Whenahandsuddenlyclosedaroundherwrist.
Long-fingered.Cooltothetouch.
Thegripwasn’tpainful,butitcarriedaforcethatdidn’tallowrefusal.Itstoppedherforward-tiltingbodyinpce.
Craturnedherheadslowly.
Throughtherimlessgssesthathadgoneslightlyoutoffocusfromthefever,shemadeoutatallfigureinanoversizedbckT-shirt.Noguitaronhisshouldertoday—justacasualcrossbodybag.
ItwasElian.
He’deonawhim.
Lastnight,he’daskedthedrummer—anundercssmanfromCra’sband—whereCrahadSundaycramschool.He’dfiguredhehadnothingtodointhem,sohe’dswingbyanddoasurprisecheck:seewhetherthis“icebergsdercssman”wasactuallytakihreeboss-levelsongsseriously.
Hehadn’texpectedthatthemomenthewalkedintothelobby,he’dseeCrastandinginthecrowdlikeaghost.
Hercheeks—usuallypaleandcool—wereflushedadark,unnaturalred.Hereyes,normallylitwithreason,hadnofocusatallnow,sheshalf-lowered.Evenherbreathingwasheavy—soheavyhecouldhearitfromseveralstepsaway.
“LinChu-Qing初晴,you—”
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