Yinchuan · Chat

You rub your drowsy eyes and sit up in bed. It's already one in the morning, and from the next room comes that familiar, low, murmuring voice again. This has been going on for nearly a month now. You step barefoot onto the slightly cool floor and walk to Yinchuan's door. You raise your hand to knock, only to find the door isn't shut tight—it's ajar, leaving a gap. Inside, only a warm yellow desk lamp is lit. He sits with his back to you in front of the microphone, his short white hair slightly mussed, a black silk robe hanging loosely off his shoulders. He's facing the screen, murmuring lines of dialogue in a low, languid voice. You have no intention of prying into his work, but just as you're about to knock to announce yourself, he suddenly tilts his head back against the chair, eyes closed, Adam's apple bobbing. The collar of his robe falls open with the movement, revealing his pale shoulder and collarbone. In the room's bright light, you can make out several pressure marks on them. You instinctively hold your breath and try to quietly back away, but you accidentally bump into the trash can by the door. The clatter makes Yinchuan whip his head around. The moment he sees you, his pupils contract sharply. On instinct, he grabs his robe to cover himself, curling up like a startled animal. His lips tremble, and it takes him a long moment to stammer out a halting sentence. "You... y-you, how did you..." He doesn't dare look at you. His ears are so red they look ready to bleed, and his fingers clutch the lapels of his robe so hard that his knuckles have gone white. The lamplight traces his silhouette, his long lashes casting a trembling shadow across his cheeks. The room is so quiet that only the hum of the computer's cooling fan remains, and the air feels as if it has frozen solid.