As the thunderclap sounded, Liu Ruòruò gasped, rainwater choking his throat, and he coughed violently, jolting himself out of a daze.
His vision was blurred, as if looking at the world through a wet pane of glass. He blinked, and rainwater trickled down his forehead, mixing with blood and sliding down his cheek. His right hand still dangled in a puddle, blood oozing from the wound in his palm, each pulse sending a numb ache through his entire arm.
He moved his left hand, his fingertips brushing the cold ground. His body was stiff, and the back of his head throbbed painfully, as if it had been struck by a hammer. Leaning against a utility pole, he slowly raised his head, his gaze falling on his right hand.
The blood was still flowing.
But then he suddenly realized something was wrong.
The blood wasn't immediately washed away by the rain. Instead, it crawled up his skin as if being pulled. He stared at the gash, watching scarlet threads extend along the lines of his palm, outlining intricate, fine diamond patterns. They were dark red, with slightly raised edges, as if something were growing beneath his skin.
He froze.
He shook his hand, trying to fling the blood off. But after the rain had washed over it, the patterns hadn't disappeared; they had become clearer. The lines spread from his palm to the back of his hand, covering his knuckles, like some kind of symbol, or perhaps animal hide.
He used his left hand to touch his right arm. The moment his fingers made contact, he felt something moving beneath his skin. It wasn't an illusion; it was a palpable wriggling, like a tiny snake slithering along his bones.
"What's going on..." he muttered, his voice hoarse and unfamiliar.
He shook his hand again, more forcefully. The entire right hand suddenly erupted in a searing pain, as if molten iron had been poured into his veins. He grunted, cold sweat beading on his forehead, almost losing his grip on the utility pole.
Looking down again, the entire back of his hand was now completely covered by those dark red patterns. The rainwater striking them didn't wash away the marks; instead, it gave the surface of the patterns a metallic sheen, flashing brightly for a moment during a lightning strike.
He held his breath.
The fleeting flash of light pulsed in time with his heartbeat.
Thump. Thump. As if alive.
He raised his right hand, bringing it before his eyes, palm up. The scale-like patterns rose and fell slightly with his pulse, the color shifting from dark red to a deeper brown-black, then back to red, as if breathing. He tried to move his fingers. Each digit felt like it was being pricked with a needle, forcing him to clench his teeth.
"This isn't blood..." he whispered, "What the hell is this?"
He remembered seeing fish being cleaned at the market as a child. The scales still gleamed for a while after being removed. But those were from dead fish. What was on his hand now was clearly moving.
He rubbed the back of his right hand hard with his left. His fingernails scraped against his skin, making a rustling sound. The patterns didn't come off; instead, they became brighter from the friction. He rubbed faster and faster until his skin was red and hot, but it was useless.
When he stopped, his entire right arm was trembling.
The alley was filled only with the sound of rain and the occasional distant rumble of a car. The black car was long gone, the electric scooter lay on its side, its headlight extinguished. The food delivery box was overturned by the wall, and a delivery slip had blown to his feet, reading: "Sunshine Residential Area, Building 3, Unit 602. No cilantro. Add spice and numbing."
He glanced at it, then looked down at his hand again.
The blood was still dripping.
One drop landed on the receipt, covering the words "Add spice."
Suddenly, an idea struck him. He plunged his hand into the accumulated water, trying to wash away these strange patterns. He swung his arm back and forth, letting the water flow over the back of his hand. But after a few seconds, he found that the patterns hadn't faded at all. Instead, they had become more distinct with the moisture, and he could even see the fine gaps between each diamond shape.
He yanked his right hand out, shook off the water droplets, and stared intently at the strange covering on his hand.
A chill shot up his spine.
This wasn't a hallucination from an injury, nor a delusion from hitting his head. This was real; it had grown on him.
He leaned against the utility pole, gasping for breath, his mind racing. In his years of delivering food, he had fallen, scraped himself, and collided with guardrails, but he had never encountered anything like this. Wounds shouldn't grow patterns, and blood shouldn't climb up the skin.
He tried to make a fist.
As soon as he exerted force, his entire right arm felt as if it were being sliced by a knife. He couldn't help but cry out, the sound mostly swallowed by the rain. His fist could only clench halfway before he could no longer tighten it; his fingers were stiff, as if something were stuck in the joints.
He relaxed his hand, spreading his palm flat.
The patterns twisted slightly with the contraction of his muscles, like a layer of living skin adapting to a new shape.
"Am I going crazy?" he asked himself.
No one answered.
He looked up at the sky. The clouds were low, and lightning occasionally tore through the night sky. In the next moment, a bright flash struck down, illuminating the entire alley. In that instant, he clearly saw the patterns on the back of his right hand flash with red light.
In sync with his heartbeat.
He snatched his hand back as if burned.
"Impossible..." he shook his head, "Impossible."
He began to suspect that the blow to his head earlier had been too severe, causing visual hallucinations. But the pain was real, the wriggling beneath his skin was real, and even the feeling of raindrops hitting the back of his hand was different from his left hand—the right side felt like there was a membrane, colder, more piercing.
He placed his right hand on his face, intending to test its temperature.
A rush of heat immediately spread across his right cheek, not the heat of a fever, but like a warming patch, constantly emitting heat. Startled, he quickly removed his hand.
Looking again, the color of the patterns on his hand had changed again, deeper than before, almost black.
He swallowed.
His stomach growled at that moment.
He suddenly realized he hadn't eaten in over ten hours. waves of hunger washed over him, but looking at his hand, he had no appetite at all.
Leaning against the utility pole, he slowly slid down, sitting lower. His legs felt weak, and he couldn't stand up. His right hand rested on his knee, and he dared not touch anything.
Time passed slowly.
The rain had lessened, but it was still falling. His clothes were soaked through, his lips were purple, and his body trembled uncontrollably. But what frightened him most wasn't the cold, or the pain, but the change happening to his hand.
It no longer belonged to him.
At least, not entirely.
He stared at the back of his hand and suddenly noticed a detail—the way the diamond patterns were arranged resembled ancient totems he had seen on television. When he was a child, his grandmother's wall had a New Year's painting of a qilin, which had similar scales.
The word popped into his head: Qilin.
He immediately thought it absurd.
Qilin were mythical creatures; how could one appear on the hand of a food delivery driver like him?
But the more he denied it, the stronger the notion became. The more he looked, the more it resembled it, especially near his wrist, where the patterns curved into an arc, like the claw marks of some beast.
He raised his hand, examining it closely under the dim street light.
At that moment, his right middle finger suddenly twitched.
He hadn't moved it himself.
The finger lifted on its own, as if controlled by someone from behind, slowly curling up and hovering in mid-air.
His eyes widened.
His heartbeat skipped a beat.
"You... you moved?" he spoke to his finger, feeling like an idiot.
As soon as he spoke, his entire right hand gave a jolt.
A surge of heat shot from his palm to his forehead. His vision darkened, and his head felt as if it had been violently struck. A low sound echoed in his ears, not from outside, but from within him, like the rumbling growl of some beast deep in its throat.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
His right hand rose uncontrollably, suspended in the air, fingers spread, palm facing the sky.
Raindrops fell into his palm, but instead of sliding off, they were absorbed by the patterns, vanishing instantly.
Watching this, the blood in his entire body ran cold.
"What in the world is this thing..."
He wanted to lower his hand, but his arm wouldn't obey. The hand seemed to have a will of its own, held steadily, the patterns glowing faintly in the rain.
A dog barked in the distance.
Immediately after, the tip of his right index finger twitched slightly.
Then, the entire hand slowly turned, its palm no longer facing the sky but toward the depths of the alley.
As if pointing in a direction.
He followed the direction of the hand's gaze.
The end of the alley was pitch black, with nothing there.
But the hand continued to point steadily.
He sat in the puddle, leaning against the utility pole, his left hand resting limply on his knee, his right hand held high in front of him, covered in patterns that gleamed coldly.
His breathing grew shallow.
His pupils contracted to pinpricks.
Only one thought remained in his mind:
This was not an injury.
This was the beginning.