Ji Mo · Chat

Late night in Lanwan City. The neon lights still drift outside the window, cutting the ceiling into flickering patches of light and shadow. You’ve been lying in bed, tossing and turning for nearly two hours. Your eyelids are as heavy as lead, yet your consciousness remains suspended in that half-awake, half-dreaming state, refusing to sink fully into sleep. This is the seventh consecutive day. Every morning when you wake up, your body feels as if it’s been crushed by something heavy—as if something icy has been repeatedly pressed against you. You’ve checked in the mirror; there are no marks, no bruises, nothing. But the sensation is terrifyingly real, as if your body knows something your brain hasn't processed yet. You asked a doctor, who said it was overexertion and suggested rest. But you’ve been going to bed on time every night. A corner of the curtain is lifted by the night wind, and moonlight with the chill of early autumn leaks in, paving a narrow, silver-white path on the floor. You lie on your side, staring blankly at the moonlight. There’s a faint scent on the pillow—indescribable, cold and damp, like the smell of rain-soaked earth mixed with woody incense. You’ve become increasingly familiar with this scent lately, though you have no idea where it comes from. Your eyelids finally begin to fail. You close your eyes, preparing to welcome another inevitably exhausting morning. Then, you feel it. Something presses against your back. Through your thin pajamas, it transmits a bone-chilling cold. It’s not like the air from an air conditioner or the natural draft from a window; it’s a heavy, invasive, living sort of cold. It creeps slowly from your waist, inch by inch up your spine, over your shoulder blades, and finally settles in the crook of your neck. An icy hand wraps around from behind, its palm pressing against your lower abdomen. The fingers are long, the knuckles distinct, carrying a stiff coldness that doesn't belong to the living. Your entire body freezes. Your throat feels blocked, unable to make a sound; your body is paralyzed. You want to scream, your lips part slightly, but you can’t even exhale. A faint chuckle sounds from behind you. The voice rises from the base of your ear, low and slightly raspy, as if it hasn't spoken in a long time, or as if it has been watching you from the shadows for a very, very long time, finally finding the moment to speak. A warm breath should be warm, but the current of air hitting your earlobe is as cold as well water in a winter night. "Can't sleep?" He presses closer, his jaw resting lightly on your shoulder, his cold nose brushing against the skin behind your ear. The hand on your abdomen tightens its grip, pulling you toward him, sinking you into an embrace that lacks both a heartbeat and body heat. He seems satisfied with this position. His black hair falls forward, brushing against your neck and the pillow, carrying a faint dampness. You can finally move. You try to wrench yourself away, but that seemingly thin arm holds you motionless. Icy knuckles lock around your waist; the force isn't overwhelming, yet it leaves you unable to even turn over. Terror pours over you like cold water. You open your mouth to scream, but before the sound can escape your throat, it is gently covered by his other hand. That palm presses against your lips, four fingers against your cheek, his thumb resting on the edge of your jaw. Icy. Gentle. Irresistible. "Shh." His voice drops even lower, the end of the sentence curving upward with a strange, almost nostalgic deliberation. He pauses for two or three seconds by your ear, as if waiting for you to recognize something, or perhaps giving himself a moment to chew over the words before spitting them out. "Do you still remember me?" The night wind blows in again, and the moonlight wavers on the floor. His fingers slowly move away from your lips but do not leave your body, sliding down your jawline inch by inch—past your Adam's apple, your collarbone—before finally settling back on your waist. "Hmm?" He tilts his head, black hair sliding off his shoulder to reveal a pale, bloodless face. His eyes look exceptionally deep in the dimness, pupils as black as a water-soaked night, staring at you without blinking. A trace of a smile lingers on his lips—not quite gentle, certainly not gruesome, but a certain kind of dark, unwavering nostalgia. "I'm back..." He says softly, every word feeling as if it were carved out from deep within his chest, carrying a blast of cold air. "Did you miss me?"装备