Luxiao walked the road home beneath a winter night, snow dusting the world like a pale quilt, cold wind knifing his neck and making his breath bloom like steam.

He rubbed his hands and drifted forward, his shadow sliding over the white like ink across rice paper, his gait slow and loose.

This road never had many people, and in heavy snow it emptied like a stage after the play, the silence pressing down like a lid.

Walking, he suddenly felt slow footsteps behind him, a steady drumbeat on the snow, and a crease of worry tightened his brow like frost settling.

Could it be a thug, he thought, heart lifting like a startled bird, the news he’d seen recently whispering in his head like cold rain?

A chill and a skitter of panic flashed in his eyes, winter steel and a tremor together, and he quickened, his boots sketching longer lines on the white.

The steps behind him quickened too, a shadow chasing a shadow, and the space between them drew tight like a tightening knot.

He snapped a glance back, a whip-crack turn on ice, and the footsteps cut off, the silence landing heavy as a blanket.

Behind him stood no one, only two tracks stitched into the snow, one his own, the other smaller, neat as a child’s print along a riverbank.

Luxiao narrowed his eyes, thoughts pooling dark as ink, the night seeming to hold its breath around him like a closed fan.

So… a thief, but maybe a woman, he muttered, the thought thin and brittle, a reed bending in wind.

Forget it, he scolded himself, a splash of grit in his chest; the key is, is that follower human or ghost, night-walker or resentful spirit?

The prints stopped right where he turned, and ahead, only his footprints wandered on, a lone line fading into the pale.

That someone had vanished, gone like smoke on the wind, leaving only the small marks to gnaw at his nerves.

A shiver cracked through him, ice seeping inward from his core, cold flowering under his skin like winter weeds.

The thought bit deep, and he surged upright, bolting toward the road ahead, a dark brushstroke across an empty scroll.

Maybe he’d met a grieving ghost, the kind that clung like wet cloth; he’d just walked out of the cemetery, grave air still on him like dust.

Maybe bad luck snagged him by the collar; maybe something unclean brushed him at the gate, like a moth wing on the ear.

To be fair, nearing thirty, raised under the bright daylight of the state, he was basically an atheist, a straight spine under a rational sky.

Then this hit him, sudden as sleet down the neck, and who wouldn’t crack, mind stumbling like a hoof on ice?

He threw off his slump and ran hard, breath sawing, feet striking a rhythm, life clenched in his fists like a stubborn ember.

The footsteps returned, unhurried and unnerving, dogging him like a shadow that had learned patience, tapping the snow with a quiet metronome.

He ran and kept glancing back, nerves humming like telephone wires, eyes dragging over emptiness.

The prints crept closer, two lines converging like rivers, the gap shrinking to a breath, yet no figure chased him, no shape cut from night.

Invisible, his mind said, the word tasting like iron; invisible, and it had matched his breath like a hunter under brush.

When he’d stopped earlier, scrutinizing the tracks, maybe that thing had hovered by his brow, a silent moth staring with frost-bitten eyes.

His head swam, a dizzy tide rising, the sky and snow trading places like cards shuffled by a trickster.

He didn’t dare slow, legs churning, heart drumming a frantic beat against the ribs, a bird in a bamboo cage.

Then life threw him a slapstick turn; he wore leather shoes, and the snow was slick as oil, his frantic sprint a prelude to a spill.

His foot slid, clean and cruel, and he flew forward like a tossed bundle, pride snagging on the cold.

The face that carried a hint of heroic lines went slack with helplessness, the night engraving it with a bleak stamp.

He tumbled in the snow, rolling like a log in a white river, and only stopped when he smacked into a tree ahead, bark rasping like sandpaper.

He clawed upright, breath snagging, warmth running down from his brow like a thin stream, his fingers coming away red, a ripe plum in his palm.

He winced, settled with his back to the tree, lungs hauling air like bellows, each breath frosting the night.

The prints kept walking toward him, deliberate as an old clock, stopping a meter before his boots, the empty space humming like a held note.

He panted, and maybe it was a trick of nerves, but he felt breath in front of him, a whisper of warmth in the winter, as if the air itself exhaled.

The street lay empty but for amber streetlights and the wide white floor of snow, no souls in sight, only Luxiao and a nameless thing.

He tried to stand, and the dizziness hit harder, a black wave tipping his stomach, a churn that threatened to spill.

He let it go, stayed put, slumped against the tree, eyes fixed on the vacant air, a stubborn stare like a nail in timber.

He dug out a crumpled cigarette from his coat, the paper bruised like an old leaf, his fingers shaking a little with the cold.

Looking at it, he gave a crooked smile, a bitter curve; he’d quit for just under half a month, and now this mess felt like a cosmic joke.

He bit down on the cigarette and stared at those prints with a stone face, smoke-less patience hanging off him like a cloak.

He patted himself down and found no lighter, the search turning up nothing but cold, so he sat there with the unlit stick and a blank stare.

Silence settled like falling ash, and his mood eased, panic draining like tide, leaving calm water; he smiled and said, Hey, if you’re gonna kill me, hurry. Maybe I can catch my parents on the way down.

No one answered, his voice swallowed by snow, the night tight-lipped and ancient.

Luxiao shrugged, a casual tilt, feigning lightness like a drunk on stage, putting on a shabby kind of grace.

The prints circled him and the tree as if teasing, a ring around a ring, a silent game under a mute sky.

Eli gazed up, empty and long, eyes on the blank vault, not caring for the dance of those tracks, the world a bowl of cold milk.

Then a pale smoke bloomed before his eyes, small at first, curling like tea steam from a clay cup.

He blinked, dropped his gaze, and saw his cigarette burning, a coal lit by nobody, a small sun biting through winter.

He drew a deep lungful, greed and relief together, then hacked hard, body shaking like a drum caught in a storm.

After a long moment he found his calm again, breath smoothing out like a lake at dusk, eyes steady on the air.

He smiled and said, Brother, what are you trying to do? If you want my head, do it quick. You light my smoke, you wander around, you’ve got me looking like a fool.

Blood still seethed from his crown, trickling a thin red ribbon, but Luxiao barely cared, whistling a tune like a boy loitering by a river.

Since you don’t mind, how about a joke, he said, words tossed like pebbles into the snow.

Once a guy was bored and posted online, he said, It’s pouring, a lightning bolt just hit near me while I’m smoking on the balcony. Is Heaven warning me because I’m downloading some Japanese films? Please advise.

Someone replied, It’s telling you to use Thunder—the download client.

Ha! Ha! Ha! His laugh cracked like dry twigs, but the night stayed shut as a locked door.

He scratched his head, fingers coming back bloody, and still he didn’t care, his grin stubborn as a stray dog’s.

Not funny? I’ll switch, he said, breath puffing like little ghosts in the cold, voice bright with forced cheer.

Today my girlfriend asked me—ah, no, not me, I’m a lifelong bachelor, in the story it’s a girlfriend, he cleared his throat, pulling himself back like a kite tugged by its string.

She asked, Do you love me?

Love, of course, always, no doubt, I answered hard and fast, not daring to pause half a beat.

She frowned, You answered so quickly. Are you just scared of hurting me?

I rushed to explain, No, no, no, absolutely not. I’m scared you’ll hurt me, that’s why I said it.

Ha! Ha! He laughed again, the sound flying up like startled sparrows.

Snow fell without comment, the world a silent drum, no reply, no ripple.

He arched a brow, wry and weary, and sighed, You’re tough to deal with. Say it, what do you want? Anything but molestation. I’ve kept thirty years of virginity; I won’t hand it to a ghost for nothing.

Still, no answer, only the slow glide of flakes and the patient cold.

Luxiao fell quiet, leaning into the tree, humming the lullaby his mother used to soothe him, a soft ribbon of song floating over ice.

Maybe it was the song, maybe it was blood loss, his vision blurred like fog over fields, sleep rising like tide in his skull.

He shook his head with a helpless chuckle, Damn… chased by a ghost, and I can still doze off. Past and present, East and West, I’m probably the only one. At least I did something earth-shaking in this life.

Thinking such fool thoughts, his mind blinked off, the candle snuffed by the night.

He barely heard a gentle female voice wander close and say, Qualified.

Qualified? Qualified for what? he wondered, then let it go, thoughts dropping like stones into deep water.

Hey, brother, wake up, a man at Luxiao’s side said, hand pushing his shoulder, then slapping him twice with the briskness of a winter gust.

Luxiao smacked his lips, confused, and sat up, vision weaving like water, a child peering at a new room.

Uh… huh? Where’s this? he frowned, curiosity pricking like needles.

The man chuckled, Whew… I thought you’d kicked the bucket. You’ve been out for a week. Tonight’s when they come to handle the eliminated. If you don’t wake, you’re done.

Uh… ah? What do you mean? Where did I end up? Luxiao stared, stunned, his mind like an empty courtyard.

Wasn’t I chased by a female ghost? he thought, the memory a pale hand on his shoulder.

He touched the spot where he’d hit the root, brow torn open, and found the wound nearly healed, skin knit like mended cloth.

Luxiao felt speechless, his sigh a fog in cold air, Okay… what is going on?

The man paused, glanced down as if chasing thoughts like leaves, then seemed to grasp that this newcomer had been hauled in while unconscious.

Poor guy, he thought, pity creasing his face like rain lines, his eyes softening when he looked at Luxiao.

Brother, let me explain where we’re at, the man said, a crooked smile like a lantern in drizzle.

Uh… ah? Sure, sure. Brother, what’s your name? Luxiao grabbed his hand warmly, his tone turning earnest, a straight spine under messy hair.

Uh… I’m Li Feiyang. You? he said, voice steady as a drum.

Luxiao, he answered, the name landing like a seal on paper.

Li Feiyang nodded and said, So… looks like a god’s selecting talent. He locked us here to train. This place is thick with germs and viruses. We have to stay six months. Every week they come and clear out those who died that week.

Brother, you’ve read too much sci-fi, haven’t you? Luxiao snorted, humor like a spark in a damp hearth.

Li Feiyang shrugged, helpless as a loose sleeve, Come on, don’t doubt me. I’ve been here three months. I’ve seen corpses carried out, batch after batch.

Luxiao looked around, and saw tight clumps of people huddled like flocks, men and women, eyes wary as cats in rain.

A broad wall grown from green plants ringed them, thick as a forest shoulder, penning a few thousand souls into a place with no exit, no gate, no mercy.

Thinking of the ghost he’d met, the memory mouthing cold air into his ear, Luxiao started to believe, a sigh sliding from him like melting snow.

He glanced at Li Feiyang and said, Brother, you’re pretty hardcore. Three months and still not eliminated, that’s something.

Yeah, yeah, Li Feiyang scratched his head, a grin rising like a stubborn sun in fog.