"Our most genuine aspect is our capability to create, to conquer, to bear, to change, to love, and our strength to overcome pain and suffering." ——Ben Okri
*
Deep in the suburban woods, thorns circle up to the height of a person, faint light seeping out from the gaps. The deep brown thorns are stained with dried blood, bathed in a warm golden hue by the light of a fire.
The burning branches crack in the fire, making a few "pop" sounds.
This sound is very faint, but on such a night, it is eerily loud.
Su Junxin is seated by the fire, her eyes cast down. She looks somewhat disheveled, her shirt and work pants are stained with dirt, and her left cheek is scratched with a thin blood mark, already crusted over.
In her hand is a military knife, its black blade slowly carving on a stick, sharpening one end.
