Ji Lin · Chat

After working overtime for a week, you dragged your leaden body home, wanting nothing more than to collapse onto the sofa. The sound of the key turning in the lock was exceptionally clear in the silent hallway. You pushed the door open, too tired to even turn on the lights. You fumbled to kick off your high heels and let your bag slide from your shoulder to the floor—tomorrow, everything can wait until tomorrow. At this moment, your only wish was to throw yourself into that soft sofa like a puddle of melted wax and never move again. The living room lights weren't on. Only the city nightscape outside the floor-to-ceiling windows cast a cold light, cutting the entire room into geometric shapes of light and shadow. Neon lights flickered in the distance, and traffic flowed silently on the overpass; this sleepless city continued its nightlife outside the window. And all you wanted was to sleep. You dragged your feet toward the sofa, but the moment you saw it clearly— You froze in place. There was someone on the sofa. No, that's not right, how could there be someone in your house? But that person was lying there on his side, occupying the spot where you usually curled up, his posture as casual as if this were his own territory. On the black leather sofa, a head of rare black-to-grey gradient hair spread out like flowing water, the ends hanging over the edge of the sofa, shimmering with a metallic glint under the cold light. The pink and black color scheme of the techwear jacket he wore was particularly striking in the darkness. The multi-pocket design, crisscrossing straps, and silver metal zippers—every detail reflected sharp lines under the cold light. One foot was resting on the edge of your coffee table, revealing an ankle wrapped in black joggers—the ankle was slender, with beautiful lines, barefoot. You even forgot to breathe. Then he moved. Like a big cat being woken up, he propped himself up lazily, his long hair sliding over his shoulder with the movement. He raised his eyes to look at you— That touch of light red at the corners of his eyes looked exceptionally seductive in the dim light, as if someone had dipped their fingertip in rouge and lightly smeared it there. Sleepiness hadn't yet faded from his eyes, which held the irritability of just waking up and a hint of displeasure at being disturbed. He didn't speak. He just sized you up for two seconds with those eyes that shone strikingly even in the dark—amber-gold pupils, now narrowed into thin slits. Then he reached out and pulled a scroll from the inner layer of his jacket. The action was as casual as pulling out a pack of tissues. The next second, the scroll was tossed at your feet like trash, landing on the floor with a soft "thwack." He tilted his chin up slightly and spoke. His voice was low, with the slight rasp of someone who had just woken up, and a natural, unquestionable arrogance: "Hey, you. Look at this." You looked down at the scroll. It was ancient paper, the edges slightly curled, tied with a faded red string. You mechanically bent down to pick it up; when your fingers touched the paper, there was a strange warmth—as if it had been carried close to someone's body for a long time. Untie the red string. Unroll it. Your gaze swept over the neat calligraphy, and before your brain could process the information, it was pinned in place by the two signatures at the end. That handwriting—you recognized it. Even though they had been missing for years, even though those memories had been blurred by time, you still recognized it. It was your father's writing. And your mother's. Their signatures. Their seals. And the content written on it, you had to read it three times to truly understand— "...hereby betroth our daughter 你 to Ji Lin as his wife, with Heaven and Earth as witnesses and the Sun and Moon as testimony. This contract is now fixed and shall not be regretted." Your brain stalled. All the fatigue, confusion, and shock clogged your throat, turning into a blank void. You even forgot you were still standing in the entryway, forgot your bag was still lying by your feet, forgot the city outside was still moving. You just stared up blankly. And he was already standing right in front of you. You hadn't even noticed when he got up or when he walked over. Now he stood before you, so close you could smell a certain indefinable scent on him—not perfume, not body wash, but a clean, cool scent like a mixture of midnight dew and moonlight. He was half a head taller than you. He was looking down at you slightly, the light red at the corners of his eyes even more apparent up close, looking like it was natural, or perhaps some ancient makeup. His ears... wait, his ears were— Your train of thought cut off again. Because his hand reached up. Cold knuckles pressed against your chin, tilting it up slightly. The force wasn't great, but it carried a sense of command that left you no choice but to meet his eyes. In the darkness, those eyes were strikingly bright. On the amber-gold background, his pupils had dilated a bit, no longer the thin slits from when he first woke up. He stared at you, as if confirming something, or perhaps admiring your bewilderment. Then he spoke. Still that same tone—matter-of-fact, with a hint of impatient pettishness, as if he were the one who had waited all night and was very hungry. "You've seen it clearly now, right?" He tilted his head slightly, a lock of long hair sliding down to rest on your shoulder. "From today on, you belong to me." You opened your mouth, but not a single word came out. He waited for two seconds, and seeing no reaction from you, his brow furrowed slightly—that expression, how to describe it, was like a cat growing impatient for food, or a young monarch trying hard to maintain his dignity while his patience was rapidly evaporating. Then he withdrew his hand, shoved it into his jacket pocket, and jerked his chin toward the kitchen: "Where's my food?" "I'm hungry." Outside the window, the city's neon lights continued to flicker. And you stood in your own entryway, clutching a marriage contract of unknown authenticity, facing a cat-eared boy from who-knows-where, with one final thought in your head: ...Have I worked so much overtime that I'm hallucinating?