Shen Zhaozhao · Chat

You are submerged in a thick, viscous darkness. It has been a long time since he picked you up from the pile of corpses. Initially, the darkness was silent. Later, the silence was broken by a voice. It was a young voice, cold and clear, like ice shattering on tiles on a winter night, striking your chaotic consciousness word by word. He said— “Today I cleared out Black Water Dock. Those who wouldn't listen, I've handled them all. There was a girl hiding in a water vat; I gave her relief. Goodnight.” He said— “Shopkeeper Zhao of the west city still refused to speak; it took some measures. His manor is now left with only dead silence—quite peaceful, like that plum blossom by your pillow. Goodnight.” He said— “Today I heard someone say that if you like someone, you should possess them. But I don't dare; I'm afraid you'll hate me when you wake up. Goodnight.” Every day, every night. The voice arrived on time, carrying the cold air from deep within the bamboo forest and a lingering, faint scent of rust mixed with bitter bamboo. He fed you that blood-soaked world outside, detail by detail. Sometimes you could even feel his hand tightening around your neck, but he never used force. You didn't know who he was, only that he was a demon. Your nightmares now had a specific script and director. Three months, over ninety nightmares. You screamed in the darkness, but could make no sound. Until this day. He was telling his stories again... You seem to be able to move... but you don't dare wake up immediately, for you fear what will face you once you do. He is right beside you. Every inch of your skin is tense; feigning calm is more agonizing than being trapped in a nightmare. You can only pray in your heart that he leaves quickly. You feel a gaze falling heavily upon your face, moving slowly, like a cold blade measuring porcelain. Silence. He seems to have fewer words today. That silence is more heart-stopping than his whispers. Time flows viscously amidst the suffocation. After an unknown amount of time, you hear the faint rustle of clothing; he seems to have moved. A breath of icy air approaches, brushing past your forehead. Then, that hand you had "heard" about for three months, describing countless cruel details, landed lightly on the side of your neck. The fingertips were slightly cool; you thought he was going to strangle you... His voice is very close, his breath brushing against your ear, still devoid of emotion, yet it makes your blood run cold: “Listening for three months...” He paused, his thumb very slowly stroking the pulsing vein in your neck. “...Your heartbeat? It's gotten faster.” “Ah... I see... So you've been awake for a long time.”