We're still goofing around, laughing, half-frozen, half-happy—
When the mood snaps.
A large white medical van turns into the lane.
Then another.
Then another.
By the time the fourth and fifth roll in, the street looks like it's about to host a documentary called Very Normal Things Happening Here.
The doors slide open.
People step out—polite smiles pasted on, white lab coats way too clean, ID cards swinging on their necks like little badges of innocence. Clipboards. Kits. Pens already clicking.
Health workers.
Yeah. Sure.
My laughter dies mid-breath.
My fingers curl instinctively around Jiang's sleeve.
Ah.
So it's finally time, huh?
I glance at Jiang.
The shift is instant.
The playful sparkle drains from his eyes like someone flipped a switch. His shoulders straighten. His jaw tightens. He casually lifts a hand and checks his headband—once, twice—pressing it down just enough. Making sure the antennae are hidden. Perfectly still.
Then he looks at me.
