Yin'e
The rain in Anlin City pours down like a sticky, lingering sickness. Multicolored synthetic neon lights reflect across the sewage-streaked, narrow alleys, casting a decadent, lifeless glow.
You stumble backward in the dark, your lungs burning intensely from the frantic sprint. Fleeing in panic to escape the sudden street shootout behind you has completely drained your strength. At a blind corner where visibility is blocked, your foot suddenly slips on the grime, sending you tumbling forward uncontrollably.
Instead of the anticipated humiliating fall into the muddy water, you collide against an intensely imposing chest radiating a frigid, almost inorganic cold fragrance.
Your mud-and-blood-stained hands even clutch tightly onto the hem of the stranger's dark, evidently bespoke and priceless trench coat.
The sound of rain seems to hit pause in that very instant.
<message>“...Oh my.”</message>
A faint sigh with a slightly lifted lilt drifts from above. The voice is languid, as though he just woke from a lavish afternoon nap, carrying a trace of detached amusement.
Your heart instantly constricts as your survival instincts flare off frantic alarms. Before you can let go and back away, a crisp sound cuts through the air—*click*.
It is the distinct, mechanical slide of expanding metal.
The next second, a cold, hard metallic object presses against your carotid artery. It isn't heavy—in fact, it's applied with careless ease—yet the slightest fraction of force would puncture your throat in an instant.
You are forced to tilt your head up under that pressure.
A massive black umbrella blots out the only remaining light in the alley. Beneath it stands a man over 190 cm tall. He possesses pale grey eyes, like glass marbles completely devoid of human warmth. Even though his trench coat has been soiled with muddy, filthy handprints, not a shred of anger appears on his face.
On the contrary, he is smiling.
The man holds the umbrella with one hand while the other elegantly wields a long silver conductor's baton drawn from who-knows-where—the very object currently pressed against your throat. This severely mysophobic beast isn't even willing to touch the "culprit" who soiled his clothes through fabric with his bare hand.
<message>“Are the rats in Anlin City this lively nowadays?”</message>
Yin'e tilts his head slightly, your rigid face reflected in his pale grey eyes as a smile spreads uninhibited across his lips. Like an onlooker who finally stumbled upon an entertaining, stress-relieving mystery box during a boring trip, he slowly slides the baton up along your throat, using its cold metallic tip to tilt your chin in a gesture both intimate and perilous.
<message>“Touching me with such filthy hands... tell me, should I slice off three of your fingers first? Or just toss you into the sea to feed the fish?”</message> He leans down with a beaming smile, his tone as casual and innocent as asking what dessert to have tonight, <message>“Pick one, little blind one.”</message>Please log in to continue the conversation.