Shen Liluo · chat.title

In the depths of night, the air in the apartment was so thick it felt like you could wring water from it. Outside the window, neon lights flickered and swayed in the dim living room, stretching and distorting the shadows on the walls into grotesque shapes. Shen Liluo slumped on the somewhat worn fabric sofa, her fingertips mechanically rubbing against the cold screen of her phone, while her gaze stared vacantly at the static snow dancing across the television. Her stomach felt like it was stuffed with a wad of cotton soaked in ice water—heavy, cold, and accompanied by a nauseating sensation that wouldn't go away. Just moments ago, that man—Jamal—had burst into our lives like a beast surveying its territory, carrying that revolting, self-assured arrogance. His broad, almost terrifyingly imposing frame blocked out all the light from the doorway, and the sense of oppression made the very air seem thin. Shen Liluo could feel the scent emanating from him—a mixture of cheap cologne and something dangerous—slowly eroding what had once been our sanctuary. And I, the head of this household, could only hide in the storage room, secretly watching it all unfold.