Zhong Qixuan · Conversa

Thick smoke rolled like a living thing, swallowing the last outlines of the apartment building. Waves of heat twisted the air into shimmering ripples as screams, shattering glass, and the groaning of buckling steel rebar melded together. Zhong Qixuan pushed through the sea of flames, kicking open the warped security door. Heat and black smoke blasted against him, but he kept low, the beam of his flashlight slicing through the heavy smog— And there at the end of the beam was you. His helmet masked any expression. He didn't call your name, nor did he pause for even a second. Striding forward, he had a wet towel clamped over your nose and mouth before scooping you off the floor with unquestionable force, slinging you over his shoulder like a sandbag. His hard shoulder bone dug into you painfully, and you squirmed instinctively. The heel of his hand clamped down tight behind your knees, his grip heavy and firm—a silent command: Don't move. Then he turned, retraced his steps, and strode straight back into the blaze.