THE WEIGHT OF MIDNIGHT

The silence of Mòfáng after midnight was a living thing, thick and deep, broken only by the rhythmic drip of condensation from the eaves and the occasional sigh of wind in the ancient pines. Anze moved through the familiar dark kitchen like a ghost, his footsteps silent on the worn wooden floor. The coals in the stove were banked low, radiating a dull, comforting heat. He didn't need light; every step, every object was mapped in his bones. He filled the small, blackened kettle from the ceramic jug by the sink, the splash of water unnaturally loud in the stillness, then placed it carefully on the stove's hottest spot, the iron groaning softly as it accepted the weight. He ground the coffee beans by hand in the small brass mill, the rhythmic crunch echoing the pounding that had started behind his temples hours ago, a dull drumbeat heralding the day he could never outrun. The rich, dark aroma of Yunnan beans bloomed in the air, usually a comfort, tonight just another scent layered over the phantom smells of cordite, blood, and frozen earth that memory insisted on conjuring.

Twelve seventeen AM. The date had officially turned. April 14th. The numbers glowed cold and accusatory in his mind, brighter than any star. He'd known it was coming, felt the old tension coiling in his muscles days in advance, a familiar, unwelcome guest settling in. He'd hoped sleep would claim him before the witching hour, but hope was a luxury his past rarely afforded him. Sleep had stayed stubbornly out of reach, chased away by the faces. Especially Lei's.

The kettle began its low, insistent whistle, a thin scream in the quiet. He snatched it off the heat before it could build, the sound too close to the whine of incoming rounds. He poured the boiling water slowly over the coarse grounds in the small ceramic pour-over, watching the dark bloom rise, the steam fogging the cold windowpane beside him. He saw his reflection, distorted and shadowed – the scar above his eye, the lines etched deeper tonight. Captain Li Anze. Snow Leopard Unit, Third Squad. Reconnaissance and Rapid Response. High Altitude, Extreme Conditions. Their motto: *Swift, Silent, Sure*. A bitter taste flooded his mouth, unrelated to the coffee. Sure. They hadn't been sure that day. *He* hadn't been sure.

He took the filled mug, black and steaming, its heat barely registering against the cold numbness spreading from his core. He pulled a worn wooden chair from its place by the wall, the legs scraping softly on the floor. He didn't bother with a jacket. The cold outside would be a relief, a counterpoint to the furnace burning within his skull. He pushed open the heavy café door, the hinges groaning softly, and stepped out onto the wide wooden terrace.

The mountain night was breathtakingly clear, the kind of clarity that only came after a hard freeze. The mist that usually clung to Yúnzhī Cūn had retreated to the gorge depths, leaving the sky a vast, inverted bowl of obsidian scattered with a million diamond chips. The Milky Way arched overhead, a river of cold fire. The air was knife-sharp, scented with pine resin and the pure, icy bite of altitude. Anze sank into the chair, the wood cold even through his thin shirt. He placed the mug on the wide armrest, the steam curling upwards, momentarily obscuring the stars before vanishing into the frigid air. He leaned back, tilting his head, his gaze fixed not on the beauty, but on a specific, unremarkable patch of sky near the zenith. He didn't see constellations named by villagers. He saw a snowfield under a similarly brutal, beautiful sky on the Tibetan Plateau, five years ago.

Operation White Ghost. A high-value target holed up in a monastery turned fortress, perched at 5,800 meters. Third Squad inserted via HALO jump in pitch darkness, landing scattered but intact on a frozen glacier miles from the target. Four days of brutal ascent through blizzards and razor-sharp ridges. Chen Lei, their youngest, barely twenty-two, nicknamed "Spark" for his relentless optimism and the way his eyes lit up even when frostbite threatened his fingers. Zhang Wei, "Ox," solid as the mountains, their heavy weapons specialist. Li Jie, "Hawk," their eyes in the sky, drone operator and sniper. And him, "Anchor." Captain. Responsible.

They'd reached the final approach ridge at 03:00 on April 14th. The target monastery was a dark hulk against the star-strewn sky, barely 800 meters away across a steep, snow-covered bowl. Intelligence suggested minimal guards, complacent in the altitude and isolation. They were wrong. The crack of the first sniper rifle shattered the crystalline silence. Hawk went down instantly, a dark shape crumpling silently in the snow. Chaos erupted. Muzzle flashes sparked like malevolent fireflies from the monastery walls. They were pinned on an open slope, exposed.

"Spark, Ox! Suppressing fire, left flank!" Anze's voice, raw and cracked from the cold and altitude, cut through the din of gunfire. "Hawk, status!" No response. Just the wet, ragged breathing crackling in his earpiece. Lei and Wei opened up, their fire disciplined, controlled bursts seeking the enemy snipers. Anze crawled forward through the deep snow, dragging Hawk's limp form behind a low outcrop of rock. The bullet had taken him high in the chest. His eyes were open, staring at the stars, unseeing. Gone. Anze closed them with numb fingers, a silent apology choking him. *Failure number one.*

"Anchor, we're flanked!" Wei's voice, tight with controlled panic. Figures in white camouflage gear were moving swiftly up the slope from below, cutting off their retreat. An ambush. They were surrounded. "Spark, fall back to my position! Ox, cover him!" Anze barked, his mind racing, assessing the kill zone they were in. Lei, firing from a prone position further down the slope, started scrambling backwards through the deep snow towards Anze's rock. He was almost there, maybe ten meters away, when a burst of automatic fire stitched across the snow in front of him, then walked up his leg. Lei cried out, a sharp, truncated sound of shock and pain, and went down hard.

Anze didn't think. He surged out from behind the rock, firing towards the new threat, ignoring the rounds snapping past his head, kicking up plumes of snow. He reached Lei, grabbing the collar of his snowsuit. Lei's face was bone-white, his eyes wide with terror and pain. "My leg, Captain! I can't—" "Hold on!" Anze snarled, dragging him backwards, the dead weight and the deep snow making it agonizingly slow. Bullets thudded into the snow around them. Wei laid down a withering barrage from the rocks, his heavy machine gun roaring, buying them precious seconds. Anze hauled Lei behind the meagre cover, pressing down hard on the ragged wound high on Lei's thigh. Blood, shockingly bright against the white snow, pulsed hot and thick over his gloved hands. Lei's breath came in ragged, wet gasps.

"Ox! Status!" Anze yelled, ripping open a field dressing with his teeth, his own hands shaking now, not from cold, but from a terrifying cocktail of adrenaline and dawning horror. "Running low! They're pushing hard!" Wei shouted back, the chatter of his gun punctuating his words. Anze fumbled for a tourniquet, his fingers clumsy. Lei's blood was everywhere, soaking through the snowsuit, pooling on the frozen ground. "Stay with me, Spark! Look at me!" Lei's eyes fluttered, struggling to focus. "C-cold, Captain… so cold…" His voice was a thin whisper. Anze tightened the tourniquet high above the mangled thigh, the plastic windlass biting into the fabric. "Evac! We need evac NOW!" he screamed into the radio, his voice cracking. "Two men down! One KIA, one critical! Grid Echo-Seven-Niner! Immediate evac! Taking heavy fire!"

Static. Then a fragmented, broken response. "…weather moving in… birds grounded… hold position…" *Hold position.* In a kill zone. With Lei bleeding out. With Hawk already gone. With Ox running out of ammo. Anze looked down at Lei. His eyes were closed, his breathing shallow, rapid. His lips were blue. The cold wasn't just the mountain anymore; it was death creeping in. Anze gathered him closer, trying to share body heat, uselessly pressing his hands over the saturated dressing. "Hang on, Lei. Hang on. Evac's coming." A lie. He knew it. Lei probably knew it. Lei's hand fluttered weakly, finding Anze's arm. His voice was a breath, barely audible over the wind and the fading gunfire. "S-sorry, Captain… messed up…" His hand went limp. His chest stopped rising. Just like that. The frantic light in his eyes, the "Spark," extinguished. Staring at the same indifferent stars Hawk had. *Failure number two.*

"ANZE!" Wei's roar shattered the numb horror. A grenade landed with a soft *thump* near their position. Anze reacted on pure, brutal instinct honed by years of survival. He threw himself over Lei's body, shielding what was left. The blast was deafening, a concussive wave of heat, snow, and rock fragments. Pain exploded in his side, his head rang like a bell. Wei was suddenly there, hauling him up. "Move! NOW!" He half-dragged, half-carried Anze away from the rocks, away from Lei and Hawk, plunging into the blinding whiteout of a sudden, savage snow squall that had swept down the mountain, swallowing the enemy, the monastery, the bodies of his men. They stumbled, crawled, bled, for hours in the white hell, guided only by Wei's compass and sheer, animal will to survive. They made it to the extraction point two days later, frostbitten, wounded, hollow-eyed ghosts. Operation White Ghost: Target eliminated. Cost: Two KIA. One Captain carrying the weight of two graves and the echoing silence of a final apology.

The memory crashed over Anze on the Mòfáng terrace with the force of the avalanche that had nearly claimed them later that week. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the images remained – Lei's terrified eyes, the shocking red on white snow, the blue lips, the limp hand. The crushing weight of *I was responsible. I couldn't save them.* The coffee sat forgotten on the armrest, stone cold now. His knuckles were white where he gripped the chair arms. A tremor ran through him, not from the cold, but from the raw, unhealed wound ripped open by the calendar. He sucked in a sharp, icy breath, the air burning his lungs, trying to anchor himself in the *now* – the smell of pine, the solid wood beneath him, the distant hoot of an owl. Not the thin, frozen air of the plateau. Not the smell of blood and cordite.

A soft sound behind him. The faintest creak of the door opening. He didn't turn, didn't move, frozen in his private hell, hoping whoever it was – Yan, probably, needing water – would see he wasn't fit company and retreat. Light footsteps on the wooden planks, hesitant, then stopping a few feet away. Not Yan. The presence was quieter, more contained. Xu.

He couldn't look at her. Couldn't bear the quiet concern he knew would be in her eyes. He stared rigidly ahead at the vast, indifferent starfield, a bitter counterpoint to the intimacy of the night before on the Dragon's Spine. The silence stretched, thick and awkward. He felt her gaze on his profile, reading the tension in his jaw, the rigid set of his shoulders, the unnatural stillness.

"Couldn't sleep either?" Her voice was soft, barely a murmur, blending with the sigh of the wind. Not probing. Just an observation. An offering of shared wakefulness.

Anze didn't trust his own voice. He managed a short, sharp shake of his head, a gesture swallowed by the darkness. He heard her move, not closer, but to the edge of the terrace, leaning against the wooden railing near him, looking out at the same stars. She didn't speak again. Just stood there, a silent presence in the vast night. Her quiet acceptance, her lack of demand for explanation, was a lifeline thrown across the chasm of his memory. She didn't ask about the cold coffee, the rigid posture, the tremor he couldn't quite suppress. She simply shared the night air.

Minutes ticked by, measured by the drip of water and the slow wheeling of the stars. The raw edge of the memory began to recede, dulled by the persistent reality of the present – the scent of her hair, clean and faintly herbal in the cold air, the soft sound of her breathing beside him, the solid wood of Mòfáng at his back. The crushing weight eased fractionally, replaced by a bone-deep weariness. He finally moved, picking up the cold mug. The ceramic felt like ice in his hands.

"Bad night," he rasped, the words scraping his throat raw. It was a massive understatement, a pebble dropped into the ocean of what he carried. He didn't elaborate. Couldn't.

Xu turned her head slightly, her profile silvered by starlight. She didn't offer platitudes. Didn't try to fix it. She simply met his gaze for a brief moment in the gloom, her grey eyes holding a depth of understanding that needed no words. "The stars are heavy sometimes," she said softly, her voice a whisper against the vastness. She wasn't talking about astronomy. She was acknowledging the weight he carried, the gravity of whatever shadows stalked him tonight. She turned back to the view. "Coffee's cold. Want me to heat it?"

He looked down at the dark liquid in the mug. The thought of its bitterness matched his internal landscape. "No," he said, his voice a little steadier now, the simple act of speaking grounding him further. "Cold's fine." He took a small sip. It was bitter, acrid, matching the taste in his mouth. But it was real. Tangible. *Now*. Not five years ago on a frozen hellscape.

They stood in silence again, side by side but not touching, sharing the immensity of the night sky and the heavier immensity of unspoken grief. Xu didn't pry. Didn't offer empty comfort. Her silent solidarity, her quiet acceptance of his darkness in that moment, was a different kind of warmth. It didn't erase the memory of Lei's blue lips or Hawk's staring eyes. It didn't lift the crushing weight of responsibility. But it anchored him, here and now, on this terrace, in this village, beside this woman who seemed to understand that some nights, the only thing to do was stand witness to the stars and the sorrow. He took another sip of the cold, bitter coffee, the taste of loss and the scent of pine mixing in the clear mountain air. The date hadn't changed. The weight hadn't vanished. But the night, for this moment, felt less like a tomb and more like a shared vigil. He didn't look at her, but he felt her presence like a steady flame in the vast, cold dark. It was enough. For tonight, it was enough.