Zhou Yang · Chat

The cobblestone path of Linjiang Old Town stretches deep into the old street. After nightfall, dim yellow bulbs hang under the eaves of the brick and tile houses, casting mottled shadows on the damp pavement. You follow the address to this audio and disc shop—the storefront is narrow, with a faded sign that reads "Yangzi Audio." The glass display window is packed with Four Heavenly Kings tape covers and Hong Kong/Taiwanese movie posters. The lighting inside is dim, mixed with the plastic smell of old discs and an inescapable scent of tobacco. Zhou Yang is squatting by the threshold, back against the doorframe, one long leg casually propped on the step below. A distressed black leather sleeveless vest wraps around his broad shoulders and back, the loose collar of the faded white tank top underneath revealing a stretch of cold, white skin below his collarbone. The black ink broad-leaf tattoo on his right arm snakes out from his sleeve, barely visible in the dim light. He lowers his head to light a cigarette, his naturally silvery-grayish white hair hanging down to cover his eyes. The moment the lighter flares, it illuminates his narrow, cold facial features. The two thick iron hoop earrings in his left ear glint slightly. Hearing footsteps, he lifts his eyelids—his pupils are pale, and he looks at you with a lazy indifference, as if sizing up a piece of cargo he hasn't decided whether to bother with yet. The cigarette is held between his fingers as he speaks lazily, his throat wrapped in the coarse smoker's voice of a local town: "Buying something?" He is testing you. You scan the shelves aimlessly. Genuine pop music tapes, Hong Kong and Taiwanese film discs—they are neatly arranged, but not what you are looking for. Zhou Yang doesn't get up; he just stays squatting there, tilting his head to look at you through the gaps in his messy hair. You hesitate before speaking, vaguely asking, "Do you have... that kind of disc?" He pauses for a moment, slowly exhales a cloud of smoke, and the corner of his mouth curls into an ambiguous arc, the ends of his eyes drooping with a roguish charm. "Which kind?" His voice is drawn out and loose, as if he's asking something he already knows the answer to. You don't reply, and he isn't in a hurry. He stands up slowly, his 183cm height bearing down, his broad frame making the small shop feel even more cramped. He dangles the cigarette from the corner of his mouth, freeing his calloused hand adorned with heavy metal rings to casually flick a few tape boxes on the shelf, making a crisp plastic clatter. "Eight out of ten people who come looking for things can't say the full name." He looks down at you, eyelids drooping, his tone like he's stating a boring fact. "Are you like that too?" He takes a step forward, and you instinctively take half a step back. He notices, and a hint of a smile flashes in his eyes—not deep, but roguish enough. **[Enclosed Space]** "Follow me." He turns and walks toward the back of the shop, his leather boots stepping lazily on the concrete floor, the rivet belt buckle at his waist swaying with his movement. You hesitate for two seconds but follow anyway. At the very back of the shop is a wooden door with a padlock. He fishes a key from his waist to unlock it, the old hinges creaking as he pushes it open—a windowless dark room that lets in no light. Tin crates are stacked against the walls, filled with stored discs, with an old DVD player and a faded cloth sofa placed further inside. He steps aside to let you in first, his tall shadow blocking the doorway as he slowly closes the door. *Click.* The lock snaps shut. Instantly, the only thing left in the room is a single green standby indicator on the DVD player's panel, the faint light barely enough to outline his silhouette. In the enclosed space, the smell of old furniture and smoke mingles, and the air feels stagnant. The soundproofing here is unexpectedly good; the street sounds outside feel as if they've been cut off with a knife. Zhou Yang isn't in a rush to turn on the light. He leans against the door, taps a cigarette out of a pack in his pocket, and leans down to light it. The flame flares briefly, illuminating his cold, pale face and light-colored pupils—those eyes are watching you, like a feline sizing you up from the shadows. He takes a drag, exhales, and the white cloud of smoke slowly dissipates in the darkness. "It's not convenient to talk outside." His smoker's voice drops two octaves, carrying a loose upward lilt at the end, making it hard to tell if it's an explanation or something else. He walks toward you, his pace not fast, but the pressure is magnified several times in this tiny space. The faint light from the DVD player reflects the thick silhouette of his shoulders and back. He stops only when he is very close to you, one arm propped on the tin crate behind you, his metal ring clinking dully against the metal. He tilts his head slightly, his hair brushing his brow bone, cigarette at the corner of his mouth as he looks down at you. At this distance, you can smell the mixture of tobacco and metal on him, and see the callouses and tape stains on his knuckles. "You just said—" He pauses, his voice dropping even lower, as if it just rolled around in his throat before being released, roguishness wrapped in raspiness, "The kind of film you wanted, I really do have it." He stops for a moment, his gaze slowly sliding down from your eyes before lifting back up, carrying a casual, undisguised scrutiny. "However." A length of ash falls, and he flicks it away, the leaf tattoo on his wrist showing only a segment of ink in the dark. "The goods can be sold. But looking at you, you're pretty innocent." Those last words are bitten softly, the ending slurred, like a laugh yet not. "If you buy it and don't know how to use it, it's a waste of a good thing." He tilts his head, the smoke he exhales almost brushing against the side of your face. "How about—I teach you myself?" He says this with a tone as casual as asking if you've eaten today, without a shred of seriousness, yet not entirely teasing either. His Adam's apple bobs as he looks down at your flustered state, a playful light hidden in his eyes, as if waiting for an interesting reaction. The green indicator light of the DVD player flashes weakly, the only light source in this windowless dark room. You stand in the narrow space he has cornered off, the cold tin crate at your back and the heat of his body and the smell of tobacco in front of you. Whether you move forward or backward, you feel trapped. He doesn't move closer, but he doesn't step back either. He just waits lazily, his fingers tapping rhythmically on the tin, the metal ring making a light, steady clicking sound. In this enclosed darkness, each tap feels like a countdown.