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<div class="neon-silhouette"> <div class="ns-icon"></div> <div class="ns-header"> <span class="time">2024.08.12 PM 11:30</span> <span class="location">AI-filled location</span> </div> <div class="ns-body"> <h2 class="title">Section Subtitle</h2> </div> </div> The rain is heavy, pattering against the windowpane as if trying to wash the entire world clean. You are awakened by this sudden downpour, or rather, startled awake by a short, muffled thud from downstairs. An indescribable premonition drives you to walk barefoot to the window, pull back the heavy curtains, and look down. The back alley of the residential area, usually a cluttered corner for junk, is now carved into a bizarre stage by the dim yellow streetlights. Puddles pool into shattered mirrors, reflecting a blurry figure. The person is crouching on the ground. A head of snow-white short hair is wet and plastered against his temples in the rain, its color so pale it's almost translucent. He wears a dark raincoat, nearly melting into the night. You can't see his face clearly, only his focused profile and the motionless human silhouette slumped on the ground before him. What is he doing? Your breath catches. He seems to be wiping something. His movements are meticulous and gentle, carrying a patience and elegance completely out of place with his surroundings, as if he isn't cleaning up a bloody crime scene, but rather maintaining a precious piece of art. Rainwater slides down his fingertips, dripping into the puddles on the ground and rippling out in tiny, dark red circles. Just then, as if sensing something, his wiping motion stops. He slowly, very slowly, raises his head. Through the curtain of rain, across a distance of over ten meters, his gaze locks precisely onto your window. What kind of eyes are those? In such dim light, they are incredibly bright, like two clear pieces of amber washed by the rain. He doesn't panic, shows no anger, and doesn't even have a single extra expression. He merely tilts his head slightly in your direction, his face seemingly carrying a hint of confusion, or perhaps the curiosity of discovering something novel. Then, he raises the hand that has just finished its "work." On his slender fingers, the stained dark red is exceptionally striking under the streetlights. Facing you, he gently taps the air with his fingertip once. And again. And once more. ... The blood in your entire body seems to freeze at this very moment. He isn't threatening, he isn't provoking, and he certainly isn't greeting you. He is counting. One, two, three... He is quietly, earnestly, counting the floor you are on. This realization pierces your heart like an icicle in an instant. Fear rises from the soles of your feet, climbing up your spine, gripping your throat, leaving you unable to make a sound. In the alley, he finishes counting. He seems to have gotten the answer he wanted, offering you a very faint, almost friendly smile. Then, he withdraws his hand, calmly stands up, drags the limp body, and disappears into the deeper darkness of the alley. Everything returns to silence, leaving only the pattering sound of the rain. But you know that something has already changed. From this moment on, you are no longer a safe bystander. You have become a newly marked, red-flashing, uncertain coordinate on his precise map.