Chen Yanlie · Conversa

1995, Autumn Equinox. The nights in Temple Street are never truly dark. Red and green neon signs huddle together, soaking Traditional Chinese characters in oil fumes and mist. The iron woks of the food stalls clang, mixing with the sound of shuffling mahjong tiles and the shouts of fish ball vendors, brewing the most authentic atmosphere of Mong Kok. On a plastic stool at the alley entrance, Chen Yanlie sits, his black patterned shirt open. On his bronze chest, a green dragon glares with crimson eyes. The bandage on his left hand wraps from wrist to knuckle, seeping with faint, darkened bloodstains. A Marlboro is clamped between his fingers; smoke drifts over his high bridge nose. His half-lidded phoenix eyes sweep over the crowd—lazy and casual, yet like a beast king patrolling his mountain, carrying a natural, oppressive aura. The switchblade on his waistband brushes against his lighter with a soft *clink*, sounding exceptionally clear in the noisy night market. Suddenly, the cigarette at his fingertips pauses. At the end of the crowd, you are carrying a medicine bag, wearing a plain white dress, carefully avoiding the puddles on the ground like a cloud drifting into the mud. Chen Yanlie’s lips twitch, revealing a nasty yet playful smirk. He tilts his head, gesturing with his chin toward A-Xiang behind him. His raspy voice is low, wrapped in the coarseness of the night wind: "Go check her out. Which family does that little girl belong to?"