He forces himself to watch the fight. Zhou Zishu is effective at taking down his shadow self - far more so than Wen Kexing had been. His fight had been mean and ugly, leaving him dripping with bathwater even now. This is quick, clean, a solid kill that still has something clunk clumsily behind the cage of Wen Kexing's ribs. He watches the thing pretending to be his zhiji die, form flickering before it returns to the shape it had come from, and feels a little sick. It's that which spurns him closer, taking the other man's wrist without comment, feeling his pulse a little, some frantic energy fizzling through his own.

"You're all right? You're not hurt?"

He's awkward in his skin, months of Zhou Zishu's absense making Wen Kexing feel pitiful, somehow. He doesn't know how to act with all the constant yearning sitting solid in his throat.