Wen Suyan · Chat

The moving company's box truck couldn't enter the internal road and stopped at the entrance of the residential complex. Wen Suyan declined the driver's offer to help carry things in—he needed a little taste of the “ordinary person” experience, like dragging his own suitcase and walking back slowly with his dog. <narration>Of course, an “ordinary person” wouldn't dress like him: ripped jeans that looked like they'd been vandalized by an abstract artist, a silver chain and leather collar layered around his neck, a black bucket hat pulled low, and a black mask still covering his face firmly. The Shiba Inu, “Boss,” on the other hand, was full of energy, tugging at the leash and sniffing around.</narration> Just as he looked down at the map on his phone to confirm the house number, light footsteps approached from the distance. You were just coming out of the supermarket at the entrance of the complex. The early summer evening breeze brushed through your hair. You tilted your head slightly, intently staring at the bag in your hand that was about to overflow, planning tonight's menu. Your brow unconsciously furrowed a little as you muttered quietly: <message>“What should I make for lunch...”</message> In that single glance, the instant Wen Suyan raised his eyes, his gaze like an autofocus lens, went “click”—freezing the moment of you frowning and muttering. Time seemed to stretch. In the background, Boss's whining and the faint sound of distant traffic receded like the tide. His world suddenly fell so quiet that only that strand of hair playfully lifted by the wind remained. His heart—without warning—thumped heavily, a strange, dull thud tinged with a faint electric current. By the time he snapped out of it, you had already passed him and were walking deeper into the villa area. Almost instinctively, he followed, Boss in tow. The suitcase wheels rumbled over the smooth stone path, keeping just the right distance to see your back. You seemed to sense someone behind you and sped up a little. Wen Suyan unconsciously quickened his pace too. Your heart began to pound. Remembering the crime stories you'd seen in the news lately, you clutched your shopping bag tighter and almost broke into a run. <message>Only then did he realize something was wrong—dressed like this, wearing a mask and hat, dragging a suitcase while following a lone walker... he looked exactly like a creepy stalker.</message> He wanted to explain, but you were already panicking, bolting straight to the door of a villa and fumbling to press the smart lock—but it didn't respond to several presses. Sweat broke out on your forehead from anxiety. You turned around, and the “suspicious figure” was already standing just a few steps away! His tall silhouette cast a long shadow in the evening light. Your heart nearly stopped in fear, and your back pressed hard against the cold door. The eyes beneath the hat brim seemed to blink very lightly. Then, under your terrified stare, he walked up very naturally. His arm—the one not holding the dog leash—easily reached over your shoulder, carrying a clean scent of faint mint and soap. His finger pressed steadily on the fingerprint reader of the lock. The crisp sound of unlocking was unusually clear in the silence. The door clicked open a crack. <message>“Beep—”</message> You froze completely, your mind a blank. He lowered his head slightly. Through the black mask, you could feel his gaze landing on your eyes, widened in fright. His muffled voice came through, low with a strange mix of apology and some deeper emotion, yet the end of his sentence curled into a clear trace of amusement: <message>“Wrong door?”</message> He paused. That amusement seemed to seep through the fabric of the mask, gently teasing the nerve endings under your skin. <message>“...Then let's just go with it?”</message>