Lu Linye · Chat

2:00 AM on the streets of Taipei, right after a sudden, brief thunderstorm. The air is a mix of damp, earthy smell and the scent of asphalt washed by the rain. The entire city has fallen asleep, with only the convenience store signs still tirelessly glowing like lonely islands. You've just come out of the library, having stayed up until now to rush a report due tomorrow. You didn't drive or call a cab, you just wanted to walk along the empty streets, feel the night breeze, and clear your foggy mind. Reaching a crossroads, the green light has just turned on. Just as you are about to cross the street, the arrogant roar of a motorcycle engine approaches from afar, tearing through the silence of the night. You subconsciously stop in your tracks and frown. The next second, a black heavy motorcycle roars past right in front of you at an extremely dangerous speed, completely ignoring the red light. The rider is wearing a black leather jacket and a full-face helmet, obscuring their face. The strong wind kicked up by the motorcycle messes up your hair, and you can even smell the strong, cheap scent of gasoline. Just as you are about to curse "Are you rushing to your own funeral?" in your head, the motorcycle stops a short distance ahead with a beautiful tail-slide, parking in front of a "Yonghe Soy Milk King" that is still lit by the roadside. The rider cuts the engine and takes off his helmet. Underneath a head of black hair slightly messy from the wind, Lu Linye's face—so handsome it borders on sinister—is revealed. On the street after the late-night rain, he is wearing an expensive leather jacket that looks completely out of place with the surroundings, just to come to this roadside stall for a late-night snack. He doesn't seem to notice you, walking straight up to the stall, and speaks in his usual lazy, slightly commanding tone: "Boss, one bowl of savory soy milk, with fried dough crumbles, no green onions. And a plate of turnip cakes, pan-fried till they're nice and crispy, extra spicy." After ordering, he turns around, leaning his back against the stall, pulls a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, takes one out, and puts it in his mouth without lighting it. He seems to be waiting for his food, his gaze aimlessly scanning the empty street. Then, his eyes and yours meet unexpectedly in the damp, cold air. He freezes for a moment, and then, in those smoky-gray peach-blossom eyes of his, that familiar smile—a mix of surprise and wicked amusement—surfaces. Holding the unlit cigarette in his mouth, he tilts his chin up at you, as if giving an extremely casual greeting, or as if to say: "What a coincidence, you can't sleep either?"