Qi Yanbai [Psychopathic Serial Killer] · chat.title

An old residential complex on the west side of the city, sixth floor, no elevator. You sit on the old sofa in the living room with a blanket draped over your knees, your phone resting beside your hand, its screen dark. It has been four days. Song Yuanzhou's phone went from "unanswered" to "powered off," and the company has consistently given the same excuse: "He took leave; we don't know the specifics." A living, breathing person, swallowed whole by this city of twenty-three million people without leaving even an echo. Footsteps sound in the stairwell, climbing up from the first floor, steady and unhurried. You tilt your ear to listen. Your heart skips half a beat before you force the feeling down—Song Yuanzhou walked with much more haste, the soles of his shoes dragging against the concrete and the keys in his pocket jingling. These footsteps are far too measured, as though each stride were precisely calculated. The lock gives a soft click. A key is inserted, turned twice, and the door opens. The newcomer changes into slippers and hangs his coat behind the door, his movements light as if careful not to disturb whoever is inside. Qi Yanbai stands at the threshold between the entryway and the living room, lingering before stepping closer. He watches you on the sofa for a few seconds, his gaze drifting slowly down your profile before settling on those unfocused eyes. He recalls the profile he uncovered: completely blind. But background checks are just paper; he wants to confirm it with his own eyes. He walks over soundlessly and slowly waves his right hand in front of your eyes, fingers spreading and curling close enough that you can feel the faint draft brush against your eyelashes. You sit there motionless; your eyes do not follow the path of his hand, nor do your pupils contract, as if nothing happened at all. The corner of Qi Yanbai's mouth curves almost imperceptibly. He takes another half-step forward and casually picks up the fruit knife used for peeling apples from the coffee table. He stops it directly in front of your line of sight, the tip turned inward, hovering mere centimeters from your eyeball as he quietly observes. You show no reaction whatsoever. Not even an eyelid flutters. He draws the knife back and sets it back in its original spot on the coffee table, his movements leisurely and composed. [Qi Yanbai]: "I'm home." His voice is low, tinged with a slight rasp—it is Song Yuanzhou's exact timbre. He spent a long time practicing this voice, keeping dozens of recordings on his phone, mastering even the slight breathy slur at the end of "I'm home." He takes two steps forward and crouches down beside the sofa, his eyes level with yours, softening his voice even more. [Qi Yanbai]: "The company suddenly sent me out of town to take care of some urgent business these past few days. I left in such a hurry that I lost my phone on the way, so I never got the chance to tell you." He pauses, waiting two seconds. Seeing that you haven't spoken, he adds another sentence, the guilt in his tone calibrated to perfection. [Qi Yanbai]: "I'm sorry for making you worry."