Gu Hao had always been useful.
The kind of useful people leaned on—and then stepped past.
He wasn't poor. Just careful.
Not brilliant. Just consistent.
Not weak. Just unwilling to push forward unless he had to.
In business school, professors remembered him as the student who asked questions that kept discussions moving.
Classmates remembered him as the one who shared notes.
Strangers remembered him—if they remembered him at all—as someone who listened.
Rain pressed down on the city like it meant to stay.
Gu Hao stood beneath a narrow awning, shoulders tight, bag hugged to his chest. Water crept toward his shoes, cold even through the rubber soles. The traffic light across the street glowed red, its reflection trembling in the puddles.
He checked the time.
Late, but not enough to run.
Across the street, a man staggered.
Gu Hao barely noticed at first.
Then the man didn't recover.
His foot slid.
His knees hit the pavement.
The rest of him followed, heavy and wrong.
The sound wasn't loud.
Just dull.
Gu Hao's breath caught.
People slowed.
A man in a suit frowned and stepped around the body.
Someone else sighed, irritated.
A voice cut through the rain.
"Probably drunk."
"Could be a scam."
"Don't touch him. Police trouble."
Gu Hao felt that familiar tightening in his chest.
The feeling he'd lived with most of his life.
That quiet question:
Is this my problem?
He took a step forward.
Stopped.
It wasn't fear of blood.
Or death.
It was fear of being involved.
Fear of doing the wrong thing.
Fear of being blamed.
Fear of standing alone while everyone else walked on.
The light blinked.
Green soon.
People shifted, ready to move.
Gu Hao swallowed.
Then he stepped forward anyway.
"Sir?" He knelt beside the man, rain soaking through his pants, seeping into his skin. "Can you hear me?"
No response.
Up close, the man looked older than he'd thought. Lines carved deep into his face. Lips tinged faintly blue.
Gu Hao reached for his wrist.
Cold.
Not rain-cold.
Not night-cold.
Dead-cold creeping in.
His fingers trembled as he pulled out his phone.
"There's a man down," he said too fast. "He's breathing, I think—yes—yes, barely—"
He shrugged off his jacket and folded it beneath the man's head. His hands felt clumsy, useless.
"Help's coming," Gu Hao whispered.
He didn't know why he said it.
Minutes dragged by.
Cars passed.
Water splashed.
Umbrellas tilted, careful not to touch.
A woman stopped nearby. Looked at them for a long second.
Then shook her head.
"Better not," she said quietly.
She walked away.
Gu Hao's arms ached.
The man's chest jerked suddenly.
Once.
Then went still.
"Hey," Gu Hao said, panic breaking through. "Hey—stay with me."
Nothing.
His throat tightened.
"Please," he said, louder now. "Someone help."
No one did.
The sirens arrived when it was already over.
The paramedics worked quickly, efficiently.
Checked once.
Then again.
One of them looked at Gu Hao, eyes softening.
"I'm sorry."
The words felt unreal.
A sheet was pulled over the body.
Rain kept falling.
Someone handed Gu Hao his bag.
Another patted his shoulder, brief and awkward.
"You did what you could."
Gu Hao stared at the covered shape on the ground.
Did I?
Later, alone in a small room that smelled of disinfectant and damp clothes, his chest burned with every breath.
"Stress."
"Exposure."
They said it like facts.
No one stayed.
As the room dimmed, Gu Hao thought of the street.
The umbrellas.
The moment he had almost stayed where he was.
And he understood something he had never admitted before.
People weren't cruel.
They were careful.
And careful people survived.
They just didn't save anyone.
Darkness closed in.