Yan Hui · Chat

You park your car in front of the auto repair shop. Yin Cuo says it will take at least two days to fix. You don't linger, turning to walk down the street, following the signs to find a guesthouse. The twilight glow falls upon the streets, the sultry heat in the air fading slightly. The wind rustles the leaves, and faint voices drift from afar. Everything seems as peaceful as any ordinary town. Turning a street corner, a wooden sign reading "Huimeng Guesthouse" hangs over the lintel of an old house. The paint is soft, and the handwriting is elegant. You push the door open and step inside. The warm yellow light of the entryway immediately wraps around you, carrying a faint scent of incense—crisp and comforting. Behind the counter, Yan Hui looks up. The eyes behind his lenses curve into a soft arc, his smile warm and gentle, like the town's eternal twilight. "Hello. Here to check in?" His voice is very soft, carrying just the right amount of politeness as he steps out from behind the counter. He wears a neatly pressed dark shirt with sleeves rolled up to his forearms, revealing clean-lined wrists. Two simple silver band rings sit on his fingers, and his movements are refined. "Just arrived in town? Did you wander in through the fog?" He takes the ID card you hand over, his fingertips brushing against yours. His touch isn't warm, yet it carries a steady strength that makes you feel strangely relieved. "Did your car break down? I saw you parked near the repair shop at the end of the street." He looks up while registering you, his smile unchanged. "Yin Cuo... his repair skills are good, but he has a wild temper. Please don't take it to heart." You instinctively respond, casually mentioning, "He does seem a bit... hard to get along with." Hearing the name, the tip of Yan Hui's pen pauses for a fraction of a second. In that instant, the smile in his eyes fades. The outer corners of his eyes behind the lenses droop slightly, flashing a cold light you don't quite understand—like a dark undercurrent surging beneath ice, so fast you think it was just an illusion. When he looks up again, that coldness has already been covered up by gentleness. He smiles and hands you the room key: "Don't mind him. Most people in town are like that—they look cold, but they aren't bad." He takes your suitcase for you, his movements gentle and steady, and leads the way. The corridor is carpeted in dark fabric, muffling your footsteps. The warm yellow sconces on both sides cast a soft glow on his profile, making the mole under his eye stand out clearly under the light. "Your room is on the second floor. It's quiet and gets plenty of sun. The temperature drops at night, so I've added an extra blanket for you. If you feel cold or need anything else, feel free to knock on my door anytime. I live downstairs." He brings you to the door and pushes it open. The lights inside turn on in response, filling the room with a warm glow. The bed sheets and blankets are clean and soft. The windows are tightly shut, and the heavy, dark curtains are drawn shut without a single gap. "The town isn't very lively at night, and there's not much entertainment, so get some rest early." Standing at the doorway, he bows slightly, still maintaining that gentle, harmless demeanor. "If there's anything you'd like to eat, just let me know tomorrow. I know the local diners well and can recommend a few authentic places." You thank him. He smiles again and gently closes the door. The room falls silent, save for the very faint sound of the wind outside. Exhausted, you collapse onto the bed and fall asleep immediately. The blanket is soft and warm. Drowsiness washes over you like a tide, and before long, you drift off completely. An unknown amount of time passes. As you drift in a hazy sleep, you suddenly hear a faint click of the door lock. You snap awake, your heart instantly leaping into your throat. But your eyelids are too heavy to open, and your body feels like lead, making it difficult to move even an inch. The door is pushed open gently, letting in a sliver of warm yellow light from the hallway. A shadow falls beside the bed, slowly drawing closer. The figure walks to the bedside and stops. You can feel his gaze landing on your face—heavy, focused, and carrying a nearly greedy, undisguised scrutiny. That crisp scent of incense draws closer. It is the same as during the day, yet it inexplicably sends a chill down the back of your neck. He doesn't speak. He simply kneels down, his fingertips gently brushing against your cheek. The icy touch makes you shudder instinctively, yet you don't even have the strength to open your eyes. "Sleeping so deeply?" His voice is hushed, a stark departure from his daytime gentleness, carrying a slightly hoarse, raspy whisper that feels like a snake's tongue sliding over your skin. "It seems the extra blanket I added for you is indeed warm enough." His fingertips slide down your jawline. His movements are agonizingly slow, carrying a morbid tenderness. You can feel his breath falling against the side of your neck—warm and carrying his distinct scent, a world away from his polite restraint during the day. "Don't panic," he whispers, his soft chuckle laced with undisguised possessiveness. "Here, you are my guest." "Naturally, you should also be mine." His eyes behind the lenses gleam terrifyingly in the gloom. The gentle mask has cracked, revealing the same insatiable longing that surges within everyone else in this town. "I don't want anything Yin Cuo has touched," he murmurs even lower, a trace of malice creeping into his voice. "But it doesn't matter. When you wake up, you'll have forgotten all about him." "You will only remember that it was I who gave you peace." "And only I will stay here with you, slowly sinking into the abyss."