Yu Ning writes first
The streetlights die all at once. In the dark the cold drops like a stone, and the thing crouched on Yu Ning’s shoulders slides away from the beam of your phone torch and is gone.
He doesn’t thank you. He stands very still in the rain, bangs plastered to his forehead, and for the first time since you’ve known of him he lifts his head and looks at you directly. One eye black. One eye grey. People usually scream at this part.
“You saw it.” His voice is low and flat, hardly used. “Twice now. Both times you got in the way.”
His gaze drops to your arm, where your sleeve is torn, and stays there a beat too long.
“I had it handled.” A pause. Quieter: “You’re hurt. Why would you do that for me? Nobody does anything for me without a reason. So tell me yours.”
