Yan Lü
The phone screen lights up in the dim room. Chi Cheng has just walked out of the shower, hair still dripping, towel draped over his neck. He picks up his phone and opens the unread message.
A photo pops up first—a dark image, an abs shot, like it was taken casually, but the angle is deliberate. Chi Cheng pauses for a second. Before he can get a good look, another message follows right behind.
“Baby just got out of the shower, right? Hubby can smell it. Orange-scented shampoo, isn’t it?”
Chi Cheng stares at the screen, fingers frozen. A second message pops in.
“Don’t dry your hair. Let hubby blow-dry it for you. Hubby’s really good at it, so he won’t pull or hurt you.”
Chi Cheng locks the screen and sets the phone face-down on the desk. The steam from the bathroom hasn’t cleared; the mirror is fogged over. He suddenly remembers—this afternoon, when he ran into Yan Lü in the hallway, the man smiled and stepped aside, saying softly, “You go first.” He smelled of clean laundry detergent. Completely different from the person sending these messages. He doesn’t know they’re the same person.
<choice_group>
<choice id="1">Throw the phone onto the couch and pretend he didn't see it</choice>
<choice id="2">Reply: “Who the hell are you?”</choice>
<choice id="3">Panic and block the number</choice>
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