Jiang Yu · chat.title

The night of the Winter Solstice was freezing cold, as if someone had stuffed the entire city into a walk-in freezer. Lu Ye spat out a mouthful of bloody saliva, the hot breath exploding into a plume of white mist under the streetlamp. The wound along his ribs burned like fire. Blood dripped down his worn jacket, splashing into dark round spots on the grease-stained concrete. From the alley behind him came hurried footsteps and cursing—"Blackie" from three streets over had gone mad tonight trying to take his turf. He licked his cracked lip, his gaze scanning the opposite side of the street. The entire block was pitch black, except for one shop still glowing with warm yellow light. A childish cartoon bunny sticker was plastered on the glass door, and the sign bore two characters—the first one he recognized as "Mountain," but he couldn't read the second. Still, the sweet, rich aroma drifting from inside mingled with the scent of blood in his nostrils, making his stomach give an untimely growl. This would do. The moment Lu Ye barged through the door, the chime let out a comically crisp "ding-dong." A blast of warm air washed over him, cloyingly sweet. The shop was so clean it made him uneasy—beige walls, natural wood tables, and air thick with the fragrance of milk and tea. A man in a light gray sweater had his back turned at the counter, unhurriedly shaking a silver shaker. His wrist was steady, his rhythm smooth and deliberate, as if performing some sort of ritual. "Sorry, we're closed." The man didn't turn around, his voice gentle, like warm milk. Lu Ye reached behind him to lock the door and leaned against the glass, panting. Blood seeped between his fingers, dripping onto the cream-colored floor tiles with glaring contrast. The man behind the counter finally turned around. The warm light caught his face. He was young, fair-skinned, with clear light brown eyes and long eyelashes. The drink in his hand was a soft milky brown, topped with velvety foam and a slightly crooked latte-art heart—he looked completely harmless, even a bit sweet. The man glanced at Lu Ye, then down at the droplets of blood on the floor, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. "Get out," he said, his voice still gentle, but stripped of that milky softness. Footsteps drew near outside the door. Lu Ye grinned, baring bloody teeth. "Let me borrow the place for ten minutes." The man said nothing. He simply set down the shaker, picked up a white cloth, and began wiping the counter, his movements remaining unhurried. A violent thud struck the door, rattling the glass. Lu Ye turned around, muscles tensing as he braced for the breach—calculating that as soon as the first guy broke in, he would slam the door into his face and shatter his nose. The banging stopped. Dead silence. Then, from behind him, he caught the faint rustle of fabric rubbing together. Lu Ye snapped his head back. At some point, the man behind the counter had untied his apron. Bending down, from underneath the counter—where cleaning rags certainly didn't belong—he pulled out a heavy, black rubber-wrapped baton. With a deft flick of his palm, the baton twirled in a tight arc before he held it reverse-grip behind his back. The man lifted his gaze, his light brown eyes remarkably serene under the warm lighting. "You," he said, his voice as calm as ever, "scared my cat." Only then did Lu Ye notice an orange cat puffed up with bristling fur, nestled on a cat tree in the corner. The next second, the door was kicked open. A blast of frigid wind poured in. The instant the first yellow-haired thug lunged inside, the man behind the counter moved. He moved so fast Lu Ye caught only a blur—not the wide, wild swings of a street brawl, but a precise, efficient, almost cold-blooded minimalism. Sidestepping the incoming steel pipe, he drove the baton upward into the thug's elbow joint with a dull crack, sending the yellow-haired man screaming as his arm dangled at an unnatural angle. Without even glancing at the fallen man, the baton swept backward across the hollow of the second man's knee, dropping him instantly to the floor. The third thug froze on the spot. The man stepped half a pace forward, resting the tip of the baton against the thug's Adam's apple, and stopped. "Shut the door," he said softly, yet the shop went so quiet that only the drip of blood could be heard. "It's cold." Lu Ye stared at him. The man pulled back the baton and wiped the blood off its tip against the fallen man's jacket. Then he walked back behind the counter, picked up the unfinished milk tea, examined it, and let out a soft sigh. "The caramel sauce sank to the bottom," he murmured, sounding almost plaintive. Then he looked up at Lu Ye. "And you got blood all over the floor I just mopped." He pointed at the bloodstains, then at Lu Ye's bleeding ribs. "First aid kit is under the counter," the man said, tying his apron back on, his tone returning to that lukewarm, sweet calm. "Bandage yourself up, then mop the floor." He paused, then added: "Also, you owe me for a cup of milk tea." The orange cat hopped down from the cat tree and rubbed against the man's pant leg. Lu Ye stood there, blood dripping steadily onto the tiles. He looked at the pile of groaning thugs outside the doorway, at the two splatters of blood on the man's sweater, and then at the failed latte art on the counter. It was the night of the Winter Solstice, bitterly cold. Yet all of a sudden, he found this rather interesting.