The second week after the checkup, I kept feeling that something was off. From time to time, my phone would buzz with messages from unknown numbers, usually saying things like, "It's getting chilly, keep warm" or "Hospital follow-up satisfaction survey." At first, I ignored them.
That evening, I worked late and had to take a cab home because the subway had stopped running. In the rearview mirror, a black sedan kept its distance—never too close, never too far. Its headlights were unnervingly bright.
"Driver, take a detour and turn right at the next intersection," I said on impulse.
The driver muttered and turned, but the car behind stuck like a ghost shadow, following us relentlessly. My palms grew sweaty. Then it hit me—the license plate I'd written on my medical form. That black Santana with the Su A plate, rear-ended by Wang Zifang? It was currently in the repair shop, gathering dust.
The next day at lunch, Nick ("Second Brother") waddled over with a greasy fried chicken leg, poking at my checkup report: "Your blood type says RH-negative? Panda Blood!"
I froze, snatched the report, and looked closer. Indeed, in the corner, a small note confirmed it. No wonder the nurse had asked for my full contact info—even my parents' details.
"I heard this blood type can fetch a good price," Nick whispered, glancing toward Sherry's desk, "but be careful about the black market…"
Ding— my phone lit up with a new message:
[Ms. Wang invites you to participate in a VIP health feedback event. Click the link to fill out a survey and receive a thousand-yuan medical fund.]
The sender was a garbled string of characters, and the link ended with a suspicious ".jp" domain. Spam, no doubt.
That afternoon, just before leaving work, Sherry called, saying someone at the front desk wanted to see me. I was confused—here in Shanghai, I had no relatives or acquaintances. Aside from delivery drivers, hardly anyone looked for me.
I rushed over and saw… Wang Zifang. In a few days, she had changed her hairstyle. The big waves of long hair were gone, replaced by a short bob that barely touched her earlobes. The ends were slightly curled, framing her face perfectly. Her bangs brushed just past her brows, revealing large, unobstructed eyes. She wore a beige trench coat, legs elegantly crossed on the hallway sofa. Passing girls couldn't help but glance twice.
Seeing me approach, Wang Zifang stood and smiled. For some reason, the smile felt professional—just like when I first met her at the clinic. Yet, seeing this gorgeous woman smile at me was thrilling. Could this be what love feels like? I couldn't help but daydream.
"How did you know where I work? Is there something you need?" I asked as gently as I could.
"You filled it out during your checkup, didn't you?" Wang Zifang smiled again. "Don't you remember? I was your attending nurse… and I happened to rear-end your car. I wanted to invite you for a meal to apologize."
I was a little dazed, waving my hand: "No, no, it's really nothing."
"No way! You must," Nick suddenly appeared from nowhere. "After work, we're going to Zhangjiang for skewers. This time, it's on you." He pointed at me without any subtlety.
"Alright, alright. I'm free today anyway, count me in," Sherry chimed in.
"Okay then, just wait a bit until we leave," I said, scratching my head at Wang Zifang.
Behind Zhangjiang subway station, a barbecue stall steamed under the rainy night, cheap LED lights casting a cold white glow. Nick wiped the grease off his folding chair and deliberately made Sherry sit in the farthest spot: "Ladies first."
The hem of Wang Zifang's trench coat brushed my knees, carrying a faint cedar scent. As she settled naturally to my right, I noticed her phone light flicker and die—the lock screen was pitch black, not even showing the time.
"Boss!" Nick slammed the table. "Thirty skewers of lamb, ten of kidney, two dozen oysters…" He paused, looking at Sherry with a silly grin: "Do you want roasted marshmallows?"
Sherry, wiping her chopsticks with a wet tissue, giggled: "Liu, this is a barbecue stall, not an izakaya." Today, she wore a chestnut-colored beret, her curled hair falling on her shoulders like a well-behaved teddy bear.
While the charcoal crackled, Wang Zifang lightly tapped her fingernails on her beer glass. Matte wine-red nail polish glinted metallic in the light. "Sorry about rear-ending you last time," she leaned closer suddenly, and I smelled a hint of bitter orange behind her ear mixed with cumin from the grill—it made me slightly dizzy.
Buzz, buzz—a mosquito flew past my ear, saving me from my swoon. "Mosquitoes in Shanghai at the end of March? This is insane."
Wang Zifang chuckled: "Maybe your blood type attracts them."
"That's Panda Blood!" Nick stuffed a roasted bun in his mouth. "On the black market…" Sherry kicked him, and he started coughing.
"Check this out." Sherry suddenly shoved her phone at Wang Zifang. "I just took this night scene—pretty, right?" The screen showed a blurry street view, but zooming in, you could see the black sedan in the side mirror. Wang Zifang's smile faltered for the first time. As she lifted her beer, condensation slid down her fingers into her sleeve.
I counted the char marks on the skewers: she'd eaten three slices of potato, half an ear of corn, and all the meat she'd spit out, wrapped in tissue. Clearly, she didn't enjoy this place.
The neon lights on the plastic roof painted multicolored blotches. Nick kept rambling about the product manager's mishaps, poking at grilled rice cakes: "The PM wants to change the requirements again." He slammed his beer bottle on the table. "Do you know the three great romances of programmers?" Beer foam splashed onto Wang Zifang's trench coat sleeve. She lowered her eyes and wiped it off with precision worthy of a lab experiment.
"Write code, fix bugs, wait for deployment?" I chimed in, glancing as Wang Zifang unlocked her phone. The black screen flickered with a grid of light—strange.
"I heard Panda Blood attracts mosquitoes," Wang Zifang said, breaking charcoal with tweezers, sparks reflecting in her pupils.
"Maybe," I answered. "Never noticed anything special growing up."
A wave of heat from the stall's coal shift brushed against my hand as Wang Zifang's trench coat hem brushed me again. A faint bitter almond scent wafted in—something I smelled three months ago in a private hospital lab. Meanwhile, a rose-gold brooch pinned at her collar dripped pale blue condensation.
"Qingming holiday's coming up. Any plans for travel?" Wang Zifang asked.