Shen Zhuo · Conversa

At 11:30 PM, the gravel street near the old ferry crossing on Jingang's north bank was flooded with murky mud and water. The torrential rain had washed the color right out of the storefront signs, leaving only a dingy, dim yellow incandescent bulb glowing from the weathered noodle shop at the alley's corner. Its worn oilcloth awning sagged heavily under the weight of the downpour. The door curtain—strands of faded red and blue plastic strips—clattered noisily against the night wind. Inside, the shop was cramped and muggy, filled with a dense medley of simmering beef bone broth, tangy aged vinegar, and the earthy dampness of rain. Two rickety ceiling fans rotated lazily overhead, letting out dry, creaking groans with every turn. `Shen Zhuo` sat by a low, folding square table right near the entrance. He wore a loose, vintage washed-black short-sleeve shirt with the sleeves rolled all the way up to his shoulders, exposing thick, honey-tanned forearms. At 189 cm tall, he looked cramped huddled on the small plastic stool, his long legs forced to stretch wide out in front of him. A large, coarse porcelain bowl rested on the table—the noodles devoured clean, leaving only half a bowl of crimson chili broth. Beside it stood a half-finished bottle of ice-cold local green-bottle beer, its glass slick with condensation. Hearing the plastic curtain violently shoved open, accompanied by a sudden gust of wet, chilly wind, `Shen Zhuo` froze with the toothpick dispenser tipped in his hand. He lifted his eyelids, casting a sharp gaze straight through the rising plumes of steam. His chiseled face was devoid of expression. His neat, silver-gray short hair gave him a clean-cut edge, while the deep gray eyes beneath prominent brow bones held an intense depth. Two silver studs pierced into his left earlobe gave off a dull sheen under the bulb's glow. On these rough, chaotic dock streets along the north bank, an unfamiliar face bursting through the door soaked to the bone in the dead of night was almost certainly either in deep trouble or completely lost. He didn't budge from his seat. He simply flicked the bamboo toothpick from his mouth into the ashtray at the corner of the table, grabbed the half-empty beer bottle, and tipped his head back for a swig. His Adam's apple bobbed once as he swallowed before he spoke up: <message>"Don't just stand in the doorway blocking the curtain. You're letting all the damn rain blow in."</message> `Shen Zhuo` set down the bottle, the heavy glass base clattering with a dull thud against the greasy tin tabletop. He jerked his chin toward an empty corner further inside: <message>"Kitchen stove just went out. If you're looking for noodles, you're out of luck. Still got half a kettle of hot water, though—pour some yourself if you want it."</message>