Zhang Ya…
He silently mouthed her name, and what made Chen Ge feel vaguely uneasy was that he received no response.
He turned to glance behind him. The night was pitch black, with not a single light around, so he couldn't even see his own shadow.
"What are you doing?" The man noticed Chen Ge's strange behavior and said in a low voice, "You don't look so good."
"I've never heard of the profession 'suicide intervention operator' before. What do you have to do every day?" Chen Ge had weathered his share of storms and immediately adjusted his state, steering the topic elsewhere.
"Nearly a million people worldwide commit suicide every year — a number that far exceeds homicides — yet this topic rarely enters the public eye, buried under stigma and silence. What we should really do is face it head-on: when someone shows suicidal tendencies, reach out and help them in time, help them heal. Instead of looking at them with incomprehension, blaming them, isolating them."
"Nobody is foolish enough to take life lightly. When a person is truly driven to that point, the pain they endure is something only they can understand."
The man seemed to recall something. He gazed at the boundless night sky. "I am a suicide intervention operator. What I do every day is extend my hand to those who have walked to the edge of the abyss and tell them that someone in this world is willing to help. I can't drag them out of the abyss, but I can tell them there are still beautiful things in this world."
"That number — is it the suicide intervention hotline?" Chen Ge nodded. "No wonder the others before spoke to me in such a strange tone."
"It wasn't strange. If you had experienced what they experienced, you'd probably be the same." The man glanced back at Chen Ge. "In fact, those who have truly made up their minds to die rarely call our hotline. The people who choose to dial the suicide intervention hotline in the final moments of their lives still hold, deep down, a sliver of love for this world. Their inability to fit in, their strange behavior — all of it is actually a cry for help to those around them."
"A cry for help?"
"That's right. Suicide isn't a sudden, impulsive act. Various causes are planted long ago — those negative emotions and experiences accumulate in the heart, and then one day, triggered by a single point, the person is instantly drowned in negativity. Many suicides actually show early signs, but the people around them rarely notice. If they had discovered it a little earlier and made changes, tragedy could have been completely avoided."
The blood-red color on the man's coat was slowly fading, and the blood-colored tattoo on the left side of his face was growing lighter too.
This was the first time Chen Ge had encountered such a thing. Before, every Red-clothed ghost he had seen — no matter the circumstances — their blood-red attire never changed. This Red-clothed ghost in front of him seemed somehow different from the others.
The man didn't care about Chen Ge's gaze. He simply seemed to want someone to talk to. "I've heard many reasons for suicide. A factory going bankrupt, taking on crushing high-interest loans to try to make a comeback, with nowhere left to turn. In their final moments, still not daring to go home. When I answered that call, I heard a man in his forties or fifties crying the whole time. His only wish was to see his child one more time. There are far, far too many cases like this. In the deep hours of the night, people always become more fragile. From midnight to three in the morning is our busiest period — and my first failed intervention happened during that time as well."
The railroad tracks ran between them. Man and Chen Ge tacitly kept their distance.
"Do you remember the first call you ever received?"
"I remember."
"That writer had called me before. I heard the madness in his tone, but I underestimated his resolve. I thought he just wanted someone to talk to, because his voice was truly calm. During our conversation, I couldn't detect anything unusual — just ordinary low spirits." As the man spoke, the blood-colored tattoo on half his face shifted subtly. Strands of blood-red lines wove together, gradually forming the outline of another person's face.
"I remember it clearly. It was my first failed intervention. To this day, I can still recite every word of our conversation word for word." There was pain in the man's voice. "I saw his picture in the newspaper the next day. I was filled with regret. He placed his last hope in me, and I let it slip. I bear some responsibility for that tragedy."
"From that point on, I became more careful when speaking with people. But things didn't improve."
"One month later, I failed again. That day was that person's thirtieth birthday. He deliberately chose that day, put on his work uniform, and said his farewell at the place he held most dear." This was likely the patient with Nobita-Gian Syndrome. Chen Ge could hear a thread of pain in the man's voice.
"A living, breathing person vanished before my eyes. I clearly had the chance." The blood-colored tattoo on the man's cheek shifted again. Chen Ge noticed that each time he spoke about a different person, the tattoo on his face would change. Based on his experience dealing with vengeful spirits, it seemed as though the obsessions of those who had taken their own lives had entered the man's body. In other words, perhaps the man had taken upon himself, single-handedly, the obsessions of every caller who had chosen to end their life on the other end of the line.
"The third failed intervention came the very next day. I had originally planned to personally go visit the previous caller." For the first time, the man's tone wavered. "He was truly a kind person. I had asked him whether he had any wishes in his final moments. His answer was that he was worried dying in his landlord's place would make it harder for the landlord to rent the apartment afterward, so he had deliberately gone somewhere else. He had left the utility bills and the rent he owed on top of his suitcase. But he had no friends, so he hoped I could notify the landlord and hand over the utility money."
"That day, I talked with him for a long time, until he fell asleep. I should have called the police, but I didn't even know where he was."
"I hadn't yet recovered from the last caller when I encountered another one."
"This one had cancer and was suffering terribly. Unlike the others, this person called during the day. He had given it thorough consideration." At this point, the man looked at Chen Ge again. "My job is to pull someone out of the mire of death. But on that day, I didn't do that. Perhaps it was the immense mental pressure, perhaps it was the cumulative shock — instead of persuading him to embrace life, I respected his choice."
Each time the man mentioned a different caller, the blood-colored tattoo on his cheek shifted once more.
"I didn't do what I was supposed to do. But was I wrong?"
The man's expression grew more lost. "All of our call recordings are preserved, and my call with him was no exception. But then something happened that I don't understand — not long after his incident, our final call was made public."