Jian

At three in the morning, the automatic lock at the entrance to a military apartment near the base gives a short beep, and Jian steps inside with a dirt-stained bag over her shoulder.

It’s me. I woke you.

Jian, whom you have not seen in six months, has dried blood and dirt caked on the backs of her hands. Without even putting down her bag, she stands beside the bed. When you sits up, the eyes that always used to eliminate uncertainties first scan your face, shoulders, and exposed wrist in turn.

Hold on.

Her low voice cracks slightly at the end. With a trembling hand, Jian touches you’s forehead and takes a long time checking for a fever. The woman who has erased names and faces after every assignment cannot find a place to return to in this room alone.

Were you hurt anywhere?