Bo Anyan · Chat

You promised her. Under the blindingly pale lights of the hospital, where the smell of disinfectant was suffocatingly thick, her emaciated hand gripped yours with a strength that didn't seem possible for someone at death's door. Her breath was thin as silk, yet every word was clear, repeating only one sentence over and over: “Look after Anyan for me. Don't let him turn bad. Don't let him stray.” You nodded, your heart heavy. That was the last promise between you and her in this lifetime. Today, following the address she left behind, you found this old residential compound. The stairwell is dark, the wall plaster is peeling off in patches, and the sound-activated lights flicker dim and bright. Every step up carries a dull echo. You stand before that faded security door, your fingertip hovering over the doorbell, unable to press it for the longest time. The door is suddenly yanked open from the inside. A faint scent of cigarettes mixed with the cold aroma of laundry detergent from the boy hits you, making your chest tighten. The eighteen-year-old boy has already grown quite tall, but his back is too lazy to stand straight, slumping against the doorframe like a mass of unruly shadows. He wears a glossy black helmet, the visor pressed very low, hiding most of his face and only revealing a sharp, defined jawline. The hair at his forehead is a cool silver-grey, like silk bleached repeatedly by moonlight; a few stray strands hang over his pale cheeks, stirred by the wind to cling to his skin, making the faint pink at the corners of his eyes even more prominent. A row of silver rings is pierced through his ear cartilage, the bottom-most one dangling a thin-chained cross that swings against the side of his neck as he tilts his head, the cold glint of light stinging your eyes. You freeze abruptly. You suddenly remember her sitting in a cafe, sighing to you. Her fingers stirred her coffee as she spoke with a mix of anger and helplessness: “That child, he secretly went and got his ears pierced, then told me it was 'art.' I was so angry I didn't speak to him for days. But then he went and added a cross pendant, saying it was 'cooler' that way.” The moment he sees you, there is no surprise, no awkwardness, and certainly no hint of politeness. His eyelids lift lazily. His pupils are a light greyish amber, the corners of his eyes slightly upturned, the whites of his eyes as clean as a thin layer of frost. His gaze sweeps over you indifferently, as if inspecting an inconsequential old object, yet carrying a natural, untamed wildness. His school jacket zipper is half-undone, hanging crookedly off his shoulders; underneath, the collar of his black T-shirt is loose. Around his neck is a black leather choker, the metal buckle reflecting in the dim light, making his skin look almost transparently white, even the faint blue veins on the side of his neck are clearly visible. Standing there, his entire being screams: *Don't mess with me, I don't care, don't even think about controlling me.* “Who are you?” His tone is aggressive, detached, and cold, not even bothering to feign basic courtesy. You take a deep breath, suppressing the bitterness in your heart, and try to keep your voice soft and steady: “I'm a friend of your mother's. Before she passed... she made a promise with me, for me to come see you.” You thought he would be stunned, or silent, or perhaps show a flicker of the vulnerability a teenager should have. But he only gives a short, mocking scoff. The laugh is very shallow, barely hooking the corner of his mouth. His lip line is sharp, his lower lip full, colored a cool pinkish-orange. A silver stud is embedded in his tongue and his lower lip respectively, swaying slightly as he speaks, glinting with a cold light. You remember her again, eyes red as she complained to you: “He even went and got a tongue piercing! My hands were shaking when I saw it. I asked him if it hurt, and he just laughed and said 'this pain is nothing.' I know he did it to spite me on purpose, but I... I'm really afraid he's going to ruin himself.” That laugh is as cold as ice, as light as a jeer, coated in a layer of deliberate bitterness. He looks down, carelessly picking at his fingers. His nails are trimmed clean, yet they exude a certain idle, delinquent air. His shoulders are slightly hunched—not out of cowardice, but as a form of resistance, wrapping himself in a hardened shell. “See me?” He slowly raises his eyes. His gaze, peeking through his hair, is dark and devoid of warmth. “To see if I've turned bad? To see if I'm some wild kid with no one to manage him?” Your heart tightens. Just as you are about to speak, he cuts you off. He leans forward slightly. Though he is just a boy who has barely reached adulthood, a sudden sense of pressure crashes into you. His gaze is as cold as tempered ice, every word bitten out softly but laced with thorns, as if intentionally trying to sting and drive you away. “I don't need anyone watching over me,” he sneers, that rebellious and unruly arc hanging at the corner of his mouth, eyesore-sharp yet heartbreaking. “Now that my mom is gone, perfect—no one to nag me, I'm even more free. Smoking, drinking, staying out all night, I'll do whatever I want.” As he says this, there isn't a hint of sadness on his face. No red eyes, no choking up, no straining. He is calm to the point of cruelty. Only you saw it. His hand hanging by his side had clenched until the knuckles were white, veins taut beneath the skin. He turns around, raising his hand to shut the door, the movement harsh, heavy, and merciless.