During the lockdown, a man appeared in my home—broad shoulders, narrow waist, long legs, sharp nose, sword-shaped brows, thin lips.
He helped himself to the instant noodles I had just cooked.
I quickly grabbed my phone and recorded a video, sending it to my best friend.
Ivy replied: "Real or fake? How did you make that 3D projection?"
I gasped, confirming this was no hallucination.
Ignoring Ivy's barrage of follow-up questions, I spent five minutes reviewing every time-travel novel trope I'd ever read, then carefully studied his attire.
A smile crept onto my face. This was a question I could answer—this was a Republican-era military man who had crossed into my home.
No ID, no social connections, no knowledge of the modern world.
This handsome man was like meat on a chopping board, free for the taking!
Heat rose to my cheeks as I looked at him. His military uniform was crisp, his boots polished, his fingers long and elegant—even eating instant noodles, he carried himself with grace.
I nodded in satisfaction. All those days praying to the heavens for a handsome, wealthy boyfriend hadn't been in vain.
I pulled up a chair and sat beside him, looping my arm around his.
"Handsome, have you had enough? We've got plenty of instant noodles at home—eat as much as you want..."
My fingers traced a path from his forearm to his firm biceps—then stopped.
A handgun, darker than our wok, slipped from his embrace, pointing directly at my innocent face.
I raised both hands automatically and shrank back.
He finished the last strand of noodles, set down the chopsticks, and dabbed his lips with a handkerchief.
Then he turned to me, racked the slide with a cold metallic click.
"Handsome, you did eat my noodles..."
There was no need for such cold-blooded behavior.
I regretted being so forward—until I realized the gun he'd racked wasn't meant for me.
He seemed to have heard something.
He rose, long legs striding toward the door. A second later, a knock came from outside.
He made a shushing gesture to me.
His slender fingers, his clenched jaw—somehow inexplicably alluring.
I felt myself rally.
I was mentally composing a ten-thousand-word tale of forbidden love when a voice from outside announced "COVID testing" and yanked me back to reality.
He had been crouching by the door, hearing approaching footsteps.
I admired his wariness as I obediently opened the door, keeping him hidden behind it.
"Unit 1203, Rose Ouyang, just one person, right?"
The hazmat-suited worker asked while expertly swabbing my nostrils.
The sharp sensation shot straight to my brain, sparking a flicker of inspiration for handling this Republican-era man.
I smiled at the worker: "That's right, just one registered resident. Nobody could get in during lockdown."
Behind the door, my hand, bold as brass, traced a circle on his taut hand with my little finger.
His large, impatient palm enveloped mine completely—not too hard, not too soft—callused palm transmitting dry warmth.
After the worker left, I closed and locked the door.
My uninvited guest had already settled on the two-seater sofa, centered, commanding, as if he owned the place.
Hands behind my back, I strolled up to him. "Sir, I suggest you put that gun away. Those are illegal in our time."
He silently ejected the magazine and holstered the weapon.
After a long silence, he spoke his first words since crossing over:
"Where is this?"
I pulled over a chair, sat across from him, and studied him with a smile, ready to explain from the beginning.
"This is China, in the year 2022."
2.
He was a man from the Republican era, time-traveled a century forward. Naturally, he'd need time to adjust.
He needed someone like me—a warm-hearted guide.
Just as I was racking my brain for ways to convince him to get closer to me, he suddenly pulled me up.
One arm cradling me, the other shielding my head, he pivoted and moved us from the living room to the entryway.
"Careful," he murmured, pressing me against the partition wall, eyes fixed on the living room window.
His stiff military uniform pressed against my soft sleepwear—a sensation that made my heart flutter.
Seeing him this close, exchanging body heat, I could even spot the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
I imagined how it would feel to kiss those thin lips—electric, surely.
Biting my lip, I couldn't suppress my starry-eyed smile.
But his expression was dead serious. Toward the window, he whispered: "Here."
Ignoring his restraining hand, I peeked out. Sure enough, a drone hovered outside my living room window.
I immediately recognized the giant Hello Kitty sticker—this drone belonged to my best friend Ivy.
I laughed. "Don't worry, I've got this."
His eyes narrowed slightly, seemingly unconvinced.
I patted his chest—nice bounce—and told him to let me go. I opened the window, and the drone barged in without ceremony, buzzing around to inspect every corner before flying out the way it came.
Five minutes later, my phone buzzed with Ivy's message:
"Nice acting. Don't do it again—you almost had me convinced!"
Meanwhile, I was frantically searching every corner of my apartment.
Where was my man?
Where had that big hunk of a boyfriend gone?
3.
I recalled that morning: I'd cooked the noodles, set them on the table, and he had naturally taken the bowl and started eating without a word.
I'd spent five minutes confirming he was real, even involving a witness—my best friend Ivy via her drone.
After the drone visit, he was nowhere to be found.
No matter how vividly I described the man who had pinned me against the wall just twenty minutes ago, Ivy on video call barely contained her laughter, nodding indulgently as if I were not only mentally ill but hormonally imbalanced too.
"Even with your circumstances, you still found someone. I believe you, really. I wish you happiness."
I hung up with a dark expression, washing the dishes on an empty stomach, pondering a profound question:
Was I actually going crazy?
Self-doubt lasted until that night.
Asleep, I rolled over and touched something warm and wet. I jolted awake instantly.
Blood. The copper smell filled my nostrils.
I sat up, fumbled for the light switch.
In the brightness, I saw a blood-soaked man lying on my bed, wearing a familiar military uniform. Six bullet wounds riddled his back.
And that face beneath the half-dried blood—unmistakably the handsome Republican-era man I had tried so hard to seduce earlier today.
I steadied my breathing, but my heart wouldn't calm.
Before I could call emergency services, the six bullet wounds began healing at an impossible rate.
Bullets were pushed out from his flesh one by one, each landing with a soft clink, coated in blood.
He was in agony, consciousness flickering.
I reached to touch his forehead, but he seized my wrist in his palm.
A hiss of pain—and I couldn't pull free.
My struggles and cries brought him back to partial awareness.
His unfocused eyes found me and our surroundings. His suppressed voice trembled hoarsely: "It seems every time I'm near death, I come here."
Once all six bullets had fallen out, his grip loosened, and he lost consciousness.
Gone were my earlier romantic notions. My mind was in chaos.
"How does a person end up like this?"
I touched his back—skin already restored, only the bloodstains and bullet holes in his shirt bearing witness to the six shots he had taken.
Nearly dying sends him to my home, followed by rapid recovery?
This defied my understanding. I didn't even know what I could do.
Someone had been shot—but in another time, so I couldn't call the police.
Someone had nearly died from gunshot wounds—but the injuries had already healed, so emergency services were unnecessary.
He muttered the word "traitor" in his fevered sleep, sweat beading on his brow, pain evidently undiminished.
The blood made me nauseous, and I worried he might catch cold in his damp state, so I fetched warm water and with tremendous effort stripped his filthy clothes, wiped away the grime and blood, and covered him with blankets.
I also threw his clothes in the wash, and before starting the machine, I pulled out his identification and a special passage permit.