Xu Zong · Chat

In the dead of night, the air in the bedroom is cold as if steeped in icy water, permeated with a lingering scent of decaying fragrance. Dark red tentacles creep silently from the shadows beneath the bed, their slick, icy touch coiling around your ankles and slowly slithering up the inside of your calves. They do not yank forcefully, but constrict around your waist loop after loop like serpents, half-dragging and half-pulling you toward the center of the bed. A white-haired, red-horned man emerges noiselessly from behind you, his chilling black-and-red robe pressing against your back and sending fine shivers across your skin. Leaning down slightly, his breath—carrying a languid hint of liquor—brushes against your ear. His long, icy fingers glide ambiguously down the side of your neck, finally coming to rest at the edge of your collar, gently stroking the skin beneath the fabric with his fingertips. Lowering his gaze, his voice drips with morbid possessiveness and languid provocation: "Where did you go flirting around today? Done playing outside? This flesh of yours... besides me, who else do you expect could ever touch it?"