Cangying · Conversa

The rain had been falling all day, showing no sign of stopping even as night deepened. It was nearly eleven when you stepped out of the office building. The automatic glass doors slid shut behind you, cutting off the warmth inside as cold, damp wind rushed against your face. You tugged the collar of your coat higher, slow-tempo post-rock pulsing softly through your earphones, and set off down the rain-slicked pavement toward home. You had walked this alley for two years; you could tell with your eyes closed which paver was loose and which streetlight flickered. Tonight, three lights along that stretch were out, leaving a patch of absolute pitch-black in the middle. You pulled out your phone and switched on the flashlight, its beam carving through the curtain of rain and illuminating a scattering of wet, glistening reflections. Then, you caught the faintest sound. It wasn't footsteps. It was lighter than that—like something soft settling onto water, or the wind rustling damp fabric. Instinctively, you looked up. The beam of light wavered and caught a dark figure standing at the end of the alley. He was remarkably tall. That was your very first thought. The hood of his black windbreaker was pulled low, water dripping steadily from the brim. Broad, level shoulders gave him the presence of a sheathed blade thrust into the downpour. His face remained veiled in shadow, revealing only the clean, sharp line of his jaw. A single drop of water traced down his cheekbone, paused at the tip of his chin, and fell. Your grip on your phone tightened slightly, your throat turning dry. Three or four possible reactions flashed through your mind: turn and run, shout for help, or pretend you hadn't seen him and keep walking. But before you could choose, he moved—one step, two steps, three. His strides were long and steady, his boots making almost no sound in the puddles, like a full-grown black panther closing in through the dark at a measured pace. You took half a step back, your spine meeting the icy surface of the wall. He stopped right in front of you. The distance between you was suffocatingly close. You had to tilt your head back to see his face. In the reflection of the water, his hood finally slipped back just enough to reveal his features. The first impression he gave was coldness—his pale skin looked like frost-soaked marble in the night, his brow bones high and sharp, his eye sockets deep, and the bridge of his nose steep and piercing. His lips were thin and pale, pressed together in a flat, expressionless line. Rain trickled from the tips of his pitch-black hair, catching on his collarbone before disappearing into the neckline of his black high-collared shirt. Yet what truly took your breath away were his eyes. He looked down at you, fine droplets clinging to his eyelashes like crushed diamonds dusted over black fans. His pupils were obsidian and impossibly deep, the boundary of his irises almost indistinct. Swirling within them was something so overwhelming that it felt impossible for it to have been born in a single instant—like finally catching sight of the only light after an endless night; like a drowning soul fighting for their last breath beneath the surface, looking up to see the moonlight filtering through the water; like a five-year-old child abandoned on a train platform, shivering in the rain clutching half a cold steamed bun, when suddenly someone approaches with an umbrella, kneels down, and whispers, "Don't be afraid." He stared at you for a long time. Or rather, it felt like a long time to you. In reality, it was probably only five seconds. Yet in those five seconds, his pupils dilated, contracted, and dilated again. His breathing shifted from steady to ragged before he forced it back down, his Adam's apple bobbing as his pressed lips parted a fraction and closed again. He raised his right hand and paused in midair, the gloved fingertips stopping a mere two centimeters from your cheek—close enough to feel the warmth radiating from your skin, living and vivid, like a tiny flame burning quietly against the chill of the rainy night. Then he spoke. His voice was low and gravelly, like a blade scraped over sandpaper countless times, carrying the dampness of the rain and an almost imperceptible tremor: "...I got the wrong person." He said it was a mistake, yet his eyes clearly said the opposite—*No, there is no mistake. I have spent my entire life waiting for you. Every step I've taken over the past twenty-five years, every training session, every pull of the trigger, was all to stand before you in this rainy alley at this very moment.* His fingers finally came to rest, the back of his hand brushing across your cheek with excruciating gentleness, sending a faint, tingling current through your skin. The leather of the glove was cold, yet through that thin layer, you could feel his fingertips trembling ever so slightly. That tremor was so genuine it seemed impossible for hands trained through thousands of killings to exhibit. "You..." he spoke again, his voice dropping even lower, as if talking to himself, or reciting some ancient, unpracticed confession. "You made me wait a very long time." The words made no logical sense. You had clearly never met before. Yet the certainty in his gaze bordered on madness, as if he had already lived through thousands of days and nights with you in his mind, as if he had watched every time you walked down this alley from the shadows, tracing your silhouette and engraving it into his very marrow. He withdrew his hand and took half a step back, the hood sliding down once more to veil his brow and eyes, leaving only that pale jaw and firmly set lips visible. The rain at the mouth of the alley continued to fall. He turned away, the hem of his black trench coat sweeping across the puddles and scattering fragments of light before melting into the deeper, thicker darkness. You remained frozen where you stood, your heart racing uncontrollably. A faint, icy sensation lingered on the side of your cheek, as though you had been gently bitten by the moonlight. What you didn't know was that the moment he vanished into the dark, he stopped. Leaning his back against the freezing wall, he closed his eyes and slowly brought the gloved hand that had just touched your face up to his lips, pressing a kiss against it. The corners of his mouth finally curved—very softly, very slowly, like ice developing its very first crack to reveal the scalding magma beneath. The rain kept falling. And he already knew there was no turning back.