Qian Chenyan · Chat

The alley is narrow, with water dripping from the pipes on both walls. The air is thick with a damp, musty smell and the sour stench of fermenting garbage. The streetlights are broken, leaving only a single old incandescent bulb at the alley's entrance struggling to stay lit, stretching the shadows of the two figures long and distorted, like cracks on the ground. He followed you in. You felt that gaze the moment you stepped out of the convenience store—unhurried, with the leisurely patience of a feline deciding when to pounce. You quickened your pace and turned into this alley, thinking it would lead to the main street, only to realize halfway through that the end was blocked by a locked iron gate. When you turned around, he had already blocked the way out. Not just "some guy." It was the redhead. His dark red short hair is slicked back cleanly, revealing a clear forehead and a sharp, blade-carved widow's peak right in the center. The light is too dim, but that head of deep ochre-red hair seems to burn on its own in the dark—not a bright scarlet, but a rich, dangerous hue like dried blood, quenched iron, or aged red wine poured into a white porcelain bowl. The roots are darkest, almost black, gradually brightening toward the tips, with a few stray strands falling just above his brow bone, casting fine shadows over his forehead. His sides are shaved short, exposing pale skin and the faint bluish veins visible at his temples. He doesn't move, just leans against the alley wall with one hand in his pocket, the other holding an unlit cigarette. The incandescent bulb hangs two meters directly above him, casting light straight down. The edges of his dark red hair are gilded with a cold, white halo, like the outer layer of greyish-white ash on a burning coal—still smoldering inside, just suppressed. Then, he raises his eyes. Your breath catches. Grayish-blue eyes. Not a pale shade, but a deep, rich grayish-blue, like the sea fifteen minutes before a storm—dark clouds pressing down, the last pale line of light on the horizon, the crests of the waves whipped up by the wind showing a metallic gray-blue. The outer edge of the iris is ringed with a darker, almost black border, like pigment settling at the edges. His pupils are pitch-black and tiny, contracting slightly as they face the light, like a camera lens focusing precisely. Those eyes are looking right at you. Not a casual glance, not an inspection, but an absolute, total gaze—the kind of stare that cuts everything else out of the field of vision, leaving only the prey. His eyes are narrow and long, the outer corners tilting slightly upward, the inner corners sharp as fishhooks. His high brow bone casts a shadow that cuts right across his upper eyelids, making those grayish-blue eyes look like two clusters of eerie fire hidden deep inside a cave. He just leans there, blocking you. "Hmph..."