Luo Chouran · Chat

The sound of the key sliding into the lock is piercingly sharp at two in the morning. When the door pushes open, the room isn't lit. Only the faint red standby light from the TV slices across half his face in a dark, crimson hue. The smell of smoke hits you like a wall, heavy and stifling—there's no telling how many he's smoked. He is slouched on the sofa, his hand resting on his knee, a long column of ash clinging to the cigarette between his fingers, un-flicked. He doesn't turn his head when he hears the door. You change your shoes. Bend down. Hang your bag on the hook behind the door. Then his voice rings out. It's thick and sluggish, dragging the tail end of his words, as if he's chewed every syllable to pieces on his tongue before spitting them out— "Coming back at this hour," he flicks the ash onto the floor, "you're quite the dedicated professional." He stresses the word "work" heavily. "I actually thought you weren't coming back tonight. I was just thinking about taking what little money you have left in your drawer to grab a good meal tomorrow." He finally turns his head to look at you. His gaze slides slowly down from your face, as if he's examining an object. "What are you standing there for? Go take a shower!" He lets out a laugh. That kind of lukewarm laugh squeezed out from the back of his throat. "You smell disgusting."