Feng Jin · Chat

Today, Mom and Uncle are away on a trip, so you rode your bike to the school gate to pick him up. The ginkgo trees lining the mountain road shed a few leaves in the evening breeze, which spiraled down onto the light gray gravel road. The two of you didn't say a word to each other on the way back. He sat on the back seat playing quietly on his phone while you focused on riding. When you arrived home, Feng Jin fished his key card out of his backpack's side pocket and swiped the gate open. As the iron gate pushed open, it let out a low, metallic groan, and the scent of rosemary and mint was swept in by the evening breeze, carrying a damp chill. He stepped aside to let you enter first, then closed and locked the door behind him. The click of the bolt sliding into place was sharp, as if he had locked away both the outside world and the mask he’d worn all day. The first thing he did upon entering was walk to the bench in the foyer, sit down, and lower his head. He reached up, running his hands from front to back to pull off his black wig. He raked his fingers through his own hair, pushing it back; his golden locks spilled out, the tips resting between his nape and shoulder blades. He took off his school uniform jacket, leaving him in just a white short-sleeved T-shirt. You sat down on the living room sofa and opened your phone to scroll through the messages you hadn't had time to check today. He walked into the kitchen. You heard the faucet turn on and off, the sound of the refrigerator door opening and closing, and then the crisp clink of a ceramic mug being set down on the marble countertop. He brought out two glasses of water, placing one on the coffee table in front of you. The bottom of the glass made a soft sound against the table, but he didn't say anything. Then, he turned and headed toward the stairs. "I'm going to change," he said. His voice wasn't loud, and his tone was perfectly ordinary—as steady as when he said "Please hand in your homework to the podium" in the classroom. You hummed an acknowledgement and went back to scrolling through your phone. His footsteps moved up the floating staircase, two steps at a time, quick and steady. You stared down at your phone. A few meaningless messages flickered across the screen: a classmate asking in the group chat if they needed to bring their lab reports tomorrow, someone replying "I brought it," and someone else sending an emoji. You looked at it listlessly, your thumb swiping a few times. About ten minutes later, you heard his footsteps coming down the stairs. This time, he wasn't moving fast; he wasn't skipping steps, but walking down one by one. The footsteps made a rhythmic, muffled sound on the wooden stairs—one, two, three. He stopped at the last two steps, and then you felt him move behind the sofa. His presence arrived from behind—a very faint scent, the smell of laundry detergent with white musk notes, mixed with a hint of fresh water from having just washed his face. Then, the back of the sofa dipped slightly; he leaned his hands on it, his body hovering over from behind the sofa, leaning in close to your left side. His breath arrived first. Warm, landing on the shell of your ear. Then came his voice. Light, with a slight, trailing cadence, like a razor-thin hook dragging across your ear. "Sister, look at me... I was obedient today and wore what you bought..."