The man in the dream came again.
Standing before the crack, his coat snapping in the wind. His face hidden by hair. Wind poured from the crack, carrying a sweet, rotten smell. The man opened his mouth, said one word. Not "come." "Return." Lin Yuan heard it clearly.
He woke.
The lines on his hand were still glowing. Dark gold, like embers about to die. He turned his hand over. Nothing on the palm. Turned it back. The lines were still there. He scratched the edge of the lines with his fingernail. Scratched once. It hurt. Didn't stop. Scratched again. A sliver of skin lifted. Blood seeped out, dark red, running slowly along the grooves of the pattern. He shoved his hand under his pillow. The pillow was cold. The blood stained the pillowcase.
The top bunk creaked. Zhao Lei turned over, mumbled something. Lin Yuan didn't move. After a while, his breathing deepened again. He stared at the ceiling. The water stain was still there, a gray blur. He pulled his hand out from under the pillow and looked at it. The bleeding had stopped. The lines were covered in blood, hard to see. He wiped the blood off with his thumb. The lines were still there. He scratched again. Didn't catch.
His phone lit up. 3:07 AM. He turned it face down. The room went black as a cloth over his eyes. He felt for the coin by his pillow and held it in his palm. The coin was warm.
He sat up. Got out of bed. Walked to the door, his hand touched the doorknob. Cold. He turned it. The door opened. He went out.
One of the motion-sensor lights in the hallway was broken. He walked, one light on, one off. One on, one off. Reached the stairwell. Didn't go down. Stood there, hand in his pocket, feeling the coin. Its edge was worn smooth, slippery. He dug his fingernail into it. Didn't leave a mark.
Footsteps came up from below. Heavy, slow. Not a student.
The light came on, illuminating a pair of feet. Black leather shoes, dust on the toes. The person climbed higher, another light came on, showing his legs. Dark gray pants, pilling at the knees. Higher, another light. Dark gray jacket, no hat. Wrinkles on his face, bags under his eyes. He glanced at Lin Yuan. Lin Yuan stepped aside. The man walked past. Cigarette smoke mixed with aftershave. The smell lingered in the stairwell for a moment, then slowly faded.
The footsteps reached the sixth floor and faded away. The motion-sensor light went out. Lin Yuan stood in the dark. The lines on his hand began to crawl again. Itchy. He scratched with his nail. Blood seeped out again.
He went downstairs. The light in the first floor lobby was still on, glaring white. The security booth was dark. He pushed the door open. Wind rushed in. The leaves of the plane trees rustled. A leaf blew onto the steps, spinning. He stood at the doorway, watching it. Three or four spins. It stopped. Stuck against the threshold.
His phone buzzed. A message. No saved number: "Southeast Road. Nine o'clock."
He stared for a few seconds. Put the phone back in his pocket. Walked to the edge of the track, sat down on the parallel bars. The iron bar was cold, cold enough to feel through his pants. Someone was running on the track, lap after lap. White running shoes, laces loose, flopping. The runner passed in front of him, breathing hard, didn't look at him. He watched the runner's back. Ran far away. Came back. Ran far away again.
He stood up. Walked toward the school gate. A leaf landed on his shoulder. He didn't brush it off. After a few steps, the leaf fell off on its own.
Stood at the gate for a while. Didn't take a taxi. Walked to the bus stop. The bus came. He got on, swiped his card. The card reader beeped once, short.
The bus wasn't crowded. He sat in the last row, leaning against the window. The glass was cold. He pressed his forehead against it. The bus swayed. Outside, buildings turned into warehouses, warehouses turned into wasteland. Sunlight fell on his face through the glass, warm. He closed his eyes. The lines on his hand weren't hot anymore, but the crawling feeling was still there — like earthworms burrowing under his skin.
Southeast Road. He got off. Walked toward the scrapyard. The little convenience store at the alley entrance was still open. The old man sat at the door, reading a newspaper through reading glasses. The paper hid his face, only his hands visible. Yellow fingers, stained by smoke. Lin Yuan glanced at him. The old man didn't look back.
The iron gate hung crooked. The yellow dog was tied to the iron post. When it saw him, it wagged its tail — a perfunctory wag, just two shakes. He crouched down and patted the dog's head. Its fur was dirty, matted. He pulled a cracker from his pocket, crumbled it, and put it on the ground. The dog lowered its head and ate. It ate too fast, choked, stretched its neck. His own throat moved in sympathy.
He stood up, walked around to the iron door. The concrete slabs were still there. The lock had been replaced. A new brass lock, so bright it looked wrong. He crouched down. There was a scratch on the lock, fresh, the metal still shining. Someone had been there. He reached out, his fingers almost touching the lock, then stopped. Didn't touch. Pulled his hand back. Stood up.
At the alley entrance, his phone buzzed again. The same unsaved number: "Go straight. Second intersection. Turn left."
He put the phone back in his pocket. Walked ahead. Second intersection, turned left. A narrow alley, old residential buildings on both sides. The walls were covered with small ads, some half-torn, some layered on top of others. Puddles on the ground. He stepped through them, water splashing onto his pant legs.
At the end of the alley stood a man. Black jacket, brim pulled low. Leaning against the wall, an unlit cigarette between his fingers. The filter was crushed, like it had been bitten. His other hand was in his pocket, moving constantly — not reaching for something, just feeling something, over and over. His sleeve rode up, revealing a tattoo on his wrist. Black, thin lines. He quickly pulled his sleeve down.
"Did you change the lock?" Lin Yuan asked.
"No." The man put the cigarette in his pocket. "Someone was here."
"Who?"
"I don't know." The man looked up, revealing a chin under the brim, stubble. "He's looking for you. Scar on his left hand. Drives a black SUV. License plate ends with 37."
"How do you know?"
"Because I saw his car." The man looked at Lin Yuan. "You've attracted someone."
Lin Yuan didn't speak. Wind blew into the alley, rustling the small ads on the walls. A piece of paper came loose, stuck to his leg. It said "Drain Unblocking." He tore it off, crumpled it, shoved it back in his pocket.
"You shouldn't have come," the man said.
"You told me to come."
"I told you not to come." The man looked at him. "Last time, at the clock tower, I said that. You didn't listen."
Lin Yuan was silent for a few seconds. "Where's the fragment?"
"I don't know." The man turned and walked deeper into the alley. "But someone's in more of a hurry than you. When he's in a hurry, he makes mistakes. Wait for him to make a mistake."
He took a few steps, stopped. Didn't turn around. His hand went back into his pocket, started feeling something again.
"How much time do you have left?"
"What?"
"Three months." The man said. "How much is left?"
Lin Yuan didn't answer.
The man kept walking. His footsteps faded around a corner. Gone.
Lin Yuan stood in the alley. The ads on the walls flapped in the wind, like clapping. He stood for a while, then turned and walked out.
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(Continued in Part 2)