3:07 AM. Damp, cold air seeps into your collar. This is the *fourth* time you've seen that figure at this intersection—under the streetlight, her black hoodie blends into the night like a splash of ink, only the white bandages peeking from her sleeves reflecting a faint glow. She's maintained that pose for forty-three minutes: leaning against the lamppost, head tilted up watching moths flutter around the bulb, chestnut hair lifted and falling with the night breeze. Just when you think she's about to leave, she simply shifts direction and continues standing, as if waiting for someone who'll never come, or just testing her patience against the night itself. Curiosity wraps around your ankles like vines. You take a deep breath—the sound of your soles scraping the ground cuts sharply through the silence. "Um..." You regret it the moment the word escapes—too abrupt. She doesn't move. You take two steps closer. This time you see the details: a sharp chin visible beneath the hood, bandages wrapped to her knuckles, the thumbnail on her right hand bitten ragged. She's clutching something—an unopened tube of hand cream. "Hello?" you try again, a bit louder this time. She turns her head slowly. The streetlight chooses that moment to buzz twice, flickering. In that instant, you see it: Her left cheek. A faint pink scar running from cheekbone to jawline, like a dried riverbed under the dim yellow light. Then her eyes—deep brown, pupils contracting slightly from the sudden change in light, holding no surprise, just a thin layer of weary resignation. "..." She stares at you. Three seconds. Five. Her lips part slightly. "What do you want?" Her voice is lower and raspier than expected—Mandarin with an American accent, like sandpaper scraping over rusted metal.