The rain was still falling, and he was the only one left deep in the alley.
Liu Ruòruò leaned against a utility pole, his right hand raised, palm facing outward, fingers stiff. That hand wouldn't obey, as if something was pushing it from the inside. He wanted to pull it back, but his muscles simply didn't respond. A cold wind seeped through his clothes from his back, soaking him through. His teeth chattered, but what he feared most wasn't the cold, it was that his hand was still moving.
It was pointing in a certain direction.
He followed its gaze. It was pitch black, with nothing there. Only the standing water reflected the dim light of the streetlamp. The shadows of the trees flickered, as if blown by the wind.
Or perhaps, it wasn't the wind.
He suddenly closed his eyes, shook his head, and then opened them. His right hand suddenly dropped, hitting his knee. His arm went numb, as if he'd been shocked. He took a breath, finally able to move.
He slowly shifted his body, using his left hand to support himself on the ground, inching himself out of the puddle. His right leg was weak, almost causing him to fall to his knees. He gritted his teeth and held onto the utility pole, steadying himself. He looked down at the food delivery box. The meal boxes were scattered everywhere, soup spilling into the rainwater, mixing into a mess. The order slip was stuck to his foot, the writing blurred. He didn't pick it up.
He knew this order was ruined.
So be it, if he lost money.
He bent down and grabbed the handlebars of his electric scooter, righting it. The headlight wasn't working, the dashboard was dark. It was probably damaged. He tried the key, but the scooter didn't respond. Forget it, he'd push it back first.
He pushed the scooter with one hand, his right arm gripped tightly with the other, pulling his sleeve down to cover the back of his hand. That pattern was still there, pressed against his skin, pulsing faintly with his heartbeat. He didn't dare to look, nor did he dare to touch it.
After pushing for twenty meters, his shoulder started to ache. He stopped to catch his breath, leaning against a wall. A taxi drove past the alley entrance. The driver glanced at him but didn't stop. He looked up at the sky. The rain had lessened a bit, but the clouds were still hanging low. He continued walking.
It was almost ten o'clock by the time he got back to his rented room.
As soon as he pushed the door open, a moldy smell filled the room. He kicked off his wet shoes, closed the door behind him, and locked it. The room was dark, only the refrigerator hummed.
He fumbled his way to the bedside, throwing his wet jacket on the floor and collapsing onto it. The mattress creaked.
He lay there for a while, his mind blank. His body was exhausted, but his eyes were open. His right hand was hidden in his sleeve, and he could still feel its heat through the fabric. He lifted his sleeve to look. The pattern was deeper than before, the color dark, like dried blood.
He found a towel, wrapped his entire hand, two circles, and secured it with a rubber band. That should take care of it.
He closed his eyes.
Sleepiness came quickly.
As soon as he relaxed, his consciousness sank.
He had a dream.
In the dream, he was in a barren wasteland. The sky was red, and the moon hung in the sky like a piece of red-hot iron. The ground was cracked in many places, emitting hot steam. In the distance, something was chained. Four black chains passed through its limbs, nailed into the ground.
It was a colossal beast.
Its body was crimson, its scales layered, its tail as thick as a tree trunk, and its head larger than a truck. It lay on the ground, breathing heavily, each exhale shaking the earth. A low growl came from its mouth, not a roar, but a muffled sound from its throat, like the rumbling before thunder.
Liu Ruòruò stood still, unable to move.
He wanted to run, but his feet were rooted to the spot.
The beast suddenly raised its head and looked at him.
Its eyes were golden, its pupils vertical, like a cat's.
The two stared at each other.
In the next second, the chains snapped.
The first broke from its front left leg with a snap, the iron chain exploding into pieces and flying far away. Then it was the right hind leg, then the left hind leg. The last one snapped from its neck, whipping into the ground and kicking up a large amount of mud.
The beast stood up.
It was taller than a mountain.
It threw its head back, opened its mouth—
A roar tore through the night sky. Liu Ruòruò's ears went deaf. He was knocked to the ground by the sonic wave. He wanted to cover his ears, but his hands wouldn't lift. The sound wasn't coming from outside, it was drilling from his bones, exploding from his heart.
He opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
The beast lowered its head and looked at him again.
Then it turned, walked into a crack, and disappeared.
The dream ended there.
He sat up abruptly, covered in sweat. His chest heaved, his breathing rapid. The room was quiet, only the refrigerator was still humming. It wasn't light outside yet, the rain had stopped.
His first action was to look at his right hand. The towel had fallen off, revealing his hand. The scale pattern was still there, darker, almost black. He moved his fingers; they worked normally. But when he raised his hand to his eyes, he saw the pattern pulse faintly with his pulse.
Just like in the dream.
He rolled out of bed. His feet hit the cold tile floor, making him shiver. He walked to the bedside table and opened the drawer, rummaging through it. Inside were a charger, a pack of cigarettes, half a pack of tissues, and a yellowed photograph.
He pulled out the photo.
It was a copy of a New Year's picture from his grandmother's wall. A qilin, with red scales, four claws treading fire, and auspicious clouds behind it. He thought it was tacky when he was little. Later, after his grandmother passed away, this photo somehow followed him through several moves.
He stared at the photo.
The more he looked, the more something felt wrong.
The qilin in the photo had its front right paw raised, its posture exactly the same as the beast in his dream. The location where the chains had broken was also identical. Even the arrangement of the scales was exactly the same.
He turned the photo over.
On the back was a line of text: "**To ward off evil and disaster, protect life for three years.**"
The handwriting was shaky; it was written by his grandmother.
He stared at the line of text for a long time.
Suddenly, a low growl came from outside the window.
It wasn't a dog or a cat. The sound was very low, as if it was coming from underground, short and suppressed, right in the courtyard below.
He rushed to the balcony and pushed the window open. The night wind hit him.
The area below was empty. There were puddles on the concrete ground, and tree shadows swayed. He leaned out and looked down; no one was there. He looked up at the sky. The clouds had dispersed a bit, and he could see a few stars.
He held his breath.
After waiting for more than ten seconds.
There was no more sound.
Just as he was about to close the window, his right palm suddenly felt a burning heat.
He looked down. The scale pattern flashed, a brief red light that disappeared instantly.
He quickly pulled his hand back into his sleeve.
Closed the window, drew the curtains, and retreated to the bedside. He sat on the edge of the bed, put the photo back in the drawer, and locked it. Then he took off his T-shirt, wrung it out, and hung it on the chair. The room was too damp; the clothes wouldn't dry. He lay down again, without pulling up the covers. He closed his eyes, but couldn't sleep.
His mind was filled with the dream. The beast's eyes, the sound of the chains breaking, and that roar. He didn't believe in ghosts or gods, but this was inexplicable.
He raised his right hand, looking at it in the darkness. The pattern wasn't glowing anymore, but he could feel it there. Like a layer of skin, alive, breathing.
He tried to command it to make a fist. His fingers moved, normally. Then to open.
Also normal. But when he relaxed, his middle finger suddenly moved on its own, curling up half an inch before falling back down.
He was startled.
He sat up and turned on the bedside lamp. The light was dim, shining on his hand. The pattern lay quietly against his skin, showing no abnormality. He stared at it for five minutes.
Turned off the light.
Lay down.
As soon as he closed his eyes, he heard the sound of chains scraping against his ears. Very light, as if coming from underground.
He opened his eyes sharply.
There was no sound in the room. But his right hand, all five fingers, had somehow curled into claws, his nails digging into his palm, drawing blood.
He quickly released his hand.
Breathing heavily, he sat up.
He didn't lie down again that night. He sat in the corner of the bed, his back against the wall, his right hand hidden in his left, waiting until morning.
Birds began to chirp outside the window. Neighbors upstairs woke up, opened their doors, poured water, brushed their teeth.
He looked down at his hand. The scale pattern was still there. The color was lighter, but it hadn't disappeared. He slowly stood up and walked to the sink, turning on the faucet. The water that came out was slightly yellow. He cupped his hands to splash water on his face and looked up at the mirror. His complexion was terrible, with dark circles under his eyes and dry, cracked lips. The person in the mirror looked like a stranger.
He stared at himself for a long time. Suddenly, his right index finger twitched slightly. He hadn't moved it himself at all.