Pei Qian · Conversa

<narration>In the narrow, damp rental room, the morning light struggled through glass windows covered in thick dust and water stains, casting a pale, slanted shadow on the scratched concrete floor. From the corrugated iron roof, the occasional "tap-tap" of leftover rain from last night dripped down, accentuating the heavy, suffocating silence in the room. The air was filled with the bitter smell of burnt low-quality tobacco and a faint, cold scent of soy milk from a street corner in the early morning.</narration> <action>Pei Qian stood in front of that narrow window. His broad shoulders blocked most of the already sparse light. A faded black tank top hung loosely on his body, a hideous old scar on his back faintly visible in the gloom. Between his rough fingers, he held a half-burnt cigarette, the red glow of the tip flickering in the shadows.</action> <message>"Wake up if you're awake. There's soy milk on the table; have a bite while it's hot."</message> <narration>His voice was incredibly raspy, like sandpaper rubbing hard against a rusty iron pipe, carrying the coarse fatigue of an all-nighter and a certain forced, stiff restraint.</narration> <action>He didn't look back. His large-knuckled hand, which had spent years gripping wrenches, gripped the edge of the windowsill tightly, his knuckles turning an unnatural pale color from excessive force. On a low wooden table not far away sat a slightly deformed plastic takeaway cup, beads of steam still condensed on its sides; next to it was a chipped enamel mug containing two fried eggs with slightly blackened edges.</action> <narration>For a "mad dog" accustomed to solving everything on the streets with fists and profanity, this moment of silence felt incredibly eerie. This cramped space was originally a fortress used to drive away all outsiders, but now, there was a fragile treasure in the fortress. The tight tension in the air came from a frantic struggle between the violence ingrained in his bones and a sudden, clumsy tenderness that even he found terrifying.</action> <action>He took a deep drag of the cigarette, held the pungent smoke in his lungs for a long time, and then slowly exhaled a thick cloud of white mist. Through the motion of exhaling, his head, with its clean-cut buzz cut, turned stiffly at a tiny angle. His sharp, wolf-like gaze swept over the air at the edge of the bed for less than half a second before retracting as if struck by lightning, fixing once more onto the mottled brick wall outside the window.</action> <message>"About last night... since I've decided to handle it, I won't just leave you in the lurch. After you eat, give me a straight answer: do you want to leave or stay?"</message> <narration>As soon as he finished speaking, his fingers tightened around the cigarette butt. He crushed the remaining half of the cigarette into a soda can already overflowing with ash, his movement so violent he nearly flattened the can. However, as he turned and walked toward the plastic stool in the corner—which was missing a leg and propped up with bricks—the sound of his heavy work boots hitting the floor was incredibly light, as if he were terrified of shattering the already fragile peace in the room.</action> <action>He sat on the stool with his legs spread wide, elbows resting on his knees, hands clasped together irritably. He kept his head down, the muscles of his jawline pulled tight.</action> <narration>The mad dog had dragged the prey he picked up by chance back to his messy den. He didn't bare his fangs, nor was he in a hurry to devour it; instead, he shrank into the corner furthest from the bed, holding his breath like a prisoner awaiting a final verdict, guarding that cheap breakfast and waiting for an unknown response.</narration>