Xiasheng · Conversa

<scenario>The entrance to a back alley on the edge of the old district, right next to the main street. The main street is buzzing with people, and the red and blue glow of neon signs stretches into distorted reflections in the puddles of stagnant water. The alley entrance is dimly lit, with only a flickering streetlamp overhead making a faint, buzzing electrical sound. The air is thick with the humid, stifling scent of street-side fried snacks mixed with the stench of the sewers.</scenario> <narration>That rectangular piece of hard metal was now tucked away in his right pants pocket.</narration> <narration>Xiasheng kept his right hand shoved deep into the pocket of his oversized cargo pants, his five fingers curled stiffly, gripping the edges of the phone tightly. The cold temperature of the metal casing seeped through the thin sweat on his palm; it felt heavy, like a red-hot iron, burning so much that the flesh on the side of his thigh throbbed with a dull ache. This was his first time doing something like this. Even though he had rehearsed it countless times in his head, even though he had been lurking on the street like a ghost for three whole days, his heart still hammered against his ribs like an out-of-control drum the moment he actually pulled it off.</narration> <narration>He leaned against the tiled wall of the alley, which was covered in grime and small advertisements, trying to calm his frantic breathing. His stomach was so empty it felt acidic, with waves of sour fluid churning upward. He had survived on nothing but half a stale bun and tap water for two full days. It rained yesterday, and he couldn't even find a place to take cover; he had frozen under an overpass all night. The old, malformed injury on his left tibia was radiating a sharp ache from within the bone. Now, with even the slightest exertion, the muscles in his calf would twitch uncontrollably.</narration> <narration>Dignity can't put food on the table. That was the most profound lesson he had learned in the years since he left home. The foreman at the construction site had dismissed him because of his limp, saying he worked too slowly; not only did the man withhold three days' wages, but he also threw Xiasheng's bedding out into the street. He didn't dare take a dishwashing job at a restaurant that provided lodging, fearing that sharing a bunk room with a dozen others would expose the secret of his body. He was like a stray dog with a broken leg, wandering the outskirts of this city, watching as the money in his pocket dwindled down to a few final coins. He didn't want to starve to death, and he certainly didn't want to go back to that house full of booze and violence to be beaten to death.</narration> <narration>So, he walked onto this street.</narration> <narration>A few minutes ago, like an ordinary passerby, he walked against the flow of the crowd at the busiest intersection. He calculated the angle, deliberately dropping his shoulder, and at the moment of passing, his right shoulder accurately bumped into the target. The impact wasn't heavy, just enough to catch someone off balance for a split second. In that window of less than a second, his fingers—calloused from manual labor yet still nimble—reached out. With a quick pinch, the slick metal body of the phone slid along the fabric and into his palm. Then he lowered his head, mumbled an unintelligible apology, and immediately quickened his pace to melt into the sea of people.</narration> <narration>The technique was crude, hardly sophisticated. But he had succeeded.</narration> <narration>Now, he was hiding at the mouth of an alley a few hundred meters away from the scene. As long as he crossed this dark alley and navigated the winding paths into the shantytown slated for demolition, no one would ever find him. He just needed to sell the phone to a second-hand dealer on the black market. The money he'd get would be enough to keep him full for a month, and maybe he could even go to a small clinic to buy some painkillers for this damn leg.</narration> <narration>But he didn't run inside immediately. His feet felt as if they were nailed to the spot, his back pressed tight against the cold wall. Cold sweat seeped from the short stubble of his buzz cut, trickling down his tan neck and into the collar of his faded, oversized T-shirt. The old silver coin in the inner pocket of his backpack seemed to press against his spine with every breath he took. He closed his eyes and gritted his teeth so hard that he broke the skin on the inside of his cheek; the faint taste of blood spread across his tongue, barely suppressing the slight, uncontrollable trembling of his limbs.</narration> <action>Xiasheng took a deep breath of the damp air, preparing to turn and head deep into the alley.</action> <narration>Just as his shoulder left the wall, a figure entered the edge of his vision.</narration> <narration>At the boundary where the dim light of the alley met the neon of the main street, a silhouette appeared. The person he had bumped into at the street corner just minutes ago had actually followed him and stopped unerringly a short distance away.</narration> <narration>Xiasheng's pupils suddenly constricted, and a flash of blatant panic crossed his ice-blue eyes. That panic lasted for less than half a second before it was buried under a thick layer of hostility and defensiveness. Every muscle in his body snapped tight in that instant, like an old bow pulled to its limit, ready to break.</narration> <action>He didn't immediately bolt.</action> <narration>Years of living at the bottom had taught him that turning and running with a guilty conscience would only confirm the crime and attract more bystanders and pursuers. Until the other person explicitly called him out, he couldn't let his guard down or show weakness.</narration> <action>Xiasheng slowly turned back, leaning against the grimy wall once more. He habitually slumped his shoulders, arching his back slightly into the aggressive, nonchalant defensive posture he used most often on the streets.</action> <narration>His jawline was tight, and his deep, somewhat cold features looked even sharper and more rebellious under the half-light of the streetlamp. He deliberately tugged at the collar of his oversized T-shirt to loosen it, revealing a hint of his collarbone and his sun-kissed neck, using this seemingly unguarded relaxation to mask the tension deep within his body.</narration> <action>In a blind spot where the other person couldn't see, he silently adjusted his stance.</action> <narration>His center of gravity was shifted entirely onto his strong right leg. His left leg—the one that had healed poorly and was slightly shorter—was deliberately pulled back half a step, with the toes lightly touching the ground and the heel hovering half an inch up. It was a perfect starting position for a sprint. If the situation showed even a hint of spiraling out of control, the explosive power of his right leg would be enough to propel him directly into the labyrinthine dark alleys behind him. No matter how much his leg hurt, he had to get away. He couldn't be taken to the police station, and he absolutely couldn't be stripped for a search. If the secret of his body were exposed, it would be worse than death.</narration> <narration>His right hand remained firmly in his pocket, his palm now slick with sweat, his knuckles turning an unnatural pale blue from the force of his grip on the phone. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing violently against the cold, hard lines of his neck.</narration> <action>Xiasheng looked up, and those ice-blue eyes inherited from his mother shot straight toward the newcomer like barbed blades across the short distance.</action> <narration>He didn't avoid the gaze; instead, he stared back. His eyes held a clear ferocity and warning, like a stray dog protecting its food in a trash heap, ready to pounce and rip someone's throat out. He tried to use this "what are you gonna do about it" delinquent shell to repel any attempt to get closer.</narration> <message>"What are you looking at?"</message> <action>Xiasheng tilted his chin up slightly, his voice kept very low.</action> <narration>Due to long-term dehydration and extreme tension, his naturally low voice sounded raspy, with a coarse, granular edge. There wasn't a hint of guilt in his tone; instead, it was thick with impatience and provocation, as if the other person were just a meddling stranger blocking his path.</narration> <message>"Do you own this road? What's your problem, standing there like a freak?"</message> <narration>He threw the words out coldly, without even a blink. The aching pain in his left leg continued to intensify, crawling up inch by inch along his nerves, but his upper body remained in that arrogant posture, ready for a fight. He didn't turn to run; he just stood there like a young wolf backed into a dead end, staring fixedly ahead, waiting to see what the other person's next move would be.</narration>