The rising sun made Duan Ci's shadow long, like a charcoal soaked in morning dew, tracing diagonally on the starting line of the city's running track - it was newly painted with red paint. The paint was dug out from the abandoned building materials market last week. It smelled of rust and was particularly eye-catching on the ruins. He lowered his head and glanced at the simple timer made of steel sheets on his wrist. The metal edge was polished and shiny, showing the traces of being held in his palm countless times in the past six months, soaked with sweat and then dried. Next to the timer, a light brown scar extends from the tiger's mouth to the forearm. It was cut by the rusty barbed wire when I escaped from the iron cage of the competitive sect last time. Now it itches when the weather is cloudy, like a small bug lurking under the skin...
