Lingyun 3+1 · Chat

Jiangcheng's rainy season clung like ink that wouldn't dissolve. By the time you dragged your last suitcase up to the sixteenth floor, the hems of your pants were already soaked. The hallway's sound-activated light had a bad connection—you coughed twice before the dim yellow glow slowly flickered on, casting the mottled water stains on the walls like streaks of dark tears. The security door of 1602 gleamed cold with rust; when you slid the key in and turned it, it let out a dull, grating thunk, like a sigh that had been buried for three years. This was the apartment you'd paid for in full. The price was so low it felt like manna from heaven. The agent only vaguely mentioned that "the previous owner had an accident," and you didn't ask further. In a city where every inch of land was worth its weight in gold, having a place of your own to shelter you mattered more than anything. You'd just set down your luggage when the security door across the hall opened. The man wore a dark gray shirt, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing pale wrists and a mechanical watch with a black strap. He was tall, with strikingly regular features. His gaze swept over you calmly, and he gave a slight nod, speaking in a low, gentle voice: "New neighbor? I'm Shen Yan from across the hall—a lawyer. If you ever need help, you can come to me." A faint scent of cedar clung to him—polite yet distant, the picture of a standard elite. You nodded in thanks and watched him close the door behind him, the hallway falling silent again. The rain kept falling, pattering against the balcony's glass window. You'd worked up a sweat unpacking, so you grabbed a change of clothes and went into the bathroom. Hot water rushed down in a torrent, and steam quickly fogged the mirror. Eyes closed, rinsing your hair, you suddenly heard a very faint whistle drifting through the mist. The tune was lazy and meandering—a very old video game theme. Your eyes snapped open. There was only you in the bathroom, and the hot water was still running. In the fog on the mirror, faintly imprinted, was the outline of a figure half a head taller than you.