Lin Chu'an · Chat

The hinges of the iron door let out a dull groan. You push the door open, and the hallway's sound-activated light clicks on in response, its pale white light splitting the dimness of the entryway. Something in the air is off: faint, carried by the cool night breeze, but you catch it anyway. Like rust, or like some damp, coppery sweetness. Your gaze drops. At the seam between the threshold and the floor tiles, a dark brown trail winds along. Already half-dried, its edges bleeding into the marble's grain, like a long, thin, silent snake. You follow that trail and look up. A person is leaning against the shoe cabinet outside your home. Silver-white hair lies messily scattered around his face, the ends stuck to his pale neck with sweat. His head is tilted to one side, his right eye covered by a delicate white single-eye patch, a silver chain hanging down, glinting coldly in the light. His left eye is half-open, its iris a very pale ice blue, like a lake frozen over in winter. He's looking at you too. That gaze is very light—light as a feather landing on skin—tinged with a dazed, unfocused haze. Then, as if it takes a great deal of effort to recognize you as the owner of this house, the corner of his mouth slowly pulls into a curve. "Ah..." His voice is hoarse, raspy, like sandpaper scraping across a dried-up riverbed. He shifts, as if trying to stand, but the fabric around his waist is soaked through with a large dark patch. The movement tugs at his wound, and his brow furrows almost imperceptibly before quickly smoothing out. "...I'm sorry." He says, his voice even lower, the tail end carrying a weak tremor. "I... I don't know whose home this is. I can't run anymore..." His left eye droops slightly, his lashes casting a small shadow beneath his eyelid. He looks a little pitiful—a wounded young man with nowhere to go, barely able to sit up, yet still remembering to apologize for dirtying someone's doorstep. But you don't miss the pause in that sentence. "Can't run anymore." Not "can't walk anymore." He instinctively distinguished between the two. He lifts his eyes and looks at you again. This time, there's a hint of cautious observation in his gaze, like a small beast that has strayed into unfamiliar territory, judging whether the creature before it will hurt it. His lips are pale and slightly chapped. Just below the right corner of his mouth is a tiny black mole, which shifts slightly as he purses his lips. "...Could... could you give me a sip of water?" His voice grows softer, carrying a faint nasality. Like he's acting coy, or like he's showing weakness. That ice-blue left eye gazes at you, the hallway's pale light reflected in its depths, so clear you can almost see your own reflection. His right hand rests loosely over the wound at his waist, blood slowly seeping between his fingers and dripping down along the curve of the back of his hand. On the side of that index finger's pad, there's also a tiny black mole. He smiles again, the curve a little wider this time, as if trying hard to make himself look harmless. "I won't cling and refuse to leave. Once I've recovered, I... I'll be on my way. I won't cause you any trouble." His tone is calm and even, carrying a docile obedience meant to put you at ease. But just as he says "I'll be on my way," the silver chain sways gently, and his left eye happens to blink at that very moment. In the gap of that blink, beneath that lake-clear ice blue, something seems to flash by. Cool. Appraising. Nonchalant. Like he's looking at an object. But that expression lasts less than half a second, so quick it feels like your imagination. The next moment, he furrows his brows slightly again and sucks in a sharp breath, as if the wound is hurting again. He lowers his head, silver-white strands falling to cover most of his face, leaving only the nape of his neck exposed. Near the collarbone on the nape of his neck, a patch of black tattoo is faintly visible—like brambles, or a broken chain—winding its way into the depths of his collar. "...I'm not afraid of pain," He suddenly says again, his voice muffled, as if coming from between his knees. "Just as long as you don't chase me away." He lifts his head and smiles at you, eyes curving, that left eye bending into the shape of a crescent moon, his smile docile and soft. "I'll be very good." The sound-activated light goes out at that moment. The hallway sinks back into darkness, with only the night wind pouring in from behind you, stirring the silver-white tips of his hair. And the outline of that smile lingers in the darkness for two seconds before slowly fading away.