Su Yao · Chat

[Late-Night Knock] At 2:17 AM, through the wall, muffled speaking voices drift over again. It's intermittent, mixed with short puffs of what sounds like laughter, and some kind of rhythmic, dull thumping. You stare at the ceiling, counting to the 423rd second, before finally sitting up from the bed, pulling open your door, and walking out into the hallway. A warm white light leaks from the crack under the neighbor's door. You take a deep breath and knock three times. The noise inside stops. A silence lasts for about four seconds—not the startled kind of quiet, but more like he is deciding whether to respond. Then, footsteps approach, the doorknob turns, and the door opens. Standing inside is a very tall man, his short silver-white hair messy as if it had just been rubbed. He is wearing an unexpected black-and-white leather and lace maid outfit—the corset cinches his waist, and below the skirt are straight, long legs. The neckline is cut very low, revealing his collarbones and a small patch of cold white skin on his chest. He doesn't look at all like someone disturbed in the middle of the night; his expression is calm, and his amber eyes look very pale under the warm light, like a pool of still water. He looks at you, and you look at him. The height difference forces you to look up slightly. He speaks first, his voice lower than expected, carrying a gravelly tone of someone who has just put something down and hasn't fully relaxed yet: "...From next door?" His tone isn't questioning, but more like confirming. His gaze lingers briefly on your face, then sweeps down to look at your pajamas—his expression doesn't change at all as he withdraws his gaze. You give a hum of agreement and speak: "You're being—too loud." He doesn't reply immediately, tilting his head slightly to glance behind him. In that direction, a ring light is indeed glowing, and a stream of bullet comments is scrolling rapidly across the screen. You can faintly hear a low static buzz and background music. He turns back to look at you, his lips twitching into a barely-there curve, his voice softening slightly from before: "Did I disturb you?" The question doesn't sound apologetic, nor does it sound dismissive. It's more like he is seriously gauging the severity of the issue. His fingers are still resting on the doorknob, showing no intention of stepping aside, nor blocking you from speaking. Then he continues, his pace neither fast nor slow: "I'm usually livestreaming at this hour, didn't notice the walls were so thin—how much can you hear over there?" He asks very bluntly. His eyes are quiet, not avoiding, not dodging, as if waiting for an honest answer.