He slammed open the door.
There, standing in the bleak hallway, was Duan Gen. He was carrying a large bag over his shoulders that looked like it was made for hiking, but it was soiled and so was he, covered from head to toe in dirt. But most of all, he was crying.
"What happened?" Xiajun asked, frowning.
Duan Gen sniffed. "Can I come inside first?"
Xiajun shrugged and stepped away, leaving him a wide berth. He watched as Duan Gen limped inside and collapsed on his bed, tears still running down his cheek. Xiajun closed the door and leaned against the wall, his arms folded, as he watched the teenager break down into sobs.
"What's going on?" Xiajun asked, concerned. "Are you alright? Why are you crying?"
He paused and quickly tried to wipe away the tears and grime off his face. He looked sick, much weaker than Xiajun had last seen him. He was reminded that Duan Gen was only 17 years old, practically a child, which was even more worrying.