The gym lights were dim, as if they might go out any second. The air smelled of sweat, rust, and cheap disinfectant. Lan Chuwen leaned against the ropes, chest heaving, like an animal cornered. He had just finished a sparring round. His opponent was ten kilos heavier. A bruise was already blooming on his left ribs, and his lip was split, blood mixing with sweat dripping down his neck.
The coach shouted from the corner: "One more round." Lan Chuwen didn't answer. He put his mouthguard back in.
The door creaked open. It wasn't someone from the gym—the man wore a white shirt with sleeves rolled to his forearms, his black hair tousled by the wind outside. He stood at the entrance, glanced around, and his gaze landed on Lan Chuwen.
Lan Chuwen didn't look back. He was staring at his opponent across the mat, fists clenched, knuckles white.
"Hey, kid?" The coach walked over, blocking the man's view. "Looking for someone?"
"No. Just… watching." His voice was soft, clean, like the first cup of hot water on a winter morning.
The coach looked him up and down. "Watching what?"
The man looked past the coach's shoulder, at Lan Chuwen again. Just then, Lan Chuwen turned his head and met his eyes—brown, bright, like they had been washed by clear water. Lan Chuwen looked away. In his mind, he thought: This guy doesn't belong here. This gym isn't a place for someone like him.
"Are you a fighter?" the man asked.
Lan Chuwen didn't answer. The coach answered for him: "Him? Fourteen. Still training."
"Fourteen…" The man repeated the number, as if digesting it.
Lan Chuwen didn't like being stared at. He turned to the heavy bag and started punching. One punch, two punches, three. The bag swung wildly, its chains screeching. He punched hard, as if fighting something invisible.
The man didn't leave. He stood at the door and watched for a long time.
Later, Lan Chuwen would learn his name: Jin Rusong. That day, Rusong had come with a friend who wanted to try boxing. The friend quit after ten minutes, exhausted, but Rusong stood at the doorway for half an hour, watching a fourteen-year-old boy punch a heavy bag over and over.
His friend asked him: "What are you looking at?"
Rusong said: "His hands."
"What's so special about his hands?"
"They're all torn up." Rusong's voice was quiet. "Calluses, cracks, dried blood under his nails. A fourteen-year-old's hands shouldn't look like that."
His friend didn't understand. Rusong didn't explain.
After finishing with the bag, Lan Chuwen went to the corner to drink water. Rusong walked over and stood beside him. Lan Chuwen didn't look up.
"What's your name?" Rusong asked.
"Lan Chuwen."
"I'm Jin Rusong."
"Oh."
"How long have you been boxing?"
"A few months."
"Why do you fight?"
Lan Chuwen finally looked up. Those brown eyes were serious, not making small talk—he really wanted to know. Lan Chuwen was silent for a few seconds. Then he said: "For money."
Rusong didn't look surprised. He didn't say "But you're only fourteen." He just nodded, then took a small tube of ointment from his pocket and placed it on the chair next to Lan Chuwen's hand. "Put this on the cuts on your hands. They'll heal faster."
Lan Chuwen looked at the ointment, then at Rusong. "How much?"
"Free. We have extra at home."
Lan Chuwen didn't take it. Rusong didn't push. He turned to leave.
At the door, Lan Chuwen suddenly said: "Hey." Rusong looked back. "Thanks." Lan Chuwen's voice was barely audible, like it was squeezed out between his teeth. Rusong smiled, waved his hand, and pushed the door open to leave.
Lan Chuwen looked down at the tube of ointment. He picked it up, unscrewed the cap, and smelled it—odorless. He dabbed a little on the torn skin at the base of his thumb. It felt cool, slightly stinging, like winter wind.
That night, when he got home, Lan Linhui asked how he got hurt again. He said it was nothing. Linhui didn't ask again and went to do his homework. Lan Chuwen sat on the edge of his bed, holding the tube of ointment, staring at it for a long time. He didn't know if that person would ever come back. But he remembered those eyes—brown, bright, like they had been washed by clear water.