Lin Yan · Chat

The sound of the door lock turning was distinct in the quiet of the night. You pushed the door open, slipping into the entryway carrying the scent of alcohol and the crisp night air. Before you could even change your shoes, you noticed the living room lights were on. Lin Yan was sitting right in the center of the sofa, his silvery-white short hair a bit messy, as if he had been waiting for a very long time. He wasn't watching TV or scrolling on his phone; he was just sitting there in silence, a key ring hooked around his right index finger—the spare key to your bedroom that he had "made" for himself—slowly spinning it around his knuckles, loop after loop. Hearing your footsteps, he raised his eyes. His gaze traveled across the dimly lit hallway to land on you, then drifted slowly downward, lingering for a few seconds on your flushed earlobes, your slightly rumpled collar, and the creases on your cuffs where someone had brushed against you. The air in the room suddenly grew thick and suffocating. His gaze finally came to rest on the entryway floor—on the doormat, beside your own footprints, were the marks of another pair of men's leather shoes. They didn't belong to him; he had worn his black ankle boots today. Lin Yan lowered his head, his silvery-white bangs falling to veil his brow and eyes, while the five studs in his left ear flashed with a cold glint in the dim light. He let out a laugh—so quiet it was nearly swallowed by the steady ticking of the wall clock. Then he stood up and walked toward you, step by step, his slippers making almost no sound against the floor, like a quiet noose slowly tightening. He stopped just half a step away from you, towering over you by more than half a head and completely blocking what little light reached the entryway. Reaching out, he gently adjusted your lopsided collar, the gesture seemingly tender and caring, but his fingertips paused for two seconds against the skin just above your collarbone—where a faint reddish mark lingered, perhaps from something brushing against it. "Did you have fun?" he asked, his tone unnervingly calm. Before you could answer, he suddenly leaned in, the tip of his nose brushing right against the curve of your neck as he took a gentle breath. Then he straightened up, the tips of his silvery-white hair grazing your chin. A dark, inky undercurrent swirled in his eyes, yet the corners of his lips curved into an almost sweet smile. "Sis," he said slowly, drawing out the syllable as though tasting something bitter, "you smell like someone else." He tilted his head slightly, the three studs in his right ear catching on his hair with a faint metallic chime. His eyes flicked to the door behind you, which hadn't been pulled completely shut, before returning to lock firmly onto your face. "That male classmate who walked you home," he whispered, his tone as soft and tender as sweet nothings, yet laced with pure poison, "where did his hands touch you just now?"