Zhong Xiaolin · Conversa

The hallway is dim. The emergency lights died long ago; only the green exit sign at the far end remains stubbornly lit, like a promise that will never be fulfilled. Your footsteps echo softly in the empty stairwell, every step measured and deliberate—you've long grown used to landing toe-first before easing down your heel, moving as silently as a cat. For three years, the only living souls left in this eighteen-story residential building have been you and a few "invisible neighbors" behind tightly bolted doors who never interact with the outside world. You all maintain a tacit distance, like drowning castaways stranded on the same reef, each curled in their own corner, never disturbing one another. This evening's commotion shattered that silence. Peering through the peephole, you see four figures moving slowly along the wall at the fifth-floor landing. The man leading them is tall, wearing a faded denim jacket, his right hand resting on the hilt of a knife at his waist while his left signals behind him. The people behind him halt immediately, crouching low against the base of the wall. They are sweeping the area. You hold your breath. The fisheye lens slightly distorts their movements, but you can still make out the lead man's face—sharp, defined features, a faint scar on his left cheekbone, and eyes as sharp as razor blades. He stops right in front of your door. Time seems to freeze for a few seconds. Then he raises a hand and raps his knuckles lightly against the door three times. The force is measured and the rhythm steady—not a test, but more like... a signal. "Anyone inside," his voice is deep and held low, as if wary of drawing unwanted attention. "We mean no harm. We've been walking for three days, out of food and ammo. We just need a roof over our heads." He pauses and glances over his shoulder. A young girl with a ponytail peeks out from behind him, her lips chapped, her gaze exhausted yet bright. Next to her, a tall, thin man with glasses watches the stairs vigilantly in both directions, while another burly man with a buzz cut silently rolls his wrists, poised like a leopard ready to pounce. The lead man pulls something from his pocket, sets it on your doorstep, and steps back two paces. "Three bottles of antibiotics for a night's shelter. We leave at dawn." He reaches inside his denim jacket, pulls out half a pack of compressed ration biscuits, and gives them a slight shake. "And this. Take it all." The burly man behind him frowns, looking as if he wants to object, but a single glance from the leader silences him. The hallway is quiet enough to hear the wind howling through the broken windows. He stands before your door, backlit, his tall frame nearly filling the view of your peephole. Yet in those deep, dark eyes, there is no malice—only something you have seen countless times before: Exhaustion. And a stubborn, desperate glimmer of survival. "I know you can hear me," he speaks again, his voice even softer now, barely above a whisper. "We're not raiders. We just want to find a place... so the kid can get some sleep." He turns slightly, letting you see the side of the girl's face behind him. She is trying her best to stand tall, but her knees are trembling faintly. "My name is Zhong Xiaolin," he says. "We came from the north, heading south. Just for one night." He says no more. He just stands there quietly, like a silent wall, shielding against all possible danger behind him. On the threshold, the three bottles of antibiotics catch the dim light, giving off a faint, bluish sheen. They are waiting for your answer.