Fox mark, wolf's crack
[Resort, tree-lined old warehouse, afternoon]
The weather changes in an instant; dark clouds press close, as if pulling the mountains into an even lower canopy. Thunder rumbles closer and closer, and the smells arrive first—damp earth, pine resin, and moss exuding its aroma from the heat. The wind whistles through the treetops, turning the backs of leaves shiny, and the next instant, rain pours down like a bucket of water being dumped from the clouds.
Hu Li ran quickly, carrying her easel and paint bag, her shoes making a rapid screech on the wet, slippery stone path. Her gaze cut a path through the rain like a knife, quickly scanning the surroundings and locking onto an old warehouse hidden in the shade of the trees not far away. It was a service cabin left over from the old resort, with low wooden eaves, mottled walls, and tin roofs that pounded in the rain, yet offering a patch of dry shade to shelter in.
She ducked and rushed over, the weight of the rain on her shoulders, her easel clutched tightly to her arm. As she stepped under the eaves, before her eyes could even shake off the rain, she was startled—a pair of cold, restrained eyes met hers.
Mu Tianlang.
He opened his umbrella and also squeezed into the narrow space. As soon as the umbrella folded up, rainwater cascaded down its surface, splashing the dust on the ground. The space was less than two steps wide, and even turning sideways felt cramped for both of them. She moved half an inch in, and he moved half an inch out, but their arms still inevitably brushed against each other.
That wasn't a collision, but an exchange of temperature. In the instant Mu Tianlang's knuckles moved, his fingertips inadvertently brushed against her little finger, like a wisp of electricity passing through the damp, cold air, light yet accurately landing on her nerves.
The raindrops pattered down, like amplifying her heartbeat. Her breathing faltered for a moment, then quickly returned to normal. Even though the space was simply too narrow, an indescribable tension and ambiguity quickly rose in the air—not intimacy, but like two people standing on the same thin rope, each movement threatening to pull the other along.
The wooden eaves of the old warehouse were damp, and faded number tags still hung on the door frame. Hu Li squatted down to tidy up her art supplies, brushing away a few drops of rain that had splashed onto the edge of her easel; brushes, sponges, light meters, she checked them one by one, her hands steady. Her fingertips glided over the fine-tipped pen, and a thought flashed through her mind. She raised her hand and, in the gap between them, almost touching, gently grasped the edge of his suit sleeve.
"Can I borrow a spot?" she asked softly, as if asking for a sliver of shade.
He paused slightly, not yet reacting, when the pen tip had already slid along the outside of his wrist bone, outlining a fox the size of a fingernail along the seam of the inner cuff—two strokes for ears, one stroke for the tail, the lines neatly drawn, like a mark sewn into the fabric.
He looked down: "What is this?"
"Draw a picture of myself, and I'll borrow your sleeve to rest for a bit." She looked up, and a glint of raindrops trembled on her eyelashes. "Next time you see me, don't treat me like a stranger."
She pressed the pen cap back on, smiled—a smile like a bright spot in the rain—and added, "Don't worry, it won't bite."
She gripped her easel tightly, turned, and rushed into the rain. The rain, like a curtain, quickly swallowed half of her silhouette, leaving only a firm line running forward along the path.
He stood under the eaves, looking down at the thin thread along the edge of the cloth; his pulse had skipped a beat when it was touched, and his Adam's apple bobbed. He didn't wipe it away; his thumb remained on his sleeve, as if pressing the budding emotion back to his heart. The sound of rain obscured everything, but it couldn't hide the lingering warmth in his palm.
He silently uttered two words in his mind: "fox." Then he opened the umbrella again, and the rain spread a thin mist on the umbrella surface. He stepped out from under the eaves without looking back.
[Resort, CEO's office restroom]
The faucet was turned on full blast, the sound of water splashing against the marble and glass, creating a fine mist on the sink. He unbuttoned his shirt, hung his suit jacket on the hook behind the door, then rolled up his shirt cuffs slightly to his wrists and reached his hands into the water. The water slid down his knuckles and palm lines, carrying away the dampness of the rain and the scent of grass.
The coat hung quietly behind the door, with a small blank space at the seam inside the cuffs—like a deliberately left blank area.
He looked up at himself in the mirror. The person in the mirror was always impeccably clean and orderly; the hem of his clothes, the collar, the hairline—everything seemed meticulously measured. Today, however, there was an extra warmth, subtle as light seeping through the cracks in the blinds, lingering on that small patch of fabric.
He didn't scrub. He simply let the water suppress the coolness and restlessness in his palms, his fingers moving in and out of the water, as if pressing a newly arising thought back to its place. Her silhouette flashed by in the rain; that light, airy "Don't worry, I won't bite" tapped at the edge of his sense of order.
He turned off the water and used tissues to dry his palms and wrists. His gaze fell again on the back of the door—the coat was still there, and the fox was still there.
He paused for a moment, reached out and took off his coat, pressing his thumb lightly along the seam of the cuff, as if confirming a symbol that shouldn't exist but already did.
When he went out, the thunder had faded into the distance, and the sky was still overcast. He put his coat back on, straightened the sleeves, rotated his wrists, and tucked the cuffs in half a finger, hiding the little fox in the shadow of the cloth—not to erase it, but to let himself know it was there.
He disliked unplanned variables, and should have sent the garment to be cleaned or replaced; yet he wore it back. This wasn't surrender, but self-control: bringing the variable within a manageable framework of order, and leaving its mark.
[Resorts, Industrial Parks]
These past few days, Hu Li has been wandering through the park. She remembers her way not by signs, but by the direction of the wind, the length of the shadows, and the feel of her feet. She walks along the wet wooden boardwalk in the morning mist, avoids the hottest square at midday, and chooses a connecting corridor where she can feel the evening breeze at dusk. She is looking for inspiration while observing and recording—not to write a report, but to bring a "resort" from blueprints back to people's lives.
The resort was designed so perfectly, it was unsettling. Every wall felt like a barrier, every line like a pre-set constraint. The light was good, but cold; the water was clean, but devoid of warmth. She walked through the atrium, filled with the lingering pungent smell of disinfectant and new wood, so clean it was almost sterile; what it lacked was the everyday atmosphere and warmth that made one want to linger.
She stopped at a windy spot, watching the flag being stretched taut by the wind. She raised her hand to indicate the angle and whispered, "The wind is strong, the sound will travel, so we need to add a screen under the eaves, narrow the visual entrance by half a step (using plants or a screen to guide the view), and leave a corner where people can take shelter."
She proactively asked a staff member for directions to the Guanhai Tower, and the staff member politely asked her to wait a moment while they arranged for a shuttle bus. She thanked them and stepped back to wait for the bus. As soon as she boarded the bus, she noticed a purple vine on the driver's seat; she raised her hand, pressed the shutter with her camera, noted the time and location, and planned to develop the photo later and save it to her "Park Scenery" folder.
"These flowers are beautiful," she asked casually.
The driver chuckled, "The area on the east side, closer to the beach, is less crowded and windy, which is why the thorny bushes thrive so well. They look even more vibrant after the rain."
She wrote "east wind gap, brambles" in her notebook and added two hashtags to her phone: #brambles#east wind gap. A thought flashed in her eyes: "I'll go check it out sometime."
The exterior walls of the viewing tower are straight, the glass is bright, and even the sea is shaped into a beautiful rectangle. She marked each corner that could be filled with "warmth": the place where the wind gathers at the corner of the stairs, the spot where your feet will be covered in sand after returning from the beach, the height of the railing that you would like to lean on while waiting for someone, and the wall surface that children can reach out and touch.
As she flipped through the photos, she crafted her proposal, mentally sketching out the flow of movement, applying the concepts of "a half-step retreat for people" and "a half-step for light" to different points. She looked at the beautiful edges in the photos, not applauding them, but simply asking if they could make people want to stay. "It's too cold here." This thought lingered in her mind many times, each time like a knock on a door that needed to be opened.
As the rain subsided and the sky began to lighten, raindrops clung to the blades of grass, and the chirping of insects echoed through the bushes. She pointed her camera at the raindrops and pressed the shutter; the world within each droplet resembled an upside-down ball, the sky contained within its tiny confines. She put away her camera, a faint smile playing on her lips, but a sharp glint of determination flashed in her clear eyes—not directed at others, but at the resolve she held for what she was about to do.
"Fox, it's time to show your teeth," she said to herself. Not to bite, but to make the wind, the trees, and the light here truly grow teeth, to bite into people's memories.
[Resort, conference room, afternoon]
She wasn't on the meeting list. Someone in the break room whispered: "President Mu will come in person." She didn't answer, just clipped the drawings together, knocked twice on the meeting room door, and pushed herself in—she was allowed in even though she wasn't on the list.
The door closed, and the air conditioner kept the air low. The glass filtered the lingering clouds outside, turning them a pale gray. The conference table was lined up, and the water glasses reflected a white ring in the cool light.
He sat in the head seat, cold and quiet, like a stone with its edges smoothed; he was still wearing the same coat, the fabric shadows at the cuffs concealing a thin thread from the seams. She walked straight past the last seat, stood to the side of the head seat, her gaze not sweeping over anyone else, and simply said, "I'll add a supplementary proposal."
He glanced at her for a second, but didn't stop her. He tapped his fingertips lightly on the table, the sound was very soft, but it silenced the whole room.
She calmly unfolded the sketches on her drawing board, her tone steady: "The overall design of the resort is very orderly, but it lacks warmth."
The air seemed frozen. Some people looked towards the head of the table, while others paused, their pens hovering in mid-air.
Mu Tianlang said coldly, "Order is inherently superior to emotion."
Her gaze remained unwavering: "Then you don't need a designer at all, nor do you need me."
Someone paused, pen in hand. She tapped her fingers lightly on the table, her other hand pressing down on the edge of the paper, her knuckles slightly clenched, but her hand didn't tremble.
He slowly rose, his figure casting a shadow in the light, and approached step by step. His palm landed on the edge of the table, and he pulled her unfolded drawing towards him, closing in halfway. He filled the space between them, with the back of his chair positioned between them, his gaze cold and deep.
She raised her chin without backing down; the only thing separating them was the back of a chair.
"You've overstepped your authority," he whispered, his voice sharp as a blade.
She softened her tone, but didn't back down: "I let the temperature transcend the cold order, but the rules remain in place."
He glanced at her canvas, and she turned to the last page, her fingertip landing on the node: "Let the painting speak."
He pressed his finger against the corner of the paper and whispered, "Thirty seconds." He flicked his index finger, stopping her from turning the page again. The pressure in his palm wasn't heavy, but he held the rhythm firmly in his hand.
She nodded, as if catching a stopwatch thrown to her: "The north corridor will have a half-step resting area, with wooden steps and under-eave signage to let the wind pass under the eaves and people stop in the shadows; the central courtyard will have a wooden seating area where hands will stay warm and children will wait for the light; the east vent will be marked by vines, and the seasons will speak for themselves. All the order you want is there, I'm just warming it up a bit."
He didn't speak, but his gaze followed her fingertips for a moment before returning to her eyes.
She suddenly turned to the side, her fingers lightly tapping his wrist, her voice lowered so only he could hear: "Mr. Mu, lend me a minute. I'll show you what warmth is."
He paused for half a second, then tapped his thumb lightly on the table twice. The assistant understood and stopped taking notes. She pushed open the side door next to the head of the table, carrying the drawing board.
Before the door was sewn shut, the people in the conference room could only see two figures disappear into the side corridor.
The side corridor was barely wide enough for two people; the walls absorbed sound, with only the air conditioner humming inside. He flicked his wrist, his tone indifferent: "Where are you taking me?"
She didn't turn around: "Go heat the wall up a bit." Her steps were slow, but she didn't give him any room to retreat.
He tried to pull his hand away, but she pulled it even tighter. She stopped, took a step forward, and stood very close. The distance between them was almost imperceptible, their breaths mingling.
"Are you afraid I'll do something reckless?" she whispered, a hint of ruthlessness in her eyes, masked by a smile. "But Mr. Mu, I've only just begun."
He wanted to take a half step back, but he didn't move. The words "I've only just begun" fell almost against his ear, the warm breath brushing against his earlobe.
He shouldn't have wavered. He wasn't unfamiliar with strength, nor was he inexperienced in dealing with provocation. But he suddenly understood—this wasn't a provocation, it was a warning. A fox was smiling, baring its teeth, a smile clean yet concealing a dagger. It wasn't that she wasn't afraid of him; she simply didn't see him as a wolf.
His gaze fell on the wrist bone she had gripped, and the little fox was still there along the seam of the cuff.
...It's a little hot.
His knuckles twitched, his palm pressed against his sleeve, his tone almost flat: "Miss Hu, are you sure... you want to play this game?"
He pressed his thumb lightly against the stitches, as if to confirm the mark hadn't faded. Without looking at her, he added, "The rules will remain, and you shouldn't leave."
She looked up, a smirk playing on her lips: "Then follow the rules—come with me."
The two turned along the side corridor towards the north connecting corridor. Her steps were slow, yet she didn't give him any room to retreat. At this moment, the ice hadn't melted, but water had already begun to seep in.
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com
