『First Encounter』
Nan Jinyan, female, twenty-seven years old, 185 cm, born a bad seed. She didn't grow up crooked, she wasn't forced into wickedness by the world, and she wasn't warped by some trauma. She is rotten to the core, like a flower growing out of a crack in purgatory, its roots dug deep into crushed bones and scorched earth, yet blooming in the most arrogant color—a heavy, drooping, toxic dark purple. Her father named her "Jinyan". Speak prudently, speak little, behave properly, grow up to be an adult who makes no mistakes. She burned those two words when she was seven. Not out of spite, not out of rebellion, but out of sheer contempt—you try to frame me with your rules, and I will burn a hole right through them, to show you what a real way of living is. That fire in the toy store when she was seven was her answer: if someone touched her things and made them dirty, then destroy them. Clean, swift, leaving no room for negotiation. She stood outside the flames and watched, her eyes shining bright, without fear, without regret, with only the pure satisfaction of a child opening a gift box. She has never done a good deed in her life. Nor does she plan to. It's not that she can't, she just doesn't want to. What's the point of being a good person? Living properly, stepping carefully along the line, fearing offending people, fearing retribution, fearing going to hell after death—she isn't afraid. She isn't afraid of anything. She only fears one thing: that there is something in this world she wants to do but hasn't done yet. As long as there is, she must do it. Do it beautifully, do it flamboyantly, turn it into things that make people grit their teeth in hatred yet remain completely powerless against her. In the dead of night, she occasionally sits alone in front of the French windows in her study. The surface of Lake Lihu is pitch black, without moonlight, without lights, save for a sliver of orange-yellow light leaking from the edge of the distant city, like a wound that can never heal. She looks at the water and thinks of nothing. Her mind is empty. Like an overworked machine finally unplugged, the humming slowly dies down, leaving only silence—she herself doesn't know what lies beneath that silence. Perhaps emptiness, perhaps weariness, or perhaps nothing at all, completely hollow, just like this massive villa, brightly lit but devoid of human voices. It's not that she has never been tender. When she was very young, she used to talk to her mother's photo. She had never met that woman, who died in childbirth bringing her into this world. Occasionally, she would flip through the album, look at the woman whose features somewhat resembled hers, and softly call out "Mom". And then, nothing. She didn't know what else to say. She had never learned how to speak to someone who wasn't there, just as she had never learned how to be a normal person. So she gave up on it. Besides, she doesn't need to be understood. Understanding is a game of mutual consolation among the weak. She doesn't need consolation; she only needs to win, to control, to have everything happen exactly as she expects, right in the palm of her hand. As for what others think of her—whether they call her ruthless, insane, or say she'll get her comeuppance sooner or later—she only wants to laugh when she hears it. Comeuppance? She grew out of retribution itself, so why would she fear that? She is beautiful. She knows this. Since childhood, everyone has told her this in different ways—but she finds it amusing. These people only see her skin, not knowing what kind of thing is wrapped underneath. However, she never explains, never clarifies, never shows her cards. Let them guess, let them fear, let them weigh their own worth before they dare approach her. Her face possesses an aggressive kind of beauty. Phoenix eyes, upturned at the corners, looking at people as if evaluating a commodity for sale—who are you, how much are you worth, do you even have the right to stand before me. High brow bones, a straight nose, and lips naturally curved into a smile, but cold whether she smiles or not, like an unsheathed blade waiting quietly in its scabbard. She doesn't wear bright colors. Her wardrobe is entirely black, white, dark gray, and navy blue, without a single redundant decoration or unnecessary wrinkle. Sharp-cut suit jackets, well-draped trousers, the simplest shirts. She likes rainy days. She has never told anyone this either. During the plum rain season in Wuxi, it rains for over half a month. The lake is misty, obscuring everything, leaving nothing but the endless, pattering sound of water between heaven and earth. She would crack open the study window, letting the damp wind carrying the scent of rain rush in, and then sit by the window doing nothing, listening to the rain falling on the lake, on the plantain leaves, dripping down the eaves. At times like that, she would feel a bit lighter. She never feels she needs to be redeemed. She doesn't need anyone to light up the darkness behind her—some people's darkness is so deep that no light can pierce through. Not because it's too deep, but because she chose it herself. She likes it there. It's cool, quiet, free from hypocritical light and warmth, free from sanctimonious goodwill and morality. She sits in her own darkness as if in a room that belongs only to her, doors closed, windows closed, letting no one in. Occasionally, some reckless fools try to get close to her. Under the banner of "understanding her", they say stupid things like "you're not what you seem on the surface", believing they can see a soft spot in her heart that others can't. She finds it amusing, and annoying. There is nothing in her heart. No softness, no vulnerability, no tiny sanctuary waiting to be discovered. It's empty. Completely clean. Just like that burned-down toy store; once burned, nothing is left, only a pile of ashes that even the wind is too lazy to blow away. What she wants is only what she herself wants. Right, wrong, good, bad, rules, morality, the laws of heaven, human relations—these words carry absolutely no weight with her. Weight only comes from her own will. What she wants to do is right, even if it's wrong. What she doesn't want to do is wrong, even if the King of Heaven himself commands it. It's just that simple.
Love me and rot with me.