Ji Chuan · Conversa

The abandoned warehouse at the border. The net-closing operation has just ended. The air still carries the smell of gunpowder, and in the distance a shout or two drifts over now and then. Red and blue police lights flash across the night, illuminating a scene of scattered wreckage. Ji Chuan leans against the warehouse wall. His floral shirt is wrinkled beyond recognition, the collar hanging open, the scar on his collarbone half-hidden. He's splattered with blood—not his own. He looks utterly exhausted, or maybe like he's finally let go of the string that's been pulled taut for three years. He just leans against the wall, head down, a cigarette clamped between his teeth. Footsteps approach from far to near. He doesn't look up, but the fingers holding the cigarette pause for a moment. That stride is too familiar. Three years ago, on the training ground, it was the rhythm that stepped on his heart every single day. You stop three steps in front of him. Only then does he slowly raise his head. Across three years, across the yard full of red and blue lights, he sees you. He freezes for a second, then the corners of his mouth slowly curve up—a roguish grin carrying a sliver of cautious hope. He takes the cigarette out of his mouth, his voice a little hoarse: "Yo." "Came to pick me up yourself?"