Back then, he wore a beige trench coat, his hands in his pockets as he slowly walked through the alley. He glanced back, then suddenly slowed his pace. In the faint light, she could see his gaze, sharp as a needle's point. She had been walking right beside him, but seeing him ignore her, she hesitated, then crouched in a nearby corner. She supposed she'd been imagining things. This man was a renowned powerhouse in the Forbidden City, after all. Why would he care about whether some stranger lived or died?
"Kid, I never told you to stop." His voice was deep and stern.
She shuddered slightly in the corner, at a loss for what to do.
Two minutes of silence passed. Suddenly, he strode toward her where she was huddled in the corner and hoisted her over his broad, solid shoulder.
"Ah!" She cried out in fright, then quickly clamped her mouth shut.
The man's cold, faintly angry gaze lingered on her, as if in thought, making her tremble with fear. He walked on at a brisk pace, saying nothing. His soft black hair, cut to his earlobes, brushed gently against her back, while the belt of his loosely fastened trench coat fluttered in the wind.
…As it turned out, on the very first night after the man took the kid home, he beat her.
"I hope you'll remember this: no matter what happens, you must never give up hope of staying alive." He said it to the filthy little kid sobbing in front of him.
