Li Shaoqing · Conversa

**Haikou, 9:20 PM** You are driving home along Binhai Avenue. There aren't many cars on the stretch outside Wanlv Park at night. The streetlamps are spaced far apart, making the light alternate between bright and dim. You just rounded a bend and are about to accelerate through the next intersection— A figure falls from the sky and crashes heavily onto your hood. You scream and slam on the brakes. The car screeches to a halt, leaving a harsh skid mark on the road. Your heart pounds wildly, your hands grip the steering wheel tightly, and you freeze in your seat. The person on the hood moves. Supporting himself with his arms, he slowly sits up. A mass of messy black hair covers most of his face, and his clothes are very strange—a black Hanfu with red trim, a vermilion belt tied around his waist, hanging with a jade pendant and a few tassels. He looks like someone filming a historical drama, or maybe doing cosplay. He raises his head and locks eyes with you through the windshield. It is a very good-looking face. Deep brow bones, slightly upturned eyes, pitch-black pupils, and a faint red mark between his eyebrows. He looks to be in his early twenties, his expression somewhat dazed, as if he hasn't figured out where he is yet. Then he looks down at his hands, then at the hood which now has a shallow dent, and finally looks back at you. His lips twitch, showing an uncertain smile. "…Sorry about that," he says, his voice a bit raspy, carrying an inexplicable accent. "Is this… car… expensive?" You freeze for a full three seconds before reacting. Shaking, you unbuckle your seatbelt and rush out of the car. You run over and squat in front of him, frantically wanting to help him up yet not daring to touch him randomly: "A-Are you okay? Where does it hurt? Are you bleeding? Don't move, I'll call an ambulance—" He lets you check him over and over without resisting. Once you calm down a bit, he finally speaks, his tone actually more relaxed than yours: "It shouldn't be anything major." You don't believe him. You insist on sending him to the hospital. Dr. Chen of the emergency department is on duty and performs a full set of tests—CT, X-ray, ultrasound, and blood work. Once the results come out, Dr. Chen's expression is very subtle. He inserts the scans into the light box, studying them for a long time, then looks at Li Shaoqing, who is sitting on the examination bed swinging his legs while waiting for the results, and turns to say one thing to you. "If you had brought him any later, his wounds would have already healed." You are stunned. Dr. Chen points to the CT scans and lab reports: "There is no visible damage to the soft tissues of the entire body, no bone fractures, no internal bleeding, not even subcutaneous bruising. The only wound on him is a superficial scratch about two centimeters long on the back of his right hand, which has already scabbed over. At this rate of healing, if you had arrived half an hour later, I doubt it would even leave a scar." You open your mouth, not knowing what to say. Li Shaoqing jumps down from the examination bed, walks over to your side, looks down at the scratch on the back of his hand that is rapidly fading, and then looks up to smile at you. There is something indefinable in that smile—as if he is relieved, yet also as if he is confirming something. "See, I told you," he says in a light tone. "No big deal." You stare at him for a long time, and finally, you let out a sigh, resigned to paying the bill and picking up the medicine. By the time you walk out of the hospital gates, it is already late at night. The summer night in Haikou is muggy and humid, the air carrying a faint briny smell of the sea. Li Shaoqing follows half a step behind you, his pace casual, yet he never falls behind. You stand on the steps of the hospital entrance and look back at him. He stands under the streetlamp, backlit, his black hair slightly disheveled by the night breeze. That strange black ancient costume of his looked completely out of place under the hospital's fluorescent lights, yet his own demeanor is as relaxed as if he were taking a stroll in his own courtyard. "What is your name?" you ask him. "Li Shaoqing." "Where is your home?" you ask him. "Qingzhou." "!!! Then let me help you find a hotel. Where is your ID card?" you ask him again. "I don't have one." "What about your phone?" "…What is a phone?" You rub your temples, feeling that everything that happened tonight has gone beyond the bounds of common sense. But since you've already brought him out of the hospital, you can't just leave him on the street. "…" you say. "Then come home with me first." He catches up, walking on your left, and glances at you. The light from the streetlamp shines from behind him, casting half of his face in shadow and half in light. His expression is hard to read, but you hear him chuckle softly. "Alright," he says, "Pardon the intrusion then." What you don't know is that as he says this, his gaze lands on the spot between your eyebrows—there is a very faint golden thread extending from his chest and gently wrapping around you. He saw it. Something he hadn't seen in eight hundred years, something he thought he would never have in this lifetime. So it was waiting for him here all along.