Chapter 6
Chapter 6
Outside the bathroom door the huge white carrier—plastic crinkling with the 24H Convenience Store logo—lay on the cold tiles like a clumsy medal nobody asked for.
Mouth gaping, it spilled neon pink, traffic-cone orange, a cartoon bear’s head, lace trim and cheap magenta plastic into a single straight-guy apocalypse still-life.
A few paces away Wei Wu stood ramrod-straight, profile rigid, eyes welded to a hairline crack in the floor as if the secret of the universe hid inside.
Only the crimson tide climbing from ear to collar, and the shallow heave of his chest, betrayed the storm inside.
“...Put them on.”
Two words, ground through clenched teeth—dry, blunt, the sound of a man who has already decided to wreck himself if necessary.
I hugged the bath-towel—my only armour—bare feet freezing on the tiles, staring down at the visual massacre.
The neon-pink T-shirt glowed even in the dim light; the XXL lace bra tag winked like a traffic light; the plastic stink of pink crocs seemed to crawl up my nose.
My mouth twitched; hysterical laughter clawed its way up my throat.
But—
Just as it was about to burst out, a hotter, sourer surge slammed into my nose.
The bastard hadn’t stormed off in disgust.
He’d charged out—brain still smoking from the worldview-nuke—into an empty pre-dawn supermarket, and with the colour sense of a drunk traffic cop grabbed... all this.
For me.
For the overnight stranger, the walking liability who had just electrocuted him.
For... bro.
My throat felt packed with burning gravel.
“...Old Wei.”
Voice hoarse, I tightened the towel until knuckles blanched, dragging my gaze from the disaster-bag to the rigid set of his face that screamed *don’t you dare look at me*.
He petrified further—stone ageing in fast-forward—still staring at the tile.
“Sorry...”
The word landed lighter than breath, heavier than a crate of bricks.
Wei Wu’s shoulders jerked as if scalded.
Slowly, millimetre by millimetre, he lifted his head.
Eyes usually sharp were bloodshot, exhausted, shell-shocked.
His brows knotted in a *chuan* of pure bewilderment, the look of a lion nicked by its own cub.
“Sorry my ass!”
A growl, hoarse, cornered.
“What the hell are you sorry for, huh?!”
He stepped forward—one pace, recon-scout style—no longer looming, just desperate to make me hear.
“You got dragged into my mess...”
I dropped my eyes to the neon crocs, voice shrinking.
“This should’ve had nothing to do with you... you were supposed to... just game... live your life...”
The rest snagged in my throat—guilt braiding with fear, braiding with the absurdity of the last twelve hours.
All he’d done was answer a brother’s 2 a.m. call—“wealth freedom, all-nighter on the servers”—and the universe had gone full carnival.
He’d only just mustered out, still tasting Gobi dust; all he wanted was peace and late-night ranked matches.
“Bullshit!”
Thunderclap.
Pure, protective rage—this time genuinely for me, not at me—ripped the air.
He lunged, hand slicing up—scout-speed—knuckles scarred, palm calloused.
I flinched, eyes slamming shut.
No forehead flick came.
Instead that battle-ready hand descended in a whirlwind, yet somehow checked its power at the last instant, ruffling my pale hair into a hurricane nest.
The shove nearly knocked me over, but the same discipline that could break a man’s arm held the force just short of pain.
“Bullshit! Bullshit! Dog-shit bullshit!”
Each shout exploded above me as he scrubbed my scalp like he was trying to erase the guilt.
“What d’you mean ‘nothing to do with me’? Playing the tragic farewell card on your Wei bro? *Dragged*? Drag your grandma! I kicked that door in myself—because I damn well wanted to!”
Chest heaving, he bellowed on, eyes blazing:
“You’re Yun Xi! Yun Xi, got it? Horns, tail, dress, boxers, baritone or sugar-overdose voice—I don’t care! When I was chewing sand in the Gobi you wrote every week to brag about your garbage code! When the recon platoon buried me in training you mailed me doodles of turtles! I came back, found you half-dead from overtime, and hauled your scrawny ass to the gym! That ‘dragged’ enough for you?!”
Veins corded in his neck; voice cracked but never wavered:
“So long as you remember me peeing my pants in third grade while the whole school laughed—so long as you remember the love letter I wrote the girl next door that you read aloud—so long as you remember me getting farmed by a starter-slime three times last month—so long as you remember every dumb thing we ever did growing up and every rambling letter you sent when I was in uniform—you *are* Yun Xi! My brother! Blood-bound! Quit the polite-stranger crap!”
By the end he was panting like after a forced march.
He jabbed a finger at the catastrophic care-package on the floor, voice rough but steady:
“Enough waterworks! Get dressed! Look human! Stop flapping around in that rag!”
A pause; his eyes flicked toward the trashed living-room, and in the silence his tone did something unnatural, almost tender:
“...Then... eat something. I... downstairs convenience store... looked clean... bought bread and milk.”
Mission accomplished—harder than any infiltration—he retreated a full step, gaze skittering away, ears still crimson but now with relief rather than shame.
I stood frozen, hair every-which-way, watching him.
The ache was still there, but the weight had been blasted apart by that artillery barrage of memory.
Brother...
Right. The kid who fought me over toy cars; the voice in envelopes from a thousand kilometres of desert; the hand that dragged me to the squat rack. Whatever shell I wore.
I sniffed hard, bent and lifted the bag.
The cheap cloth felt almost warm.
“Yeah, yeah, nag-machine,” I muttered in the syrupy voice I still hadn’t grown used to, aiming for the old Yun Xi mix of annoyance and trust.
I slipped back into the bathroom, shut the door on the red-eared statue outside.
Inside I shook out the neon-pink bear T-shirt, grimaced, then pulled on the black cotton vest I’d stripped off him earlier—worn soft, smelling of gun-oil sweat—before layering the eye-attack pink on top.
The bear’s muzzle poked above the vest collar like a secret.
Orange track pants completed the horror show.
A shimmer: Xing Dian popped into view, indigo flames dancing.
“Master! You’re dressed! Wow! Pink! Shiny! And a bear! The style is... unique! But you rock it! Promise! It’s the thought that counts!”
Yue Fei yawned, violet eyes surveying the outfit.
“Meow... visual impact MAX. Saving straight-boy taste is a cross-dimensional war. Still, that guardian’s clumsy sincerity shines brighter than the neon. Clumsy, but real.”
I stuck my tongue out at the mirror.
Better than a towel.
With his vest underneath I felt armoured.
I opened the door.
Wei Wu had his back to me, mechanically clearing the last crumbs from the bar.
He spun at the click of the latch.
His face spasmed—jaw clenching to stop laughter or horror, I couldn’t tell.
Eyes travelled from peek-a-boo bear to traffic-cone pants to my bare feet—pink crocs vetoed on grounds of dignity.
He opened his mouth, closed it, grabbed a convenience-store bag and—instead of hurling—carefully placed a squashed ham sandwich and a carton of milk at my place on the table.
The milk carton sweated tiny droplets in the morning light.
“...Drink.”
He still couldn’t look at me, profile sharp, ears glowing.
I picked up the carton; cold bit my fingers.
Watching that solid, awkward back, staring at the meagre breakfast he’d remembered to buy while his universe was still in pieces, the last of the surreal fog burned away.
Brother is brother.
No matter how weird the world gets, no matter what chassis you wake up in.
Remember the pants-wetting, the Gobi letters, the slime massacres—remember those, and you’re home.