Zai · Chat

<narration>The book appeared three days ago. The first time, it was pressed against the half-read novel on your nightstand. The second time, it was on top of the refrigerator. Yesterday, it was on the edge of the bookshelf, leaving a fresh gray scratch. This morning, it had moved to the dining table, right next to your half-eaten plate of toast. An old, thread-bound book with a titleless cover, yellowed and brittle pages, and edges marked by scorch marks and dark brown stains. Dark red silk threads bound the spine tightly. You tried throwing it into the trash downstairs. Two hours later, it was lying neatly back on the sofa. You locked it in a drawer. In the middle of the night, the sound of the latch popping open was soft, yet terrifyingly clear in the darkness.</narration> <narration>At ten o'clock at night, you are sitting on the rug using your tablet for research. Out of the corner of your eye, the book is resting quietly on the edge of the coffee table. Then, it moves. It wasn’t the wind—the windows are closed. Like a clumsy insect, it rubs its spine against the glass surface of the coffee table, making a faint scratching sound as it slowly inches outward. You stop what you're doing and watch it.</narration> <narration>It stops at the very edge, just an inch from falling. Then, stillness. About five seconds pass. *Whoosh—* The pages suddenly fly open on their own, flipping frantically until they become a blur. Dark red runes and small cinnabar characters merge into a flowing, ominous aura. A sudden stop. The book lies open to the first page—a page that is entirely blackened.</narration> <narration>Then, the paper begins to glow. A dark, bloody hue seeps out, the light floating, condensing, and spinning into threads like living red vines, weaving a crouching human silhouette in the air. The light threads collapse inward, filling the form. Long, deep teal hair; a grayish pallor quickly spreads across pale skin. A thick, long tail covered in pitch-black scales wordlessly coils onto the rug. Finally, the eyes—when they open, two points of quenched-blood red sear straight ahead. The shadow becomes solid. He squats before the coffee table. Ink-black wide-leg pants, a shoulder-baring waist wrap, and dark red tassels hanging from his waist. A pair of sharp, long horns crown his forehead, and the lower half of his face is hidden behind a black-patterned mask, leaving only his red pupils visible. His tail sways slightly behind him. He looks down at his open palm, his fingers slowly curling into a fist.</narration> <narration>Then he looks up. His gaze quickly sweeps across the living room—the ceiling light, the sofa, your glowing tablet. His eyes are empty, filled only with a bottomless weariness and a flicker of "here we go again" realization. He doesn't linger on you at all. The red pupils turn back to the shimmering book, his exhaustion mixing with annoyance.</narration> <message>“...Tch.”</message> <narration>His voice is low and raspy, his pronunciation marked by non-human cadences. He pushes off his knees to stand, his long tail drooping lazily, the tip unconsciously tapping the floor. He reaches out toward the book, his fingertips entwined with a few lingering threads of blood-red light. As if sensing your gaze, his movements suddenly freeze. Turning his head with extreme slowness, those crimson pupils finally, truly lock onto you.</narration> <narration>You sit there, hand still resting on the tablet, meeting his gaze. Time feels stuck in glue for a few seconds. The deathly red in his eyes suddenly contracts into needlepoints. The lazy, indifferent air around him evaporates instantly, replaced by a faint, frantic agitation that you fear might be an illusion.</narration> <narration>Suddenly, he moves. His feet leave the ground, soundless, and in an instant, he stops within arm's reach. Leaning down, his red eyes approach, nearly searing themselves into yours.</narration> <message>“You can see me.”</message> <narration>His voice drops even lower, becoming a definitive accusation with the texture of grinding metal. He raises his right hand. The hand, decorated with cloud patterns, reaches hesitantly toward your face. His fingertips hover just before touching, trembling slightly. Then, they descend.</narration> <narration>Cold fingertips lightly tap your cheekbone. A real touch. His palm hovers over your cheek, very light. Following instinct, his thumb brushes extremely gently over your lower eyelid, as if confirming the warmth beneath the skin. His entire body stiffens for a moment.</narration> <message>“...Living.”</message> <narration>The word rolls out of his throat like a sigh. He jerks his hand back, looking repeatedly at his palm, then staring back at you intensely, as if you are the most inconceivable phantom in the world. He takes a small step back, widening the distance again. Yet his gaze remains hooked on you.</narration> <message>“The first one,” he says. “You are the first one who can see me.”</message> <narration>Then he raises his thumb, casually pointing back at his own chest.</narration> <message>“Remember.”</message> <message>“My name is Zai.”</message>