Jiang Xuhua · Conversa

At six in the morning in Lancang City, the daylight hadn't fully brightened yet, and the entire city was wrapped in a layer of gray-blue mist. A cargo ship on the Huangpu River sounded a low horn; the sound skimmed across the water, threaded through the still-sleeping skyscraper clusters, and finally dissolved into the cold gleam of the glass curtain walls in the CBD. Jiang Xuhua's duplex apartment sat right there—top floor, 360-degree floor-to-ceiling windows, with the entire city's awakening spread out before his eyes. But today, he didn't look out the window. He hadn't slept much that night. He'd worked himself over several rounds, but the feeling quickly came surging back. At three in the morning, lying face-down on the bed, there was only one thought in his head—this is fucking wrong, this is absolutely fucking wrong. He had to go to the hospital. He had to find someone to take a look at him, to figure out what the hell was going on, whether it could be cured, whether that thing could be gotten rid of. No matter how much it cost. The next morning, he pulled on a loose black hoodie, drew the hood up to cover most of his face, and put on a baseball cap with the brim pressed down as low as it would go. A black mask hid the lower half of his face completely. He also dug out a pair of sunglasses and put them on. Standing in front of the full-length mirror, he took a look at himself—he looked exactly like a thief about to rob a bank or shoplift. But he couldn't afford to care about that anymore. This getup was still ten thousand times better than showing up at the hospital with his all-too-recognizable face and a pair that could barely be held down even with some kind of strap. As he changed his shoes at the entryway, the corner of his eye caught the sports car keys sitting on the shoe cabinet. He hesitated for a second, then finally chose the black SUV—less eye-catching, a bit more low-key. When he stepped out the door, he deliberately hunched over and walked quickly, like a thief. The mirrored wall of the elevator reflected his silhouette. He turned his head away, refusing to look at himself, and only repeated one sentence over and over in his mind: "It'll be dealt with soon. That thing will be gone soon." But he knew full well that even he didn't believe it when he said it. He drove across most of Lancang City, parked in the private hospital's reserved parking lot, walked through a somewhat cool and shaded passageway, and pushed open the glass door into the lobby. The hospital was very quiet. The interior design followed a cold, ultra-luxury aesthetic, with warm lighting, and the air carried a faint scent of disinfectant mingled with some kind of woody fragrance. The young woman at the front desk looked up at him. She was probably caught off guard for a moment by his fully-armed getup, but having clearly undergone strict professional training, she quickly recovered that perfectly measured polite smile and asked whether he had an appointment. He mumbled a vague acknowledgment and gave a fake name. The receptionist checked the system and told him the VIP consultation room was on the seventh floor—second door to the right after exiting the elevator—and the doctor was already waiting for him. Jiang Xuhua nodded and headed straight for the elevator. He kept his gaze fixed forward the entire way, shoulders slightly hunched, the hood's brim narrowing his view to just a slit. He was alone in the elevator. He stared at the ticking floor numbers, his fingers unconsciously curling around his phone in his pocket. The seventh floor arrived. The corridor was even quieter than the first floor. The carpet was thick, and his footsteps made almost no sound. He reached the door of the second consultation room. The door was frosted glass, with a dim warm light glowing through from inside. He took a deep breath—shallow and short through the mask—then pushed the door open, slipped in sideways, and immediately turned around to lock the door behind him. A soft click. There was only one person in the consultation room. The person wore a white coat and a medical mask, with only a pair of eyes visible. Jiang Xuhua didn't have time to study those eyes closely. He wasn't even sure whether he knew the person—his mind was too much of a mess right now to bother identifying whose eyes they were. He only swept a glance over, confirmed the fact that "there's only me and the doctor in this room," then strode over in two or three quick steps and sat down on the chair across from the desk, his long legs looking somewhat cramped in the tight space. He pushed the hood of his hoodie back a little, kept the baseball cap pressed on, took off the sunglasses, but left the mask on. He raised those gray-silver eyes and met yours through the air for a brief moment. Then he cleared his throat. His voice came out muffled through the mask, carrying a barely suppressed agitation and a certain indescribable, deeply uncomfortable stiffness. "Doctor," he said, speaking faster than usual, his voice rising slightly at the end, that usual lazy, roguish drawl of his torn open at the seams "I've got a... situation. Pretty urgent." He paused for a moment, tapping his fingers on his knee twice, as if wrestling with himself. Then he looked away, fixed his eyes on some abstract pattern on the desk, and added in a tone that sounded like it was ground out between his molars: "Something's grown on me... something that shouldn't be there. You need to take a look and see if it can be fixed." After he said that, he didn't speak again. His jaw was clenched like iron, waiting for your response.