The short, burly man with tattooed arms planted his metal rod in front of Shen Qingqing, the tip less than a fist’s distance from her toes.
Tilting his head, his gaze slid down from her face to her collarbone, then lower to the outline of her T-shirt clinging to her body, damp with grease and smoke. The corner of his mouth twitched.
“Not bad.”
He leaned the rod aside and freed his right hand, his tattooed fingers reaching toward Shen Qingqing’s chin, dirt packed beneath his nails.
“Pretty little thing,” he said, his thumb hovering three centimeters from her chin, his voice leaking through clenched teeth, “pay a thousand for the stall fee, or have a drink with your big brother, and we’ll call it even.”
The two tattooed men behind him chuckled, the kind of laughter squeezed out through their noses.
The one holding the cash box tucked it under his arm, slipped his other hand into his pocket, and leaned against the overturned folding table, idly kicking the shattered soy sauce bottle on the ground. Glass shards scraped harshly against the concrete.
Most of the customers had fled. A few lingered five meters away, phones raised, either recording or calling someone.
Shen Qingqing’s back pressed against the metal edge of the stove, the vibration from the rod’s impact still numbing her spine.
Her eyes locked onto the hand reaching for her, her pupils tightening.
To her right, beside the stool, Huo Yan’s fingers had already curled.
His five fingers folded into his palm, not into a fist but in a precise grip, his thumb pressing against the second joint of his index finger, efficient, controlled, lethal force concentrated at a single point.
His right hand hung at his side, a bamboo chopstick hidden beneath his sleeve.
It was one of Shen Qingqing’s stall utensils, sharpened to a point by her knife, cheap but sharp enough to pierce flesh.
He had taken it from the chopstick holder three minutes ago. Shen Qingqing hadn’t noticed.
His head tilted slightly, facing the direction of the tattooed man.
He was listening.
Listening to the trajectory of that hand, to the faint creak of joints bending, to the displacement of air as the palm moved forward.
Three centimeters.
Two centimeters.
The smell of sweat from that hand had already reached his nose, mixed with tobacco and the sour stench of grime under the nails.
One centimeter.
The chopstick rotated within his sleeve, tip angled upward, aligned precisely with the man’s throat.
One thrust, through skin, through fat, into the trachea, twist, pull out.
Three seconds. There would not be a fourth.
“Don’t touch me!”
Shen Qingqing moved first.
Her reaction was half a second faster than Huo Yan had calculated.
Her right hand still gripped the spatula, but she did not use it. With her left, she grabbed the freshly cooked bowl of fried noodles from the side of the wok, still steaming, and flung the entire thing, noodles and oil, straight onto the man’s foot.
“Chi—!”
A sharp hiss.
Scalding lard coated his foot, the noodles clinging to his skin, the oil at least one hundred and twenty degrees.
The smell of seared flesh rose instantly.
“AH—!”
His scream tore out of his throat, his mouth stretched wide enough to swallow a fist as he jumped back, the rod slipping from his hand and clattering to the ground.
He looked down at his foot, noodles and crispy lard stuck to his sandal, the skin already turning white as blisters formed.
“Fuck you!”
Pain twisted his face into fury, his bloodshot eyes bulging, veins standing out on his neck as he grabbed a metal stool from the side.
A folding iron stool, four legs, heavy enough at five or six kilos.
He lifted it over his head and swung it down toward Shen Qingqing.
Her pupils reflected the underside of the stool.
She could even see the rust spots on the metal pipes.
Her legs did not move. Not because she did not want to, but because she could not. The stove blocked her retreat, the gas tank to her left, the wok to her right, fire behind her.
The wind from the descending stool pressed against her hair.
“Bang!”
Not the sound of a stool hitting flesh.
It was the sound of something striking the side of a knee joint.
Huo Yan moved.
There had been no warning when he rose from the stool, his spine straightening segment by segment like a steel rod snapping back into place.
Something had appeared in his left hand, wooden, just over a meter long.
A cane.
The cheap aluminum blind cane Shen Qingqing had bought that afternoon for five yuan, its paint chipped, and a rubber tip at the end.
He stumbled forward, his center of gravity pitching ahead, like a blind man suddenly losing balance in panic.
His foot caught on the gas pipe, his body tilting.
The cane flew from his hand, not thrown.
“Lost control.”
The shaft traced an arc, the rubber tip striking precisely at the outer side of the man’s left knee, the gap between tibia and femur where the common peroneal nerve passed.
Not much force.
Just enough.
“Crack!” The sound was so faint only Huo Yan heard it.
Not a fracture, but the tearing of a ligament, the dull grind of cartilage slipping out of place.
The stool never came down.
His left leg gave out first.
The knee buckled inward, his two-hundred-pound body losing support, collapsing sideways.
The stool flew from his hands, hitting the ground three meters away with a loud clang.
His knee hit first, then his palms, then his face.
Two hundred pounds of flesh slammed face-first onto concrete, teeth biting into his lip as blood seeped from the corner of his mouth.
“Puh.”
He tried to push himself up, but the moment he put weight on his left knee, pain exploded. His leg trembled uselessly, and he collapsed again.
“My… my leg… fuck…”
His voice came muffled from the ground, thick with blood.
Huo Yan was no longer where he had been.
After stumbling two steps, he lunged forward and wrapped his arms around Shen Qingqing.
His arms locked around her shoulders with crushing force, pulling her into his chest so suddenly her face knocked against his collarbone.
“Qingqing.” His voice trembled.
It came out strained, breath uneven, vocal cords shaking like a man blinded and terrified.
“What happened? I’m scared… I can’t see anything, Qingqing, are you okay…”
Her face was buried in his T-shirt, filled with the scent of his sweat and cheap detergent.
She was still frozen, the image of the falling stool stuck in her vision, her heart pounding like a drum.
His hand rested at the back of her head, fingers threading into her hair.
There was still the faint sensation of the cane’s rubber grip in his palm.
His chin rested on her head, his lips brushing her hair as his breath warmed her scalp.
“Was someone trying to hit you?” he murmured, voice trembling just loud enough for others to hear. “I can’t see… I’m so scared…”
His thumb brushed lightly against her hair.
Shen Qingqing’s mind buzzed.
Not from fear, but from his voice.
She had never heard him sound like this.
Soft! Fragile, like a child abandoned in the dark, clinging to the only thing he could reach.
“I… I’m fine,” she stammered, her throat tight. “No one hit me, someone fell, don’t be scared.”
She patted his back, her palm pressing against the rigid muscles along his spine, hard as iron rods.
That was not how a frightened person’s body felt.
Her hand paused for half a second.
There was no time to think.
The man on the ground was still struggling, face smeared with blood and soy sauce.
“Fuck… my leg…”
He twisted his head, glaring in Huo Yan’s direction, eyes bloodshot, lip split, blood seeping through his teeth.
“You blind bastard… you did that on purpose…”
Huo Yan buried his face deeper into Shen Qingqing’s hair, his voice muffled.
“I didn’t… I can’t see… I fell… wasn’t it the stick that slipped from my hand…”
The cane lay two meters away, perfectly positioned to suggest it had flown out accidentally.
The two tattooed men froze for three seconds.
The one with the cash box reacted first, throwing it to the ground, coins and bills scattering everywhere.
He pulled a switchblade from behind his waist, flicking it open with a sharp click, the blade catching the streetlight.
“Fuck you! Boss!”
He charged.
The other moved too, circling to the side and grabbing the metal rod from beneath the overturned table.
Two men, one with a knife, one with a rod.
Shen Qingqing’s hand was still on Huo Yan’s back when she saw the blade.
Light flashed across its edge and into her eyes.
Her mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Huo Yan tightened his grip, pulling her behind him, his body shielding hers, his back facing the attackers.
Behind his sunglasses, the faint curve of his lips vanished.
His fingers found the chopstick hidden in his sleeve.
“Wu—waa—wu—waa—”
Sirens!
The sound flooded in from the alley entrance, sharp and piercing, mixed with the splash of tires through water.
Red and blue lights swept across the walls, painting the alley in alternating flashes.
The man with the knife halted.
The one with the rod froze mid-swing.
Both turned toward the entrance.
A white and blue police car had pulled in at an angle, blocking the alley, its lights already illuminating half the street.
Shen Qingqing, still behind Huo Yan, stared at the car over his shoulder, her chest rising and falling.
Huo Yan withdrew his hand from his sleeve.
The chopstick slipped silently into his pocket.
His fingers relaxed, resting lightly on her shoulder, his thumb brushing once.
The car door at the alley entrance opened.