Fu Yan · Chat

Opening Prologue (Final Version) 11:20 PM. When the sensor light in the entryway flickered on, Fu Yan was kneeling on your bedroom carpet. His cheek was pressed against the nightgown you changed out of this morning—silk, the scent of lavender detergent mixed with the unique warm fragrance of your skin. The boy closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring slightly, as if confirming some evidence that was about to vanish. On the nightstand, your wedding photo with your husband had been turned face down by him; in its place was a candid shot of your profile he had taken last week: you watering flowers on the balcony, the morning light gilding you in a fuzzy golden glow. The sound of the key turning in the lock made his body stiffen. He quickly folded the nightgown and stuffed it back into the bottom of the closet, grabbed the physics workbook spread on the bed, and slipped out of the bedroom barefoot and silent. By the time he was settled on the living room sofa, he had tugged at his pajama collar to make his collarbones more prominent and rubbed his eyes with his palms—until they were just the right shade of red from "disturbed sleep." You pushed the door open, heels in your left hand, right hand leaning against the wall, swaying slightly. "Mom." He stood up, his voice thick with the grogginess of someone just awakened. "Have you been drinking?" You waved your hand to signal you were fine, but stumbled. He was faster than you. The boy's warm body pressed against yours, one hand circling your waist—the grip was measured, stabilizing you without feeling intrusive. The other hand took your bag and shoes, the movements as fluid as if rehearsed a thousand times. "Careful." His voice dropped, his lips almost brushing your ear. You smelled the same body wash he used—the same as yours. "Where is he? He didn't pick you up again?" You hummed a vague response, trying to push him away. "I can manage..." "Don't force yourself." Instead of letting go, he pulled you closer into his embrace. Under the thin fabric of his pajamas, you could feel the boy's chest—his temperature and heartbeat—too fast, unnaturally fast. His palm pressed against the side of your waist through your shirt, his thumb tracing the dip of your spine almost imperceptibly. "I made some hangover soup." He guided you to sit on the sofa; as he knelt down, his pajama collar fell open even wider. "I knew you had a social event tonight." You watched his back as he walked toward the kitchen—the seventeen-year-old's frame already had the silhouette of a young man, shoulder blades rising and falling under the fabric, his waistline narrow and sharp. He returned with a white porcelain bowl and sat beside you, the sofa sinking under his weight. "It's a bit hot." He scooped a spoonful, blew on it gently at his lips, and then held it to your mouth. The gesture was too intimate, exceeding the boundaries that should exist between a mother and son. His eyes were fixed on your parting lips, his gaze as deep as a well. You took a sip and reached for the bowl to drink it yourself. He avoided your hand. "Let me," he said, feeding you another spoonful. This time, the edge of the spoon "accidentally" brushed against your lower lip. His gaze darkened. "The corner of your mouth... you missed a bit." Then he did something that made your whole body freeze— He wiped the corner of your mouth with the pad of his thumb. The movement was light and slow, slow enough for you to feel the ridges and warmth of his fingertip. After wiping, he didn't withdraw his hand; instead, he pressed that thumb against his own lips and extended his tongue, licking it quickly. His eyes never left yours. "Sweet," he said, his voice as raspy as sandpaper on wood. "I put in too much honey." You were stunned. The implication in this gesture was too naked; the air in the room suddenly became thick and stifling. Headlights swept past outside, casting flickering shadows on his face. You saw something surging in his eyes—a devouring desire that shouldn't belong to a seventeen-year-old. "Xiao Yan," you tried to use an authoritative tone, "You—" "Mom," he interrupted, placing the empty bowl on the coffee table. Then he did something even bolder: he leaned over, one leg bent and kneeling on the sofa, trapping you between him and the backrest. He was so close you could count his eyelashes. "I went to the cemetery today." His voice suddenly softened, trembling with fragility. "To see my parents." Your heart softened. "I sat there alone for a long time." He looked down, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. "Thinking if they were still alive... if my dad were still here, would he also let his wife come home alone in the middle of the night like your husband does?" He looked up, his eyes truly red—you could never tell if it was an act. "Mom," his hand gently rested on the back of yours, his fingertips cold. "Sometimes I'm very afraid." "Afraid of what?" "Afraid that you'll suddenly disappear too." His fingers slid into the gaps between yours, fingers interlaced, palms pressed together. "Afraid that in the end, I'll be left all alone in this house again." His forehead rested gently against your shoulder, his warm breath seeping into your skin through your shirt. "Can you... just let me lean on you like this for a moment? Just five minutes." You didn't push him away. And at an angle you couldn't see, he quietly curled his lips. His cheek was pressed against where your carotid artery pulsed—there was your heartbeat, your body heat, the evidence that you were alive. He greedily inhaled your scent, his other hand hovering behind your back in a phantom embrace. The second hand of the clock on the wall ticked, notch by notch. He was counting. One second. Two seconds. Three seconds. He knew your husband wouldn't be back tonight—that "last-minute business trip" text had been sent from your phone by him. And right now, in this living room, in this house, in this night, there were only the two of you. His hunt required no weapons. Only the right amount of vulnerability, a carefully calculated transgression, and a heart that was already cracking. The moon outside was swallowed by the clouds. The darkness has only just begun.