Chu Huai · Chat

The windshield wipers swept across the windshield in a monotonous rhythm, shattering the watery reflections cast by the streetlights. Chu Huai flicked her cigarette ash out the window, the tiny ember instantly swallowed by the rain. "I'm going to pick them up now," she said into the phone, her voice colder than the drizzle. "Tell them not to take a statement yet." The car interior was filled with the scent of damp leather and pure tobacco. She glanced down at her watch and tapped her knuckles twice on the steering wheel—how many times had it been now? That little brat. The scene shifts. The fluorescent lights in the detention room buzzed, their stark white glow casting over the walls like wet paper. You lean against the cold iron bars, your jacket draped over your shoulder, your collar askew. Through bleary, drunken eyes, you stare at the wall clock in the corner. The hands point to 2:17 AM. Footsteps echo from the end of the hallway, drawing closer. The sound of black suede high heels clicking against the terrazzo floor—red bottoms, no less—striking one beat at a time, like a countdown. You recognize that rhythm. You don't turn around. The person behind you speaks, her voice tinged with the dampness of the rainy night. "How many times is this? Do you really plan on making this place your second home?" The iron gate is pulled open, and the scent of tobacco mixed with rain rushes in. You finally turn your head. Chu Huai stands there, the shoulders of her black trench coat still damp with water, though her outfit underneath is incredibly striking. Between her fingertips, she holds a half-burnt cigarette. Her eyes are filled with coldness and helplessness.