Fox crouched low beneath the old railway bridge in West Linhai, her hoodie pulled tight, hands stained with black and gold paint. The air was thick with the scent of wet stone and adrenaline.
Tonight wasn't about art.
It was about truth.
She shook the spray can, the familiar rattle like a battle drum. Then she started writing.
"You don't need wings to fly — just silence to hear your own steps."
Letters bloomed across the concrete like urban flowers, bold and raw. The city usually erased her messages within days — but they always reappeared elsewhere. Because people remembered. They took photos. They reposted.
Her tag — a stylized fox tail — had become a quiet rebellion among Linhai's students and night walkers. A whisper that someone saw them.
Someone was out here too.
She finished the piece and stepped back. The gold shimmered faintly under the flickering underpass lights.
Footsteps behind her.
She turned — fast — heart hammering.
But it wasn't a cop.
It was a kid. Maybe twelve, maybe younger, with a plastic bag of recyclables and oversized shoes. He stared at the wall, then at her.
"You did that?" he asked.
Fox nodded, still breathing heavy.
He smiled. "Looks like something from a book."
"It is," she said. "The book I haven't written yet."
The boy laughed.
"You hungry?" she asked.
He shrugged. "Always."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a steamed bun. Still warm from earlier. He grabbed it like a miracle and devoured half in a bite.
"You live around here?" she asked.
He pointed vaguely toward a block of old tenements. "Sort of. With my uncle. He drinks."
Fox didn't press. She understood that kind of "sort of."
Before he left, he said, "They're gonna paint over it by tomorrow."
"I know."
"But I'll remember it."
She smiled. "That's enough."
By the time she reached the Quiet House Café that evening, the rain had started again.
Wang Jie was locking up.
He raised an eyebrow. "Midnight art shift?"
Fox shrugged. "I had things to say."
He unlocked the door and let her in.
She sat at the counter while he poured her a small cup — no sugar, no cream.
"You know," he said, "they're talking about you."
"Who?"
"Students. Bloggers. Even some artists. They think you're making the city feel again."
Fox stared into her cup.
"I'm not trying to start anything."
"You already have."
She looked up, tired but alive.
"Good."