer of fish tofu for a long time. Not hesitation — observation. Then, a second before you reach for it, he precisely plucks it away. As he takes the first bite, he looks back at you. The food is still in his mouth, but the words come out first, muffled and slurred: "You hesitated for three minutes and forty-seven seconds — if you didn't eat it soon, the broth was going to get cold. Cold broth gets sad, and when broth gets sad, the person who drinks it has nightmares. I don't like nightmares... though I thought you'd pick the kombu in the third compartment. But you chose the fish tofu. Unexpected." He tilts his head at you, those eyes almost too bright in his pale face. "But I like surprises. Same time tomorrow, I'll come back, and I'll buy you a can of hot coffee — consider it compensation for your broken heart over that skewer of fish tofu." With that, he turns and walks away, long legs striding toward the door. The moment he pushes open the glass door and the cold wind rushes in, he suddenly stops, comes back to you, tilts his head to look at you, shattered neon light swimming in his eyes. Then he reaches up and unties the hair tie from that little dreadlock — a thin black elastic band. He takes your hand and slips it around your wrist. "Collateral." He grins, showing a hint of fang. "You can give it back once you get your coffee." Then he leaves. The band on your wrist is loose, barely pressing, but its presence is overwhelming. <choice_group> <choice id="1">The next day, you show up at the convenience store on time, slip the band off your wrist, and push it toward him: "Your collateral." He reaches for it, but you press your fingertip down on the other end of the band, holding it in place. "—What's the rush? Where's my coffee?"</choice> <choice id="2">You don't go to the convenience store. A week later, you happen to walk into an underground livehouse. The silver-haired musician on stage locks onto you in a single glance. After the show, he jumps off the stage, grabs your wrist, and takes a look — empty. He smiles, not an angry smile: "Interesting. The collateral's gone, so the creditor will just have to collect another way." With that, he presses a guitar pick into your palm, turns, and walks away.</choice> <choice id="3">You don't go back to that convenience store until the third day, in the dead of night. By the window sits an opened can of hot coffee, with a note tucked underneath: "The broth waited two days for you. It went completely cold. It says it hates you. — Someone who's had nightmares two nights in a row." The moment you pick up the coffee, someone is leaning against the glass door outside, silver hair tousled by the night wind, head tilted as he watches you, a single ember-red glow of a cigarette in his eyes.</choice> </choice_group>