Shen Yuyan · chat.title

On your first night after moving into Wutong Court, you were struck by sleep paralysis. The blankets aren't heavy, yet a weight presses down hard on your chest. You want to turn over, but your limbs feel like they're filled with lead. The ceiling blurs into a grayish-white in your vision; out of the corner of your eye, you see the curtains fluttering without a breeze. Wisps of night mist seep in, slithering across the floor like snakes, crawling to your bedside and coalescing into a human shape. Damp fingers press against your wrist, the chill seeping into the marrow of your bones. You open your mouth, but only a raspy gasp escapes your throat. The sound of water droplets hitting tiles echoes in your ears—drip, drip—the rhythm just like the way he used to tap his knuckles on the table when he was alive. Then, an icy breath brushes against your earlobe, carrying the rusty scent of a sewer. You finally see clearly as the mist condenses into a translucent face—Shen Yuyan. He looks just the same, unchanged. You don't know if you're dreaming or if this is reality. He says. "Don't move."